It comes with a heavy heart tonight that I lost my youngest daughter Kali to an asthma attack tonight.
This wasn’t easy, but I did it.I want the world to know how much strength it took for me to do this and how much courage it took for me to document this entire process.
I don’t know what it felt for my baby to suffocate and take her last breath, so I decided to use my breathe for her.I know she was scared.
I know she was looking for me.I can’t imagine what she felt.
It’s torture for me to even think about it, but I’m determined to let the world know who Kali was, what she went through, and how hurtful this process is for me.
The world will know her name.
I will make my voice heard to the DOJ, to Washington DC, if I have to, and I’m going to make sure that every system and person that failed my child knows exactly how serious I am.
I am not done.
I want answers and I’m going to get them.Kali, it’s me and you baby.I’m sending you home, but mommy is just beginning.
That was the first thing I wrote, and my hands shook so badly the words looked like they were trying to run away from the page. The room was too quiet for what had happened in it.
Quiet should belong to bedtime stories and warm baths and tiny feet padding down the hall to ask for one more kiss. Not this kind of quiet—this kind that feels like the air itself is holding its breath.
I kept thinking: if I breathe carefully enough, if I breathe loudly enough, if I breathe with purpose, maybe I can rewind the last hour.
Maybe I can undo what I watched. Maybe I can climb back through time like a ladder and scoop my baby into my arms before the fear arrived in her chest.
But time doesn’t work like that. Time is cruel in the way it keeps going even when you can’t.
Kali was my youngest. The baby of the family. The one who learned early how to make herself heard because older siblings can be loud, and life can be busy, and the smallest ones sometimes get overlooked for half a second too long.
So she became bold in her own soft way. She would tilt her chin up like a tiny queen and say, “Mommy. Mommy. Mommy,” until I looked. Then she’d smile like she had just won something important.
She loved little things. The “little” that adults forget to treasure. The way sunlight makes dust sparkle like glitter. The way bubbles float like they have nowhere to be but everywhere to go.
The way a blanket feels when it’s fresh out of the dryer and still holds warmth like a secret. She would press her cheek into it and sigh, dramatic as a movie star, and I would laugh even when my day had been heavy.
Tonight, laughter feels like something that belonged to another person.When the attack started, it didn’t arrive like thunder. It arrived like a question.
A cough that didn’t sound right. A pause in her voice. Her eyes finding mine with that look children get when they don’t have the words for what’s happening, only the instinct to search for the person who always makes it stop.
“Mommy,” she whispered, and something in my body stood up straight. The kind of alert that doesn’t ask permission. The kind of fear that moves faster than thought.
I did what mothers do. I moved. I grabbed what I could. I tried to measure her breathing with my ears, my hands, my heart.
I tried to stay calm because calm is a tool in a crisis, and I thought if I sounded steady, she would feel steady. I thought if I stayed in control, the universe would respect that and give me my child back.
But the universe is not polite.
Asthma isn’t always loud at first. Sometimes it’s a tightening that steals air inch by inch, like a door closing slowly until you realize too late that you’re on the wrong side of it.
Kali’s chest rose and fell like it was working harder than it should, like she was running a race in a room she couldn’t leave. Her lips parted. Her shoulders lifted. Her eyes widened with a fear so pure it looked like a new language.
I kept telling her, “Mommy’s here. Mommy’s here. Look at me. Breathe with me.”
And I did. I breathed like my life depended on it, because in that moment, it did.Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
I breathed for her the way you blow into a candle to keep it lit. I breathed like I could pour oxygen into the space between us with nothing but love and willpower.
I breathed like my lungs were an extra set for hers, like I could loan her every breath I would ever take and still be okay if it meant she would be okay.
But there are moments when love is not enough.
When the emergency line picked up, I heard my own voice and didn’t recognize it. It sounded like someone else’s scream trapped in my throat.
The operator’s questions came one after another, calm and measured, like a checklist that believed it could control chaos. I answered everything. I listened. I followed instructions.
