Some stories stay with you long after the charts are filed away and the years have passed. Nerlande is one of those stories.

It was 2012 when she arrived at our nutrition center — a little girl, small and fragile beyond what words can adequately describe. She was admitted in critical condition, her tiny body worn down by severe malnutrition. The urgency in the room that day was palpable. Every member of our team knew that without immediate intervention, the outcome could be devastating.

We got to work.

Medication, therapeutic nutrition, hygiene care, and perhaps most importantly — human connection. We talked to her, sat with her, and made sure she never felt alone. Because in many ways, she was. The person who brought Nerlande to us shared that she had no mother and no father waiting at home.

Over the weeks and months that followed, something beautiful happened. The fragile little girl who had arrived barely able to lift her head began to smile. Then laugh. Her strength returned slowly but surely, and with it came the spark that malnutrition had tried so hard to steal from her. She grew healthier, more alive, and full of the kind of energy that reminds you exactly why this work matters.

The day she was well enough to return to her family, we felt a joy that is difficult to put into words. It is a particular kind of happiness that only healthcare workers understand — the quiet, deep satisfaction of watching someone walk out the door that they were carried through not long before.

That was over a decade ago now.

I still think about Nerlande. I do not know where life has taken her, or what kind of young woman she is becoming. But I hold onto the hope that she is out there somewhere — healthy, happy, and thriving. And on the difficult days, when the work feels heavy and the need feels endless, her face comes back to me. A reminder of why we keep going, why we keep our doors open, and why every child who walks through them deserves our very best.