"She Can’t Cry."
In support of
Mighty Millie
View Support Registry
Mighty Millie
She Can’t Cry. She Can’t Smile. But She’s Still Fighting.
It’s late. My shift is quiet. My thoughts aren’t.
I’m lying here, waiting for the tones to drop, thinking about my daughter. Because I always am.
Her name is Millie.
She’s my youngest daughter.
Most of you know her—or know about her—one way or another.
Or maybe this is the first time you’re hearing her story.
Either way, thank you for reading.
Millie is 18 months old.
She was born at just 28 weeks after a massive brain bleed—before she ever took a breath.
I was there when they rushed her mom in for an emergency c-section.
I was there when Millie entered the world—silent, fragile, hooked up to more wires than I could count.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t move.
She didn’t get a gentle start.
But she’s been fighting every single day since.
She’s been diagnosed with:
— Cerebral Palsy
— Epilepsy
— Temperature instability
— Vision impairment
— Global developmental delays
— Severe feeding issues (she eats mostly through a G-tube)
She can’t sit.
She can’t crawl.
She can’t roll over.
She can’t hold her head up.
She doesn’t smile.
She doesn’t cry.
She doesn’t show emotion.
She barely opens her eyes.
In 18 months, she’s looked at me just a few times.
And I remember every single one.
Because in that brief second—I know she’s in there.
And I’d give anything to see her come back to us more.
People say “that must be the hardest part.”
It’s not.
All of it is hard.
It’s hard not knowing if she’s in pain.
It’s hard never hearing her cry.
It’s hard never seeing her smile.
It’s hard watching your child go through life without being able to tell you what hurts—or if anything even feels good.
It’s hard watching her mom carry the weight of full-time care without ever getting to just be “mom.”
It’s hard watching your other kids grow up too fast—
learning patience, gentleness, and how to love a sister whose needs are different…
It’s hard lying awake at night wondering if she knows she’s loved.
But she is.
She’s so loved.
Her mom is her lifeline—her around-the-clock nurse, therapist, and safe place.
Her four siblings love her with a tenderness most adults never learn.
And me—I do what I can.
When I’m not home, I’m working long shifts or in class trying to provide.
When I am home, I try to be present. But I’m tired, “trying to keep the wolves away” I’m spread thin. And I often think can I do more?
We do everything we can.
She sees therapists. Nurses. Specialists.
She uses equipment just to stretch or breathe or sit.
The things most people take for granted—she fights for.
She doesn’t get to laugh.
She doesn’t get to play.
She doesn’t get the kind of life other kids do.
Not yet.
But she’s still here.
Still breathing.
Still fighting—in her own quiet, powerful way.
We’re trying to raise money for stem cell therapy.
It’s not a cure.
It’s not guaranteed.
But it’s a chance.
A shot at giving her more than just survival.
A chance at connection.
At progress.
At comfort.
At a smile.
And I know—everyone’s going through something.
I know I’m not the only one hurting. I know I’m not unique.
But she is.
Millie is.
And she’s changed more lives than she’ll ever understand.
She’s touched people who’ve never even met her.
And she continues to teach us what strength looks like every single day.
If you’ve made it this far—thank you.
If you’ve prayed for Millie, shared her story, or simply thought about her—thank you.
We don’t take your kindness for granted.
We don’t expect anything.
We’re just here… still loving her. Still showing up. Still holding on.
She’s still here.
Still loved.
Still fighting.
And so are we.
– Tyler (Millie’s Dad)
Comments
Jolie Millar
Sweet little Millie may not cry, or smile (although I’ve “felt” her smile on multiple occasions) but, she is connected to God. She hears His voice (when we can’t) she feels His touch against her cheek (when we can’t), she is loved beyond measure and has the most awesome family anyone could wish for. They are loving, attentive, giving, patient, and kind. If God didn’t protect Millie’s sweet little cheeks, there would be marks on them from all the kisses she receives throughout the day…all day…every day. Kisses from mom, dad, her brother, her sisters, her grandparents, family, friends, nurses, and anyone else nearby. It is impossible not to kiss her. She has a sweet way of pulling you in. I’ve experienced it, I’ve seen it, and it is beautiful. She is truly loved.
When Millie hears a sound or a voice, she opens her eyes to let you know she is with you and seems to say, please keep talking. I hear you and I want to hear more. You can feel her excitement even if it is subtle. I cherish my time with her, and long for our next visit. I miss her and think about her everyday.
I am excited for her Stem Cell Therapy. What a blessing to have this opportunity to heal herself, improve her well being and quality of life. A true gift from God…God’s awesome!!!
Kristi Hancock