Her name was Arjelynne

She didn’t know yet that one day, staying alive would become one of the bravest things she would ever do.

Back then, she was simply Arjelynne.

A tender-hearted girl with a noisy mind and an unfortunate habit of feeling everything.

Absolutely everything.

She noticed the little things: the change in someone’s voice when they said, “I’m fine,” the silences between sentences, the sadness hidden behind a smile. She remembered details other people had forgotten they had ever shared with her.

And whenever someone she loved was hurting, her first instinct was always to move closer.

To stay.

To care.

Sometimes to the point of forgetting herself.

Maybe that was her gift.

Maybe it was also where some of her wounds began.

She spent years learning how to care for others long before she learned how to care for herself.

And apparently, life had decided to teach her that lesson in its own way.

There would be love.

Hospitals.

Hands she thought would never let go of hers—and some that would.

There would be scars, both visible and invisible.

Photographs. Songs. Laughter at the most inappropriate moments. People arriving, people leaving, and nights when morning would feel impossibly far away.

Until one day, she would look into a mirror and wonder where the girl she used to be had gone.

But this story does not begin with cancer.

Nor with depression.

Nor with loss or broken hearts.

It begins before all of that.

With a young girl who had no idea how much life would one day ask of her.

A girl who still believed that scars were always things you could see.

Her name was Arjelynne.

I don’t know how her story ends yet.

I only know that throughout these pages, life will try more than once to change what that name means.

Until one day, even she will no longer be quite sure who is hiding behind it.

So for now, just remember my name.

Arjelynne.