My name is Jordanna, and this is my daughter Mackenzie — the little blonde with the brightest smile you’ve ever seen.
When Mackenzie was just 3 and a half months old, our world shifted in a way I never could have imagined. She was diagnosed with retinoblastoma, a rare form of pediatric cancer that attacks the eyes. At an age when most babies are discovering their hands and learning to roll over, my daughter was facing a fight for her vision — and her life.
From that moment on, our days were filled with hospital visits, medical charts, and the sound of monitors beeping steadily in the background. Mackenzie endured seven rounds of chemotherapy, each one a battle for her tiny body. But she never lost that spark in her eyes, even on the hardest days. She was, and still is, the bravest person I know.
Every appointment was at UCSF, and I can’t say enough about the care we’ve received there. The doctors, nurses, and staff have been more than medical professionals — they’ve been our guides, our cheerleaders, and, at times, our family. Today, Mackenzie is almost one year cancer-free, and every milestone feels like a quiet miracle.
This morning was a big one — Mackenzie was scheduled for surgery. As we waited in pre-op, the familiar mix of nerves and hope settled in my chest. Then something extraordinary happened.
Across the room was another little girl — dark-haired, with curious eyes that seemed to take in everything. Her name was Akira. She’s just two years old, and like Mackenzie, she’s battling retinoblastoma. In that waiting area, with the soft hum of hospital activity around us, these two tiny warriors found each other.
It started with a glance. Then, Mackenzie shuffled closer. Within minutes, they were holding hands, giggling softly, and sharing the kind of unspoken understanding that only children — and perhaps only children who’ve known hospitals and hard days — can share.
Akira’s grandmother, whom she calls “Mama,” smiled through tears and said, “This is pure innocence.” And it was.
For a while, the waiting room didn’t feel like a place of anxiety or sterile walls — it felt like a playground, filled with the magic of connection. They played together as if they’d been friends forever, their tiny fingers interlocked, their heads leaning together in quiet moments. And every so often, they’d hug each other — long, lingering hugs that seemed far too deep for their age.
These two little girls, who have both endured trauma and treatment that no child should face, found joy in each other instantly. It wasn’t about their diagnoses, their surgeries, or the endless appointments. It was about the comfort of a friend who understands without words.
I don’t know what the future will hold for either of them, but I know this — today was the beginning of something special. My hope is that this was the first chapter of a lifelong friendship, one that will carry them through not only their battles with cancer but also the beautiful life waiting beyond it.
As a mother, I’ve learned that healing isn’t just found in medicine — sometimes it’s found in moments like this, when two little girls can make the world feel warm again, even in the coldest places.
I hope this story warms your heart as much as it warmed ours.
Sincerely,
Jordanna