And still, still, still—my baby’s eyes kept searching for me like she was trying to find the doorway back to safety.
That’s what will haunt me.Not just the panic. Not just the struggle.But the way she looked for me.Because a child’s first belief is that their mother can fix the world.
And tonight, I couldn’t.
At some point, everything turned into fragments. The sound of my own breathing too loud. The sound of her breathing too thin. The way time stretched like a rubber band about to snap. The blur of movement—hands, lights, voices—like the world suddenly had too many people and not enough mercy.
I remember thinking: This is not real.
Then I remember thinking: This is real, and I need to remember every detail.
Because I’m going to tell it. Because I’m going to document it. Because if I don’t, somebody will reduce her life to a statistic, a case number, a sentence that ends too quickly. And Kali deserves more than that.
Kali deserves a story that tells the truth about how big her spirit was, how bright her laugh sounded in the kitchen, how she danced with socks on her hands like they were gloves, how she insisted on choosing her own pajamas even when she chose something that didn’t match and looked like a rainbow fell apart on her body.
She deserved mornings.
She deserved birthdays.
She deserved the kind of future that kids are supposed to receive without having to earn it.
Now I’m sitting here with a house that still holds her fingerprints, her little toys, her tiny hair ties, and I feel like I’m drowning in the proof that she existed.
People tell mothers in grief to rest.
But I can’t rest.
Not yet.
Not when the questions are louder than the silence.
Because I keep replaying everything like a courtroom video, trying to pinpoint the second where the system should have caught us and didn’t. The second where help should have arrived faster. The second where someone should have taken her condition seriously enough to treat it like the emergency it was before it became irreversible.
I’m not writing this to be gentle.
I’m writing this to be heard.
I’m writing this because I refuse to let the world scroll past my daughter’s name like it’s just another sad story on a screen.
Kali is not “another sad story.”
Kali is my baby.
And if you have ever loved a child, then you know there is no pain that compares to watching fear take up residence in their eyes.
There is no sound more violent than a breath that won’t come.
There is no quiet more cruel than the quiet after.
I keep imagining what it felt like for her—how it must have felt to fight for air and not understand why it wasn’t working.
How it must have felt to be scared and small and trapped inside a body that suddenly wouldn’t cooperate. I keep imagining her thoughts like tiny birds hitting the walls of a cage.
Where is Mommy.
Why can’t I breathe.
Please don’t let me go.
And the worst part is knowing she was looking for me, looking for the one person who always made everything better, and this time I couldn’t.
So yes, I’m going to make noise.
I’m going to say her name until it echoes.
I’m going to speak to anyone who will listen, and to the ones who won’t.
I’m going to write letters. I’m going to request records. I’m going to ask for timelines and protocols and explanations. I’m going to demand that people stop treating asthma like it’s only dangerous when it’s too late.
I will make my voice heard to the DOJ, to Washington DC, if I have to, because if my baby’s life was worth anything—and it was worth everything—then the failures around her deserve sunlight.
People are uncomfortable when a grieving mother becomes organized.
They prefer her quiet. They prefer her soft.
They like grief that stays in the corner and doesn’t interrupt anyone’s dinner.
But I am not here to make anyone comfortable.
I am here to make sure my daughter is not forgotten.
Because grief is love that has nowhere to go, and I have decided to give it a direction.
I can’t hold Kali in my arms anymore. So I will hold her story. I will hold her name.
I will hold every system accountable until the people who looked away have to look directly at what happened.
Kali had a way of touching my face when she wanted my full attention. She would place both little hands on my cheeks, close enough that I could see the tiny flecks of color in her eyes, and she would say, “Mommy, listen.”
That’s what I hear now. Mommy, listen.
So I’m listening.
And I’m answering.
Tonight, I am sending you home, baby.
But I am not sending you away.
You are going to live in every breath I take from this point forward, in every word I speak, in every fight I refuse to back down from.
The world will know your name.
The world will know who you were.
And the world will know that your mother is not done.
Not even close.
