The Question that collapsed America.

After our meetings, calls, and new connections, the plan to get to America felt like it was finally becoming something real. We had support. We had advice. We had direction. And slowly, piece by piece, we started lining up what we needed to make it happen.

We contacted our GP to request a letter supporting travel for medical reasons. It was one of those tasks we thought would be straightforward. We had the information, the specialist recommendations, the reasons behind why we wanted to go. We expected he’d write the letter, wish us luck, and send us on our way.

Instead, he asked a question that split our entire world in half.

“Do you have medical insurance?”

It was simple. Logical. Necessary.
But it hit like a punch to the chest.

There are questions that make your mind race. Questions that turn your stomach. Questions that force you to face something you didn’t want to look at yet.

This was all three.

I knew the answer before I opened my mouth. I’d already called insurance providers when I was pregnant, hoping to get coverage sorted before she was even born. I wanted everything in place to protect her. But every provider turned us away because of her pre-existing condition. At the time, I told myself we’d deal with it later. I didn’t want to accept it, but it was too early to understand the full implications.

Now the implications were staring us in the face.

She wouldn’t qualify. Not then. Not now. Not for international medical cover that would protect us if something went wrong overseas.

The weight of that realisation hit hard. Harder than we expected. Harder than anyone who hasn’t lived something like this could fully understand.

Without insurance, we would be responsible for everything. Every scan. Every cast. Every procedure. Every complication. Every emergency. Every unknown. And when you’re dealing with a child whose medical needs aren’t simple, the risks become enormous.

The dream we had been building carefully, passionately, desperately crumbled in that moment.

We left the appointment in a haze. The drive home felt longer than usual. Every possibility we had imagined for her care overseas suddenly dissolved into risk we couldn’t justify. It wasn’t just disappointing. It was devastating. It felt like losing something important, something we had poured energy into, something we had let ourselves believe in.

We had pictured her in the hands of one of the world’s most respected specialists. We had pictured better outcomes, clearer answers, deeper expertise. We had pictured giving her the absolute best we could reach.

And then, in one five-second question, it was gone.

It’s strange how loss works. Sometimes it’s loud. Sometimes it’s silent. This was the silent kind. It crept in, sat beside us, and stayed. We tried to remind ourselves that we were still doing everything possible. That we hadn’t failed. That circumstances had changed, not our dedication.

But grief doesn’t listen to logic.

We were gutted.

Still, the dream didn’t disappear without leaving something behind. It didn’t break us. Instead, it lit something inside us that hadn’t existed before. If anything, it made us more determined, more educated, and more willing to advocate fiercely for our daughter.

We made a choice:
If we couldn’t get her to the best, we would bring the best to her in whatever way we could.

The money raised didn’t disappear into nothingness. It became something far more practical a fund dedicated solely to supporting her care right here at home. Travel costs. Appointments. Private assessments. Extra therapies. Equipment. The kinds of things that slip through funding cracks and leave families exhausted and financially overwhelmed.

Every cent was recorded. Every cent accounted for. Every cent used with intention and gratitude. And strangely, knowing we could use that support immediately, without waiting for a trip that might never happen, brought its own sense of relief.

Then, almost as if the universe had been waiting for the right moment, Wes stepped into our story.

Our new orthopedic surgeon.

He took over after the first twelve weeks of casting, and from the start, he treated Hannah-Rose with a level of care that made everything hurt a little less. He was gentle but confident. Patient but proactive. He respected her as a person, not just a patient. He noticed her strength. He saw her personality. He treated her like she mattered.

And she does.

He became a steady presence, someone we trusted to guide us through the complexities of her condition. He asked thoughtful questions. He explained things clearly. He didn’t rush us through appointments or dismiss our concerns. Most importantly, he gave us hope again.

Alongside him were the people who had guided us earlier Dr Jean-Claude Theis, Rachel and her family, and Dr Haemish Crawford. Together, they became our circle. Our board of wisdom. Our team. They taught us how to ask for what she needed. How to challenge when something didn’t feel right. How to understand the medical language that once felt impossible to keep up with.

The dream of America felt out of reach, but something else began forming in its place:
A grounded, realistic, sustainable plan for her care here in Aotearoa.

A plan backed by experience, compassion, expertise, and community support.

A plan that didn’t rely on flights, risks, or insurance policies we couldn’t get.

A plan built by people who genuinely cared about her.

Looking back now, we can see that losing the dream wasn’t the end. It was a pivot. A painful one, yes, but a necessary one. It helped us reshape our expectations in a way that felt empowering rather than defeating.

It taught us resilience doesn’t always look like pushing forward. Sometimes resilience is knowing when to change direction.

Sometimes resilience is letting go of what can’t be, so you can focus on what still can.