“Smiles, Scars, and Strength: Bowen’s Fight Against Cancer”.2019
I shuffled through my phone, scrolling through the pictures his parents had texted me.
In every single one, he was smiling.
Not just a polite grin or a small smirk — but wide, uninhibited, full-of-life smiles, the kind that light up an entire room and make you feel like everything might just be okay in the world.
Three-year-old Bowen Askew is that kind of child — my kind of toddler.
From Dallas, Georgia, Bowen is known for his laughter that fills the air like sunshine.
He loves hard, he feels deeply, and even at his young age, he seems to understand what it means to be blessed.
He adores Peppa Pig, plays Yahtzee (even if he doesn’t quite get how the scoring works yet), builds towers out of Magna Blocks, and zips around on his little scooter like he’s chasing the wind itself.
He loves his parents — Josh and Kellie — and his big brothers, Davis and Cooper.
And they love him with a fierceness that words can’t capture.
Together, they’ve stood by Bowen through what has become the greatest fight of his young life.
It began just a few months ago, in June of 2025, when something changed.
Bowen, once so full of energy, began to grow tired.
He wasn’t the same bouncing ball of joy; instead, he became lethargic, weak, distant.
Kellie, a NICU nurse who’s seen enough to know when something’s wrong, felt her heart sink.
His pulse was faint — too faint.
Without hesitation, they rushed to Children’s Health Care of Atlanta
The news came faster than anyone was ready for.
Doctors had found a large brain tumor.
The diagnosis — Choroid Plexus Carcinoma (CPC) — was something no parent ever expects to hear.
It’s rare.
Aggressive.
Devastating.
Only one percent of all brain tumors in the world are CPC.
For most, it’s a medical term that never crosses their vocabulary.
For the Askew family, it became a word that would change their lives forever.
Bowen was scheduled for emergency surgery.
Nine hours.
Nine long, agonizing hours that felt like eternity for his parents sitting in the waiting room.
“I lost it,” Josh told me later, his voice trembling. “I thought we might lose him.”
But little Bowen — brave, unyielding Bowen — made it through.
When he opened his eyes in the PICU, weak but alive, there it was again — that smile.
That same big, bright, radiant smile that refused to fade, no matter how dark the night had been.
He stayed in the PICU for a week, his parents by his side every second.
When he finally went home, it was a small victory, a breath of relief in a sea of uncertainty.
But just two days later, Bowen was back in the hospital.
An infection had formed inside his skull.
Doctors had to remove part of his skull and start him on heavy antibiotics.
Most adults would struggle to endure that.
Bowen? He still found ways to laugh.
He played with toy cars on his hospital bed, giggling at the nurses, charming everyone who walked by.
His spirit was untouched.
A few weeks later, the family made another trip — this time to St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital in Memphis, Tennessee.
There, doctors offered a glimmer of hope.
“Doctors gave Bowen a better chance of survival,” Josh said quietly.
He began chemotherapy, but thankfully, avoided radiation.
Still, the road was far from easy.
They are now in their
“Bowen is nearing the end of his third chemotherapy cycle,” Kellie told me.
Her voice carried both pride and exhaustion.
“We had hoped to start his fourth cycle next week, but after multiple transfusions, we need to see his bone marrow start working better. Otherwise, we’ll have to postpone until his numbers recover.”
Each cycle was harder than the last — the nausea, the fatigue, the uncertainty.
Three cycles down.
Three more to go.
And yet through it all, Bowen’s optimism never faltered.
It was as if his smile had become medicine for everyone else.
“Bowen’s radiant smiles and playful personality have earned him the sweetest reputation with friends, doctors, and nurses here at St. Jude,” Kellie said.
He has that rare light — the kind that heals others, even as he battles his own pain.
Nurses often stop by his room just to see him giggle.
He plays peek-a-boo behind his IV pole, proudly shows off his stickers after blood draws, and insists that Peppa Pig keeps him company during treatment.
His laughter fills the hallways, a sound that reminds everyone why they fight so hard.
Josh and Kellie have learned to live one day at a time.
“This is not the journey we expected to face,” Kellie admitted, tears glistening in her eyes.
“But we know it has a purpose. And so far, we’re finding that it encourages others to find strength and happiness even in the hardest circumstances.”
There’s no telling exactly when Bowen and his family will return home to Paulding County, Georgia.
The doctors will decide when it’s safe — when his immune system is strong enough, when his body can handle the outside world again.
Until then, home is wherever they are together — even if it’s a hospital room filled with beeping monitors and the soft hum of machines.
At night, Josh reads stories aloud to Bowen while Kellie hums lullabies softly, the way only a mother can.
Sometimes, Bowen falls asleep holding his favorite toy — a tiny scooter replica.
It’s a reminder of the life waiting for him beyond these walls.
Back home, his brothers Davis and Cooper keep his toys ready.
They send him drawings, cards, and funny videos, promising to race scooters again soon.
The family’s faith holds them together.
They pray, they laugh, they cry — but they never stop believing that Bowen’s story is still being written, one miracle at a time.
And when that day comes — when Bowen finally returns home — the celebration will be more than just about finishing treatment.
It’ll be about survival.
About courage.
About a little boy who faced one of life’s fiercest storms and came out still smiling.
He’ll be reunited with his Peppa Pig episodes, his Yahtzee dice, his Magna blocks, and his scooters waiting by the porch.
And he’ll race across the driveway with that same infectious laughter that has carried his family through the darkest of nights.
One thing is for certain — his smile will shine brighter than ever before.
Because Bowen Askew isn’t just another child in the hospital.
He’s proof that even in pain, joy can still bloom.
That courage can come in small bodies with big hearts.
That sometimes, the smallest warriors teach us the greatest lessons about love, resilience, and hope.
