Wayne started beating me five months into our marriage. Initially, it was simply an unexpected slap or a punch to the kidney. It was so unpredictable and out of character that I deemed it my fault. I reasoned that I must have brought it on myself, and that I deserved it. That naïve perspective changed when the abuse became far more regular and intense. After two further months of humiliating, soul-wrecking beatings, I finally walked out. I left with only the clothes on my back and firm resolve burning in my heart. I moved in with a friend, but I knew I needed help. “Speak to Mr. Eden,” Sinead advised me. “You know he's always been kind-hearted to us and helps everybody without hesitation,” she added persuasively. And that's how I ended up outside his office the next morning, clutching my college bag and courage firmly to my breast. Mr. Eden was the College Counselor, and one of the most unselfish men I had ever met. Not a single student had ever been turned away by this gentle, unassuming man. And I was about to ask him to not just go the extra mile, but to also go out on a limb for me. How classically clichéd. “Marina, come inside,” Mr. Eden invited me the minute he saw me. “Have a seat. How's life been treating you?” he asked innocently, but his tone and the innocuous question triggered a flood of sobs. I was embarrassed; I chastised myself for making such a spectacle of myself. Mr. Eden instantly took charge, soothing me with encouraging words and a soft tone. He offered me a bottle of water, which I gratefully accepted. I confided completely in him. I was surprised by the first words he said, but I shouldn't have been. “We need to get you into a women's shelter today. I know a place near the college. I will take you there after I've called them to give them a heads up, all right?” As if that wasn't enough, this amazing man then spread the word – with my permission – on the college WhatsApp group that a student needed donations of clothes, toiletries, food; the works. The response was overwhelming! Mr. Eden took me to the Saartje Baartman Women's Shelter, and they agreed to house me as well as try to resolve the problems Wayne and I were having by giving us marriage counselling. All absolutely free of charge! I received so many donations of barely-worn clothes, brand new underwear, toiletries and even money that I could give some of the things to Sinead to thank her for having granted me a safe haven when I had needed it. And the best thing of all? Wayne is a changed man. The couples therapy had opened his eyes, even bringing him to the point where he apologized tearfully to me for ever having lifted a hand to me. “You are a treasure, Marina,” Wayne said to me on the first night I returned home. He was holding me gently in his arms while he spoke in a voice shaking with emotion. “I nearly lost the most precious gift I had ever received, but I will never again be this careless.” “If not for Mr. Eden, both of us would have lost each other,” I said and smiled, feeling the heavy burdens lift off my shoulders like fog burned off by the warmth of a rising sun.

“Wake up. Come on wake up,” the voice pleaded, sounding desperate and afraid, as if something was terribly wrong but what? I peeled my eyes open and blinked a few times, only to realize I was staring at the sterile, white walls of Children's Hospital, and no one was calling me at all. It was only a dream, one I have become quite familiar with since I fainted on the softball field, and my life was transformed forever. “Come on Mariah, get up” insisted my mom. “Let's go see what activities are happening downstairs.” At that moment, I needed to tell her everything, yet with one glance into her hopeful eyes, everything I longed to admit refused to spill out from my tightly pursed lips. How was I supposed to reveal to my mother, the one person capable of overlooking my many flaws, that my only desire was to stare at my reflection and ask myself “why?” Why was my skin subject to being used as a pin cushion, and why was I poked and prodded like a lab rat? Why did no one know why my once thick locks were becoming thinner by the day, or why my clothes were beginning to hang off of my skeleton like frame? Why were the lights once present in my eyes now overshadowed by dark circles, leaving me blind- blind to life before I was given a colonoscopy at the age of just fourteen and forced to accept what my diagnosis of Crohn's Disease might mean. Possibilities of future surgeries and a colostomy bag plagued my dreams. I knew these circumstances did not make me inadequate or unworthy; however, when I thought of myself, happiness no longer seemed to be in the realm of possibility. I looked up at my mom as her eyes scanned my face, her facial features softened into a small smile. “Come on, you can use a distraction.” As defeat set in, I sighed, slid from beneath the pristine, white sheets, and followed my mom to the elevator and into the conference room, where I lifted my gaze from the floor. My eyes began to glisten with tears as my heart broke in two at the sight of children barely four feet tall with amputated limbs and oxygen masks over their faces. I.V posts were stationed by their sides, needles protruding from their delicate arms and hands. Their bodies appeared to be crying for help, yet their laughter rang out as a beacon of hope I had yet to discover within myself. Amazed, I sat next to a little girl who I assumed to be as young as six years old. Her pale, fragile frame was being consumed by a wheelchair, and her bandaged head hung to the side weakly, while her smile radiated the light of a hundred suns. I was told her name was Laney, and she had cancer. More importantly, however, I was told she loved to sing and draw. She loved animals and playing with Barbie dolls. I was told that she had a family who adored her, and although she may have had cancer, cancer did not define her. Due to this, I learned that a person's happiness is not dictated by his/her circumstances or surroundings; it is dictated by one's perception of life as well as how he/she views him/herself. A person's happiness is dictated by whether he/she has the strength to accept the circumstances he/she has been given. Laney, as well as every other miracle in that room, gave me the strength to recognize I am me; I am not a disease but a person with the right to be happy. With that knowledge, I had to smile. I soon realized, however, that this was only the beginning of an alliance of strength formed from a line of individuals prospering off of the courage of those before them. My grandmother, who has always been a strong, vibrant, and independent person, slowly began to waste away. Her physique became more fragile every passing day, and the pain she was in became more evident upon her face. We should not have been surprised when the results came back, diagnosing her with stage four rectal cancer. For a while the monster appeared to be winning the fight, so I held my grandmother in my arms, and for the first time in ages, I prayed. She held me even tighter then, and with tears streaming down her face, she said “give me some of your strength sweetheart. Because of you, I know what strength looks like, and that is the kind of strength I want to continue to fight with.” Needless to say, I was stunned by her admission. I never imagined I could have this sort of impact on anyone, especially on someone as strong-willed as my grandmother. This, I believe, is no coincidence. Coincidences only reside in the minds of those who believe their life is out of their control. My struggles in the dark placed me in the midst of those who forced me to see the light, allowing me to become a source of strength to those who have temporarily lost their way. There are an endless amount of people in which I can impact; although this thought is overwhelming, I realize my life is no longer solely my own. Now, my life belongs to those who influence me and those I wish to someday influence as well.

