There are moments in life that split time in two.

Before.
And after.

For me, that moment came when my youngest daughter, Kali, took her last breath in my arms.

There is no language that truly prepares a mother for that instant. No class, no warning, no story you hear from someone else that can soften it. Your body moves on instinct, trying to do what it has always done — protect, soothe, fix. But your heart refuses to accept what your eyes are seeing.

Closing my baby up was the hardest thing I have ever done.

Every part of me screamed against it. Every instinct I have ever had as a mother begged me to pull her back, to warm her, to breathe for her if I had to. Love tells you that you can always do something. Reality tells you that sometimes, even love is not enough to keep a child here.

That night, the world changed forever.

Kali was my youngest daughter, but she was also my twin in spirit. From the beginning, it was always us. My shadow. My heartbeat outside my body. Where I went, she followed. Where she laughed, I laughed harder. Where she hurt, I felt it deep in my chest.

She had a way of grabbing my face with both hands, forcing me to look at her, and saying, “Mommy, listen.”
And I always did.

I listened to her laugh.
I listened to her fears.
I listened to the sound of her breathing when it became tight and strained — the sound that had haunted me for years.

Because Kali lived with asthma.

Asthma is a word people say lightly. It’s treated like an inconvenience, a condition you “manage,” something that fits neatly into prescriptions and routines. People say, Oh, she’ll be fine, or You worry too much.

But asthma is not gentle.

Asthma is panic.
Asthma is watching your child fight for air.
Asthma is counting seconds and praying lungs will obey.

I knew that. I had lived that fear again and again.

I took Kali to the emergency room more times than I can count. I chose hospital lights over silence. Oxygen over convenience. I chose life, every single time, even when people rolled their eyes or questioned me.

Her father used to get frustrated. He worried about the bills. He said I took her in too often. I tried to explain what it felt like to watch a child’s chest struggle, to hear that wheeze that meant danger. I tried to explain that asthma doesn’t always give warnings — that one attack can be the last.

I even tried to explain it in court.
I tried to explain it to Judge Rhonda K. Forsberg.

I spoke about Kali’s fragile breathing, about how quickly things could turn, about how every flare-up felt like a ticking clock. I begged for urgency. I begged for protection. I begged for belief.

And still, my baby was sent home.

That is the part that breaks me in ways I cannot fully put into words.

Because I fought. I did not ignore signs. I did not stay quiet. I did not choose comfort over caution. I chose my child — again and again — until the system chose differently.

The night Kali died, I watched fear fill her eyes. She looked at me the way children do when they believe their mother can fix anything. I held her. I spoke to her. I tried to keep the air in her lungs with my arms alone.

And for the first time in her life, I couldn’t.

When her breathing stopped, something inside me shattered so completely that I am not sure it will ever fully come back together. Grief does not knock politely. It steals your breath the way asthma stole hers. It comes in waves that feel like drowning.

My house feels wrong now.

Too quiet.
Too still.
Too empty in the spaces she once filled.

Every corner echoes with her presence — her voice, her footsteps, the way she would appear beside me without warning. Sometimes I catch myself listening for her, forgetting for a split second that she is gone.

People say, “She’s with God now.”
I believe that. I hold onto that belief with everything I have left.

But belief does not erase responsibility here on earth.

Sending my baby home did not end my journey. It began it.

Because Kali will not become just another statistic.

I will take her name to the Department of Justice.
I will take her name to Washington, D.C.
I will take her name into every room where decisions are made without urgency for children like her.

This is not just about anger. It is about accountability. It is about awareness. It is about protecting children whose illnesses are too often minimized until it is too late.

Some people will say this was “just” an asthma attack. They will say these things happen. They will try to soften the edges of something that should never be softened.

But I know what I saw.

I saw terror.
I saw suffocation.
I saw time slip through my fingers while my child fought for oxygen.

Asthma is not just wheezing. It is watching your baby drown on dry land.

And when it ends, it leaves a silence that screams.

A silence no apology can fill.
A silence that lives with you forever.

I am still Kali’s mother. Death did not change that. Love did not stop because her heart did.

I will carry her into every meeting, every letter, every step forward. Kali will walk beside me into rooms she never got to enter herself. Her voice will be in mine. Her name will demand attention.

To the mothers reading this: listen to your instincts. Do not let anyone convince you that you are doing too much. Doing too much can save a life.

To the systems meant to protect children: do better. Do not dismiss chronic illness as inconvenience. Do not measure care in dollars instead of lives.

Grief has given me a responsibility I never asked for — but I will carry it. I will speak until change is forced. I will say her name until the world remembers it.

Kali, Mommy is listening.
I hear you in every breath I take.
And I promise you this:

You will never be forgotten.