And that’s my kind of toddler.
Lexie’s Fight — The Little Dancer Who Refused to Give Up.2402
💛 Lexie’s Fight — The Little Dancer Who Refused to Give Up 💛
When she was six years old, Lexie was full of life.
She loved to dance, to twirl in front of the mirror, and to fill her home with laughter.
Her mum, Kelly, remembers how music was always playing somewhere in the house — because when Lexie danced, everything felt lighter.
No one could have imagined that within weeks, that same little girl would be fighting for her life.
🌸 The First Signs
It started with something small — a sore hip.
Kelly thought it was just another dance injury. “She was always spinning and jumping around,” Kelly recalls. “I told her to rest for a few days, and we’d ice it if it got worse.”
But it didn’t get better.
Soon, Lexie started complaining about her back. Then her stomach began to ache.
At first, they thought maybe it was a virus or growing pains. But Kelly couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right.
“She started waking up at night crying from the pain,” Kelly says. “And that’s when my stomach dropped. I knew this wasn’t just tired muscles anymore.”
They went from doctor to doctor. Blood tests. X-rays. Ultrasounds. None of it gave clear answers.
Until one afternoon, after another round of tests, the phone rang — and Kelly’s world changed forever.
💔 The Diagnosis
The doctor’s voice was quiet.
“Kelly… we’ve found something.”
She was told to bring Lexie to the hospital immediately. There was no time to wait.
Scans revealed a large tumour in Lexie’s abdomen, pressing against her spine and organs. It was Stage 4 neuroblastoma — an aggressive childhood cancer that had already spread to her bones.
Kelly’s mind went blank.
“The whole world just went silent. Everything. I couldn’t focus on anything but her. I felt — if she goes, I’m going with her.”
Doctors told her that without treatment, Lexie had less than two weeks to live.
Two weeks.
The words hit like a punch. How could a child so full of energy and laughter be facing something so cruel?
⚔️ The Fight Begins
Lexie was rushed to Sydney Children’s Hospital, Randwick, where she began treatment immediately.
The medical team started her on high-dose chemotherapy to shrink the tumour and control the spread of cancer. Kelly watched helplessly as her little girl was hooked up to machines — IV drips, monitors, oxygen lines — a maze of tubes that became their new reality.
“The first night in hospital,” Kelly recalls, “I just sat there staring at her. She was sleeping, and I kept thinking — how can someone so small be so brave?”
In the days that followed, Lexie lost her long blonde hair. She had adored her curls — brushing them in front of the mirror, pretending she was a ballerina on stage.
Kelly shaved her head first, so she wouldn’t feel alone.
“She looked at me, smiled, and said, ‘We match now, Mum.’”
For months, Lexie endured everything medicine could throw at her:
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Multiple rounds of chemotherapy
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Intensive radiation
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Stem cell transplantation
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Antibody therapy
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Surgery to remove what was left of the tumour
Each procedure brought new fears. Each day felt like another mountain to climb.
🏥 A Year in the Hospital
Hospital life became their entire world.
Lexie spent more than a year in treatment — longer than she had ever spent in school, at home, or on the dance floor.
She spent six weeks in isolation, unable to touch or hug anyone except her mum.
At one point, she vomited for ten days straight.
There were nights when Kelly thought she might not make it.
“She just quietly faded into herself,” Kelly says softly. “It was like she didn’t want people to see her that way. Even now, if we start talking about it, she shuts off.”
Lexie’s body nearly gave out twice. Each time, doctors fought to stabilise her — and each time, she fought her way back.
She was too young to understand the word cancer, but she understood what it meant to fight.
“She’d squeeze my hand and say, ‘We’ll dance again soon, Mum.’”
🌈 After the Storm
Eventually, after countless hospital days, Lexie’s treatment ended.
She rang the bell — the moment every cancer child dreams of — and the ward filled with applause.
But leaving the hospital didn’t mean leaving the battle behind.
The cancer had spread to her bones, and her body was left weak and scarred from the treatment.
Her muscles had deteriorated. The antibody therapy damaged her eyesight. Some days, walking was hard.
Still, Lexie refused to be defined by her illness.
“She doesn’t like to be called ‘the girl who had cancer,’” Kelly says. “She just wants to be Lexie. The girl who dances.”
And she does.
Slowly, she returned to her studio — starting with simple movements, then full routines.
The other girls cheered when she came back, her tiny body still recovering, her hair just starting to grow again.
“She danced like nothing had ever happened,” Kelly smiles. “Like she was free.”
💫 Strength Beyond Measure
Today, Lexie continues to face challenges — but she does so with the same spirit that’s carried her through everything.
Some days are filled with pain. Some are spent in check-up rooms.
But every morning, she wakes up ready to live.
Kelly says the experience changed them both forever.
“I used to worry about small things,” she admits. “Now, I just feel grateful. Every smile, every laugh, every dance — they’re all miracles.”
Lexie, now a little older but still full of sparkle, tells people she wants to become a dance teacher one day — “for kids who can’t dance yet, but really want to.”
Her story has inspired countless families going through the same nightmare — a reminder that even in the darkest moments, courage can shine through the smallest hearts.
🕊 Her Legacy of Light
When Kelly looks at her daughter today — strong, radiant, spinning across the living room — she sees more than survival. She sees resilience. She sees grace. She sees life.
“She’s taught me that happiness isn’t about what you have,” Kelly says quietly. “It’s about who you have — and the moments you never stop fighting for.”
Lexie’s journey is not over.
But neither is her light.
Every time she dances, she dances for the little girl who once lay in a hospital bed — for the fight that almost took her life, and for the love that helped her reclaim it.
💛 Because Lexie isn’t just surviving.
She’s dancing.
She’s living.
And she’s proof that even the smallest fighters can move the world. 💛
