Help Aya Run Again
When my daughter Aya Sofya looks at me with her big brown eyes and whispers,
“Mama, will I ever run again?”
I smile—because I want to give her hope.
But inside, my heart breaks a little every time.
Aya will turn five this November. She is bold, cheeky, and full of warmth—the kind of child who pours pretend tea from her toy kitchen, giggles until the room lights up, and hugs you tightly when you’re sad. She is full of life.
And yet, right now, her childhood is on pause.
Most days, Aya sits on the couch with her leg immobilized in a splint. Every movement hurts. Her pink bicycle—once her pride and joy—stands untouched. She watches other children run and play outside and asks softly:
“Will I ever do that again?”
A Childhood Interrupted by Cancer
Aya was just two years old when our world changed forever.
She was diagnosed with high-risk Stage 3 neuroblastoma, a rare and aggressive childhood cancer.
What followed was a journey no child should ever endure:
12 cycles of chemotherapy, leaving her weak and exhausted
Major tumor removal surgery
A stem cell transplant
14 rounds of radiotherapy
5 cycles of immunotherapy
3 emergency surgeries for life-threatening complications
After her very first chemotherapy session, her tumor ruptured.
Aya spent 21 days in intensive care, intubated and unresponsive.
We almost lost her.
Every minute, we held her hand, whispered prayers, and begged her to stay.
And somehow—Aya fought back.
Hope… and Then Heartbreak
For nine precious months, we heard the word “remission.”
Aya drew rainbows again. She danced around the house. She tasted what it meant to simply be a little girl.
We allowed ourselves to hope.
Then, in June—during Hari Raya Aidiladha—Aya began to fall.
First a limp. Then pain. Then she couldn’t walk straight.
At the hospital, the oncologist’s words shattered us:
“Relapsed neuroblastoma.”
The cancer had returned—and spread to her bones. Aya suffered a pathological fracture in her leg. Now, she needs daily pain medication just to move.
Three words followed that no parent should ever hear:
Cancer. Relapse. Palliative.
Here at home, all standard treatment options have been exhausted.
A Final Chance to Save Her Life
We searched everywhere. We pleaded. We applied.
And finally—a hospital abroad offered one last hope:
CAR-T Cell Therapy, an advanced treatment with the potential to save Aya’s life.
Aya has been accepted for treatment.
But the cost is overwhelming: SGD $170,000, with an urgent deposit of SGD $23,000 due by 24 September.
To prevent delays, we are raising funds in stages.
Our first target is SGD $50,000, allowing Aya to begin treatment immediately.
Time is not on our side.
Why This Is Urgent
In just weeks, Aya has gone from walking to being confined to a splint, scooting around on a pink swivel stool.
Her cancer continues to spread.
She is on palliative oral chemotherapy—not to cure her, but to manage pain.
Her other limbs are beginning to hurt. Nights are filled with whimpers instead of dreams.
And yet—Aya still smiles.
She still draws cupcakes and princesses.
She still dreams of running again.
Why We Need Your Help
This is not just about survival.
This is about giving Aya her childhood back.
We have emptied our savings. We have done everything we can.
Without help, her treatment may be delayed—or impossible.
Your support brings Aya closer to:
Walking again
Laughing without pain
Simply being a child
Every cent is managed by Give.Asia and paid directly to the Children Cancer Association Malaysia (CCAM).
100% of donations go to Aya’s treatment.
Aya’s Wish
If Aya could speak for herself, she would say:
“I want to run. I want to play. I want to be a little girl again. Please help me.”
We believe in her.
And we believe in the kindness of those who can help give her this chance.
Aya has already shown us what true strength looks like.
She is still fighting.
Please—help her continue.
With deepest gratitude,
Aya Sofya’s Parents
A Life Loved Before Birth: In Memory of Hunter Marvin Fricks
Some lives unfold in ways the world can see—marked by first steps, birthdays, and shared memories. Others exist more quietly, known fully only by the hearts that carried them. Hunter Marvin Fricks belongs to the second kind. He was a baby boy deeply loved and longed for long before his birth. Though his time in this world was heartbreakingly brief, his life will always matter—not because of how long it lasted, but because of how deeply he was loved.
Hunter was expected to arrive on January 31, 2026, a date filled with anticipation and gentle hope. His family imagined that future in small, tender moments—wondering what he might look like, how he would feel in their arms, and how his presence would forever change their lives. Even before he was born, Hunter already had a place. He already belonged. He already mattered. Love had begun quietly, growing through whispered conversations, shared plans, and the simple belief that something beautiful was coming. Hunter was never just an idea; he was a real son and a real grandson, cherished in ways that loss could never erase.
On November 8, 2025, that future changed in a way no family is ever prepared for. Hunter was born still, and the moment that should have been filled with cries and first breaths arrived instead in silence. In a single instant, hope and grief collided, leaving his family holding both at once.
Stillbirth carries a unique and devastating pain—where birth and goodbye exist in the same moment. There is no gentle transition, no time to adjust, only the sudden realization that the life imagined will never unfold. Hunter’s family faced that truth with hearts already full of love, now broken by sorrow.
Yet even in the silence, Hunter was not alone. He was surrounded by love that had claimed him long before that day. He was held in hearts that will continue to carry him forward, long after the moment passed.
Hunter’s grandmother shared words that reflect the enduring strength of that love—speaking of missing him deeply, loving him endlessly, and holding onto the hope of meeting him again one day. In her words live both grief and devotion, pain and promise, woven together in a way only love can manage.
Grandparents often imagine futures stretching far ahead, filled with quiet pride and small moments. For Hunter’s grandmother, that future was interrupted, but the love behind it was not erased. It remains steady and unwavering, untouched by time or circumstance.
Hunter was a precious grandson, a beloved son, and an inseparable part of a family whose story will always include him. His life did not need years to be meaningful. His existence alone changed the people who loved him, shaping their hearts in ways the world may never fully see.
Grief after stillbirth is often invisible. There are no shared memories others can easily recognize, no photos of first smiles or first steps. But invisibility does not mean insignificance—and Hunter’s life is proof of that truth.
His family carries not only the pain of losing him, but also the responsibility of remembering him. Speaking his name is an act of courage. Remembering him openly is a declaration that his life mattered, and always will.
Hunter mattered because he was loved before he was ever seen. He mattered because he was hoped for, planned for, and welcomed in spirit long before his birth. He mattered because love does not require time to be real.
The loss of a child born still is also the loss of an imagined future—the birthdays that will never be celebrated, the holidays that will always feel incomplete, and the quiet moments when absence feels louder than sound. These losses become woven into daily life, appearing without warning.
And yet, within that grief, there is devotion. Hunter is not a secret, nor a forgotten chapter. He is a permanent part of his family’s story, spoken of with tenderness and carried with intention.
Today, we honor Hunter Marvin Fricks by acknowledging his life and the love that surrounds it. We hold his family close in our thoughts, recognizing both their heartbreak and their strength. Honoring him is not about reopening wounds, but about validating a love that never had the chance to grow outward.
Remembering a child like Hunter is an act of compassion. It affirms that grieving families are seen, that their child deserves to be known, and that love does not end with loss. It creates space for honesty, remembrance, and shared humanity.