The Light in the Dark

My name is Dot, and I'm fourteen years old. I want to tell you about something that changed my life — something I can barely put into words. But I'm going to try, because it matters more than I ever knew.

When I was only three months old, I was hospitalized. I don't remember it, but my mom does — even now, her voice still catches when she talks about it. During one of the most terrifying times of her life, a big cart full of brand-new toys was wheeled outside of my room by smiling volunteers from a nonprofit called Happy Wheels. Every week, Happy Wheels volunteers push a huge cart filled with new toys or new books to every child's room at all of South Carolina's children's hospitals, and each child picks one favorite item to keep. It sounds so simple, doesn't it? But let me tell you — it is anything but small.

My mom was so touched that she started volunteering and eventually became the Happy Wheels Board President. I grew up loving Happy Wheels and feeling proud that my mom was a part of it. But if I'm being honest, I didn't truly understand it — not in the way I do now.

That understanding came during my recent hospitalizations at Greenville Children's Hospital and Boston Children's Hospital. I was really sick, and I was truly scared. There were days I felt so hopeless I didn't want to talk to anyone, days when the walls felt like they were closing in. When you're a kid who is suddenly trapped in a hospital bed, the world gets dark fast. You feel invisible. You wonder if things will ever feel okay again.

And then — when I needed it most and expected it least — Happy Wheels showed up.

I wish I could let you feel what it's like to see that cart come rolling to your  door when you're at your lowest. It's not about the toy or the book — though picking your favorite is pretty fun. It's about what the gift represents. It's a stranger saying, without words, "You matter. You are not forgotten. There is still joy in this world, and it is here for you, right now, in this very room. And you are seen, cared for, and loved."

That moment cracked something open inside me. Inspired by Happy Wheels and a special family who had been through their own scary health journey, I started thinking: if a small, unexpected gift could mean so much to me, maybe I could be that gift for someone else — even from my hospital bed.

So I started giving — with whatever I had, from wherever I was. Snacks for the nurses who held my hand and wiped my tears at three in the morning. A kind word to a visitor in the hallway. A small gift for a fellow patient whose eyes looked just like mine — wide and scared and searching for hope.

And here's what I discovered: giving to others when you yourself are hurting — when you have every reason to give up and give into the fear — is one of the most healing things a person can do. When I stopped focusing on my own pain and started looking for ways to love the people around me, the darkness began to fade. I found purpose in the middle of my pain, and I found something else too — hope.

I was hospitalized at Thanksgiving and before Christmas - my absolute favorite holiday. Lying in that bed, I pondered the greatest gift ever given — the baby Jesus, sent in the most unexpected way, at the most unexpected time, to the most unexpected place. Not in a palace, but in a manger. Not with fanfare, but with quiet, humble love. And to people who felt like they weren't seen and didn't matter. The best gifts always come that way — unexpectedly, quietly, and in the very moments when we need them most.

That is what Happy Wheels does. Week after week, room after room, child after child — a new toy, a new book, a smile, a reminder that someone cares and that they are loved. I am living proof that one simple gift, given at the right moment, can change a child's entire perspective and world. It changed mine.

Today is Midlands Gives, and I am trying to raise just $1,000 for Happy Wheels so that children who are lying in bed right now, scared and alone, wondering if anyone remembers them, can be assured that they are loved beyond measure.

So please — from the bottom of my fourteen-year-old heart — help me help Happy Wheels spread hope and joy in the most unexpected way of all. Help us deliver the small but huge gift. Because somewhere in South Carolina tonight, there is a child in a hospital bed who needs to know that the light is still there.

Won't you be that light?

With love, gratitude, and wonder,

Dot