They told us not to dream too big.
“Just make her comfortable,” they said.
“Focus on quality of life.”
As if dreams didn’t count as part of that.
But comfort wasn’t enough for Mia.
She didn’t want more hospital rooms, soft music, or carefully managed hope.
She wanted to skate again.
I hadn’t seen her blades since she was eight—right before the diagnosis.
ALS in children is rare. They said it would progress slowly.
It didn’t.
By nine, her skates were packed away.
By ten, she needed help walking.
By twelve, her voice started fading.
Now she’s fifteen, bundled under three blankets, her hands curled into soft fists, her voice just above a whisper.
But when I asked what she wanted for her birthday, she didn’t blink.
“I want to hear the ice again.”
So I called in favors.
Pulled every string I could.
Found a rink manager who remembered her tiny jumps and pink helmet.
Rented the entire place after hours.
They told me no outside wheelchairs, no unsupervised skaters, no exceptions.
I said: “Then I’ll take full responsibility.”
And I did.
That night, I lifted her from the van as gently as I could. Her mother wrapped another scarf around her. Her nurse adjusted the footrests.
And then I pushed her chair onto the ice.
At first, it was slow.
Careful.
The blades on the bottom of the chair made soft, familiar sounds.
The kind that once echoed off the boards when she practiced figure eights.
The kind that used to mean freedom.
I skated beside her, guiding the chair in long, slow arcs.
People watched from the bleachers. A few staff members. The rink manager. Her old coach. Some cried quietly.
I just kept skating.
Then, as we neared the far end of the rink, she looked up and whispered:
“Faster, Dad. Like before.”
So I did.
I pushed harder, feeling the wind pick up, watching her hair lift under her hat. The chair glided with grace, even if her body couldn’t anymore.
She tilted her head back, closed her eyes.
For a second—I swear—I saw the old Mia.
The one who used to beg for “just five more minutes.”
The one who danced in circles when she landed her first loop.
The one who fell, cried, then stood up stronger.
We stayed until midnight.
Just us and the sound of blades on ice.
When I finally brought her off, her lips were pale but smiling. She could barely speak. But when I leaned down, she managed five words I’ll carry for the rest of my life:
“I felt like me again.”
They told us not to dream too big. But sometimes, big dreams live in quiet moments. In gliding across frozen memories. In chasing the sound of who you once were.
And sometimes, breaking the rules is the most loving thing you can do.
If this story moved you, share it. For the fighters. The dreamers. The ones who just want to hear the ice again. ❄️⛸️💙
