A girl who is surviving

The story begins in the sun-soaked state of Florida, where eleven-year-old Elizabeth Guzman lived with the people she loved most. To everyone who knew her, she was simply Liz. Liz lived in a household that was anything but ordinary. Her mother, Heather, was the heart of the family—strong-willed, protective, and endlessly devoted to her children. Her father, Mason, was outspoken and often sarcastic, always ready with a joke no matter how inappropriate it might have been. Liz also had an older sister, Olivia, who was twenty years old. Despite their age difference, the two shared an unbreakable bond. There was also Braxton, Olivia's four-year-old son. Although he was technically Liz's nephew, titles never mattered much in their family. To Liz, Braxton wasn't a nephew at all—he was her little brother, her best friend, and one of the brightest parts of her life. Their family communicated differently than most. They joked loudly, teased relentlessly, and often used language that would shock outsiders. Yet beneath the crude humor and constant banter was something many families lacked: genuine closeness. They loved one another fiercely. No matter what disagreements arose, they always found their way back to each other. For years, Liz believed nothing could ever tear them apart. She had no way of knowing that everything she loved was about to be shattered. --- July 20, 2021, began like any other summer morning. The Florida heat had already begun creeping through the windows when my mother and I woke up. We had an important appointment scheduled that day—one that neither of us fully understood the significance of at the time. Over the previous several months, people had noticed changes in my behavior. I had become quieter, more withdrawn, and increasingly anxious. As a result, my mother had scheduled an appointment with a specialist to determine whether something was wrong. As we entered the medical office, the smell of disinfectant filled the air. The waiting room was unusually quiet except for the occasional rustling of paperwork and distant conversations from behind closed doors. A nurse approached me carrying a clipboard. "Here, sweetheart," she said. "I need you to fill these out." I stared at the papers before looking up at my mother. "Why are they giving this to me?" I asked. "Aren't you supposed to fill this stuff out?" My mother glanced at the forms. "No," she replied gently. "These questions are about how you feel. Only you can answer them." Reluctantly, I took the clipboard and began working through the questionnaire. The questions felt strange. Do you often feel sad? Do you worry excessively? Do you feel nervous around others? I wasn't sure how to answer. Some days I felt completely normal. Other days, I couldn't explain what was wrong. Eventually, I handed the paperwork back to the nurse. A few moments later, a cheerful woman opened the door. "Hi, Liz," she called. "My name is Zoe. Come on back with your mom." My stomach immediately twisted into knots. I followed her down a narrow hallway and into a small examination room. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as my mother and I sat waiting. Every second felt longer than the last. My hands trembled in my lap. What if something was seriously wrong with me? What if they found something nobody could fix? The door eventually opened. A woman wearing a white coat entered with a warm smile. "Hello," she said. "I'm Dr. Chloe. You must be Liz." I nodded nervously. After introducing herself, she turned toward my mother. "Has Liz ever shown signs of depression or anxiety before?" The question caught me completely off guard. Depression? Anxiety? I had heard those words before, but I didn't truly understand what they meant. My mother shook her head. "No." Dr. Chloe looked down at the paperwork I had completed before returning her attention to us. After a brief pause, she spoke carefully. "Based on the information provided today, I believe Liz may be experiencing mild depression and significant anxiety." The words seemed to echo throughout the room. I stared at her. My mother stared at her. Neither of us knew exactly what to say. The appointment concluded shortly afterward, and we walked silently back to the car. Once we were seated, my mother turned toward me. "Liz," she said softly, "are you depressed? Are you sad about something? Is there anything you need to tell me?" I looked out the window. "No." At the time, I genuinely believed that answer. I had no idea that within a month, depression and anxiety would become the least of my worries. Because soon, something far worse was coming. A month later, illness swept through our home like a storm. One by one, family members began getting sick. At first, we assumed it was a common virus. Then the symptoms worsened. My mother and I became so weak that simply standing felt impossible. Walking across a room required more energy than either of us possessed. We barely ate. We barely slept. One evening, my father finally took me to the hospital. After several tests, the doctors delivered the news. I had COVID-19. Fear immediately settled over us. At the time, the virus still carried an overwhelming sense of uncertainty. Stories filled the news every day. People were dying. Families were losing loved ones. When I returned home, I looked at my mother. "We probably all have it." Even then, despite how terrible she felt, she refused to admit how sick she really was. "I'm fine," she insisted. "I'm getting better." Everyone knew she wasn't. But Heather Guzman had been raised to endure pain in silence. Admitting weakness wasn't something she knew how to do. That night, my mother and I slept on the couch because neither of us had the strength to climb the stairs. By morning, things had become even worse. And my mother's condition was deteriorating faster than mine.