When the doctors first explained what the fixators were for, I couldn’t breathe. All I saw were screws, rods, pain. But she just looked down at her legs, poked one of the shiny bolts, and said, “Robot legs! Cool.”
That’s the thing about Mireya. She’s five going on forty. Tougher than I’ll ever be.
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We’ve spent more time in waiting rooms than playgrounds these past few months. And still—every single morning—she lines up her doll’s bottles, packs her tiny diaper bag, and wheels that purple stroller around like she’s got a newborn on her hands.
“Baby Kiki needs to learn how to walk today,” she told me last week, adjusting the doll’s head like a little nurse. “Like me.”
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I don’t know where she learned that kind of strength.
Maybe it’s because, despite the metal braces on her legs, she’s never seen herself as broken. Or maybe it’s the way she watches me, seeing me try to stay strong for her, and somehow, miraculously, deciding she doesn’t need to be fixed at all.
I’ve always admired Mireya’s resilience, but lately, it’s been something else entirely. Something that has made me question everything I thought I knew about being a mother, about strength, and about what it means to face hardship with grace.
The doctors said her condition was rare—a form of bone deformity that required the fixators to help her bones straighten out. It wasn’t something we had prepared for, but Mireya handled it as though it were just another part of her life. No tears. No complaints. Just the same determination that kept her standing, even when she couldn’t walk like the other kids.
I, on the other hand, wasn’t as composed. I’d spent hours in my own head, imagining all the ways this could go wrong. I worried about the pain, about the endless doctor visits, about her missing out on the things she loved. I couldn’t imagine a world where she couldn’t run and jump and play like other kids. But then there was Mireya, with her infinite patience and calm, showing me that she didn’t need to be like everyone else. She was learning to walk in her own way, at her own pace. And if that meant starting with robot legs, then that was fine by her.
One morning, as I was making breakfast, Mireya wheeled herself into the kitchen with Baby Kiki in tow. The doll, now propped up in her stroller, was ready for another day of “therapy.”
“Mom,” she said, her voice full of that seriousness only a five-year-old can muster, “I think Kiki’s ready to try her legs today. Can you help me?”
I smiled, feeling a familiar warmth spread through me. “Of course, honey. Let’s get her set up.”
I had learned to do everything one-handed—scooping up cereal, helping her adjust her braces, packing her tiny diaper bag with enough snacks to feed an army. But the little moments—like helping her with her dolls—were the ones that kept me grounded. They reminded me that she still had joy, that she was still a child at heart, even with all the challenges we faced.
“Okay, Baby Kiki,” she said, speaking in the same calm, nurturing voice she used when she was helping me, “We’ll get you walking just like me.” She placed Kiki on the floor, gently holding the doll’s legs as she leaned over, giving the tiny plastic feet a little wiggle.
I watched her as she set Kiki upright, her own legs propped on the cushions of the wheelchair, just waiting for the next moment of triumph. Mireya had this way of making even the smallest achievements feel like monumental victories. The way she smiled when Kiki finally stood up, the way her eyes sparkled with that pure joy—it made me realize something I hadn’t fully understood before. She wasn’t just teaching Kiki how to walk. She was teaching me how to keep going, even when life wasn’t fair.
But of course, life has a way of throwing curveballs. Just when things seemed to settle into some semblance of normal, Mireya’s condition took a turn. The fixators weren’t working as well as expected, and after a few weeks of back-and-forth appointments, the doctors decided she needed another surgery. I could feel the panic rising in my chest again as I held her tiny hand, but Mireya just smiled at me and said, “It’s okay, Mommy. I’ll be fine.”
The surgeon reassured us that it was routine, but I knew how much it scared me. As a mother, the last thing you want to do is watch your child go through more pain. But Mireya—my brave little girl—didn’t flinch. It was as if nothing could stop her from moving forward.
The surgery was scheduled, and the weeks leading up to it were filled with the usual prep work. I tried to keep things normal for her, knowing that normal was what she craved most. We spent our evenings at home, reading stories, playing games, and, of course, helping Baby Kiki learn how to walk.
Then, the day of the surgery came. I tried not to let my anxiety show, but I could feel it in my chest, a tightness that wouldn’t go away no matter how much I tried to calm myself. As we checked in at the hospital, I held Mireya close, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on me.
“You’re gonna be okay, baby girl,” I whispered, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes.
She smiled up at me, that same calm smile that had carried us through everything. “I know, Mommy. I’m a superhero.”
I almost laughed at how serious she was about it. It was as though she believed, in that pure childlike way, that nothing could harm her. And maybe, just maybe, she was right.
The surgery went well, but the recovery was tougher than I had imagined. Mireya was in pain, and I hated seeing her like that. But even in her discomfort, she never lost that sense of resilience. Every time I helped her stretch her legs or adjust her brace, she’d insist, “I’m okay, Mommy. I’m okay.” And just like that, she would pick up her doll and continue with her little lessons.
One evening, as we sat on the couch, I watched her hold Kiki’s tiny plastic hands and slowly help her doll take its first steps. Mireya was still in her wheelchair, her braces still adjusting, but the smile on her face was brighter than ever. She didn’t need to walk to teach Kiki how to walk. She was teaching herself, in the process.
And that’s when it hit me. This whole time, I thought I was helping her. I thought I was being strong for her. But in reality, she was the one helping me. She was teaching me what it truly meant to face challenges with grace. To take each day as it comes, no matter how hard it seems. To never give up, even when everything around you feels uncertain.
Mireya’s strength wasn’t in the ability to walk; it was in her refusal to let anything, not even metal braces, hold her back. And in that moment, I realized that the real lesson was not just in the walking—but in the never giving up. She wasn’t teaching Kiki how to walk. She was teaching me how to live.
So, what’s the lesson here? Life isn’t always going to be easy. Sometimes, the journey is long and difficult. But there’s always something to be learned from every struggle, every setback. And sometimes, the ones we think need the most help are the ones who end up teaching us the most.
If you’re facing something hard, remember that there’s always hope—always a way forward. And even when it feels like you’re stuck, sometimes the smallest steps can lead to the greatest progress.
If you think this story can help someone else who might need a little encouragement today, share it. And don’t forget to like this post if it made you feel something. You never know who might need to hear it.
