She Took Her Last Breath in My Arms—A Mother’s Promise to Make the World Hear Kali’s Name.5983
Closing my baby up was the hardest experience I ever had to go through.
There is no training for that moment, no preparation that makes it bearable.
Your hands move, but your heart refuses to believe what your eyes are seeing.
I pray that no mother, from this day forward, ever feels the pain I feel today.
Not tomorrow, not ten years from now, not ever.
Because this pain does not fade—it settles into the bones and learns your name.
Tonight comes with a heavy heart.
Tonight I lost my youngest daughter, Kali, to an asthma attack.
Tonight the world changed in a way it can never undo.
Kali was my twin.
My everything.
Always us.
From your beginning all the way to my end, it was always you and me.
Every laugh, every tear, every quiet moment in between.
You were stitched into my life so tightly that I don’t know where I end and you begin.
They say God has it covered.
They say trust Him, lean into Him, let Him carry you.
So here we go, Father—I am trusting You, even though my heart is breaking.
And if my heart fails during this process, let me see her at YOUR gates when I get there.
Please keep her near You until You call me home.
Please let her know I am still her mommy, even from here.
Closing her up felt like betraying every instinct I have ever had as a mother.
Every cell in my body screamed to pull her back, to warm her, to fix it.
But there are moments when love has to surrender to reality, even when it feels cruel.
I watched my baby take her last breath.
I watched the fear in her eyes as she searched for me to fix a world that was closing in on her.
And for the first time in her life, I couldn’t.
I had always been able to make it better.
A kiss, a hospital visit, a breathing treatment, my voice telling her she was okay.
But this time, my arms were not enough to hold the air in her lungs.
Asthma is a word people say lightly.
It’s treated like an inconvenience, a manageable condition, something you “deal with.”
But asthma can kill, and it nearly took my child many times before it finally succeeded.
I tried to explain that to Judge Rhonda K. Forsberg.
I tried to explain how critical Kali’s care was, how fragile her breathing could be.
How every flare-up felt like a ticking clock.
Her father used to get upset with me.
He said I took Kali to the hospital too much.
He worried about the medical bills piling up because she was on his insurance.
I didn’t care.
I didn’t care about bills, numbers, or arguments.
I cared about my baby’s lungs continuing to work.
I chose the ER over silence.
I chose oxygen over convenience.
I chose life, every single time, even when it meant being judged for it.
I knew what could happen if I didn’t act.
I knew asthma doesn’t always give warnings.
I knew one bad attack could be the last.
And now here we are.
The nightmare I spent years trying to outrun finally caught us.
Not because I didn’t fight—but because the system failed to protect her.
Sending my baby home does not mean my journey ends.
It means it begins.
Because I refuse to let Kali become just another statistic.
I am taking her name to the Department of Justice.
I am taking her name to Washington, D.C.
I am taking her name to every system that failed her.
Kali deserved more than survival.
She deserved protection, urgency, and belief.
She deserved a world that treated her condition with the seriousness it demanded.
People talk about “moving on.”
But a mother does not move on from her child.
She moves forward carrying them in a different way.
Grief has a voice, and tonight it is loud.
It breaks into sobs without warning.
It steals breath the way asthma stole hers.
My house feels wrong without her.
Too quiet, too still, too empty in the places she used to fill.
Every corner echoes with who she was.
Kali had a way of grabbing my face with both hands.
She would look straight into my eyes and say, “Mommy, listen.”
And I always did.
Now I am listening in a different way.
I am listening to what her life—and her death—are demanding of me.
I am listening to the responsibility that grief has placed on my shoulders.
I will make sure the world hears her too.
I will speak her name until it forces change.
I will tell her story until systems can no longer look away.
This is not about anger alone.
It is about accountability, awareness, and protection.
It is about making sure another mother never has to close her baby up.
I know 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 minimized.
But I know what I saw.
I know the terror in my daughter’s eyes.
I know how fast the air left her body and how helpless the room became.
Asthma is not just wheezing.
It is panic, suffocation, and time slipping through your fingers.
It is watching your child fight for oxygen like it’s a lifeline.
And when it’s over, it leaves a silence that screams.
A silence that no apology can fill.
A silence that lives with you forever.
I am still her mother.
Death did not change that.
Love did not stop because her heart did.
I will carry her in everything I do.
In every meeting, every letter, every step forward.
Kali will walk with me into rooms she never got to enter herself.
They say grief comes in waves.
Tonight it feels like drowning.
But even drowning people fight to breathe.
And I will fight.
Not because I am strong, but because she deserves it.
Because her life mattered too much to end quietly.
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.
My baby is with God now.
I believe that with every shattered piece of my heart.
But belief does not erase responsibility here on earth.
Until the day I see her again, I will work.
I will speak.
I will push for change with everything I have left.
Kali, Mommy is listening.
I hear you in every breath I take.
And I promise—you will never be forgotten. 🕊️