Helping my little brother getting ready for school on a Monday morning, you wouldn't think anything was wrong. He chatters about something on telly, whilst we look for gloves and then we have a lively debate about when his spelling test is. We look through the mounds of paper in his bookbag, it's in two days. My brother isn't too fussed and goes back to watching his YouTube show. Typical school day morning, right? This morning, as the little guy woke up, bushy hair and bleary eyed, he notices his mum rushing around grabbing bags and toys. ‘Are you going?' he asks, his voice cracking. ‘Yes, sweetie.' Immediately, his face crumples and a cry build up, tears already brimming. She grabs him in for a hug, tells him she loves him and that he must brave just like his brother. This is the routine, this is our normal. I hope to God it is not yours. Our youngest brother has cancer, lymphoblastic leukaemia, this is the second time he's gotten it. This time round, the treatment is more aggressive, requiring more lethal drugs and a stem cell transplant. We just found out last week that the little dude is a perfect stem cell match for him. This filled us with both relief and dread. Relief – a stem cell transplant is the best way to treat him and should be most effective, it means there is less chemo and probably no radiotherapy for him and it could've taken us months to find a match from a stranger. On the other hand, the little dude, who is 5 years old, will have to be put under for surgery – which is not without risks – to help his little (3yo) brother. That's a lot of pressure to put on someone who's main concern now is learning the phonic: ‘i_e.' Can you imagine the guilt? Taking your perfectly healthy little boy and intentionally cause him harm to help the other. He wants to help his brother, but it was still his parent's choice in the end to say yes. No parent should have to go make that decision. But then, they've had to face a lot of decisions a parent should never have to. My dad and my step-mum are good parents, they try their best and they fail sometimes too. They take it in turns to stay with J at the hospital when he's going through chemo. Living half your life in a hospital is not ideal. For obvious reasons. You are surrounded by sick and dying children for one, plus the WIFI is crap. J had been home for the past week, to rest up since the last bout of chemo had given him severe illness – he stopped eating and had to be transferred to the high dependency unit for a few days as his nutrient levels dropped dangerously low, there were lots of problems with his guts and there was a suspected infection. Once he's home, he's a little happier, but it can be an edgy time for my parents, especially my step-mum. In hospital you're surrounded by nurses who can help if things go wrong and can tell IF something is wrong, at home, it's your own judgment. Despite this, home makes a nice change, we can all be together like a family should. The little dude, P, can be picked up by a parent from school, instead of a sister or nan or a friend's mum, so it's more stable for him. We can all sit together and talk or play, most importantly, the two brothers can play together, not always nicely, but together at least. Whilst J was home, he still had to go in one day this week, so the Doctor and nurses can check his observations (weight, heart rate etc), to give my parents some home supplies – feed for his NG (nasal-gastric) tube and some various drugs to be given at home (a lot of anti-sickness/laxatives) and finally a big dose of steroids. Have you ever heard of ‘roid-rage? Try working with a chubby three-year-old with a Smeagol-hairdo shouting at you, whilst you're making him macaroni cheese, about his EXACT specifications (which change constantly). Gordon Ramsey eat your heart out. However, that was the middle of the week, I come home at the weekend, and within half an hour upon my entrance, a cheeky chappy emerges from the grizzle. I like to think its my cheery disposition that's perked him up, but I can smell for the fact he's just removed a load of concentrated anger. For the whole weekend he's like a dream, yes occasionally his bottom hurts as he feels the chemo-poo brewing (there is nothing like it, I can never eat korma again!), but he's laughing, making jokes, (why did the banana cross the road? To get squished!). On Sunday we all make biscuits, blue and sprinkle flavoured, we've visited Nanny in our very special blue car and played with their puppy, sweet eh? Sunday night, his mummy explains that they are going to hospital together tomorrow. J says he doesn't want to, he doesn't want any ouchies. Mummy promises no ouchies, but they have to go in to hospital. J thinks for a second or two, then says: ‘I want cuddles all night long and forever.' Wow. Heart wrenching huh? They hug and continue a jigsaw puzzle with some accompanied inane toddler chatter about Blaze and the Monster Machines….