Published on: November 30, 2025

Thaen (name changed) was only seventeen when she arrived at Pallium India. Diagnosed with an aggressive brain tumour and tormented by recurrent epileptic seizures, she came seeking comfort, stability, and the compassionate presence of a team that could walk alongside her.

When I was first asked to meet her, I felt an unexpected wave of self-doubt. I questioned whether my skills, empathy, and experience would be enough. But I gathered courage and stepped into that first session.

To my surprise, it unfolded gently — far better than I had imagined. Thaen welcomed me with a soft, unguarded warmth. She herself was unaware of the gravity of her prognosis, as was her family. Over the following days, our sessions continued, forming threads of a delicate connection. Yet each passing day also brought visible signs of her decline. Communicating with her grew increasingly difficult. We tried everything — her phone, scribbled notes, communication apps — but nothing succeeded.

I watched her transition, from a girl who could walk with assistance to someone who could only sit quietly, holding my hand. It felt like witnessing time reverse itself — not a child blooming into life, but a child slowly being carried away from it. The sight was heartbreaking.

Despite her condition, her brightness never faded. She had once been a graceful dancer, full of rhythm and promise. And she possessed a gentleness rare even among adults. As a psychologist, it was my habit to ask every beneficiary how they were feeling. But Thaen would, without fail, ask me first. For a young girl standing so close to the end of life, to show such tenderness and concern for someone else was remarkable.

“You are one of a kind, Thaen,” I told her once, tears welling in my eyes. She smiled.

As her condition worsened, our team eventually had to explain the truth of her diagnosis to the family. They had hoped to shield her from it, but I had always sensed that she carried an ocean of unanswered questions. Slowly, she began asking about death — its process, its meaning, its mystery. I did not always have answers, but I felt deeply that she deserved honesty.

We engaged her in dignity therapy — imprinting her name, her date of birth, and her tiny fingerprints onto a T-shirt of her choice. She was delighted, and for a moment we all shared that joy.

With her family’s permission, we gently told her the truth. In an instant, the fragile trust we had built seemed to crumble. She grew angry — at us, at her parents, at the world. Those moments haunted me for nights. Yet beneath the ache, a certainty remained: we had given her the truth she longed for, the truth she deserved. Not all of her questions found answers — and perhaps some never could — but the ones that mattered did.

Thaen fought with a resilience far beyond her years. Months passed. Then one day, her family called to tell us she had breathed her last — her suffering had finally eased.

For a child to walk such a difficult, unforgiving path at such a young age… witnessing it was something I can only describe as ‘immensely poignant’. It reshaped my understanding of pain, courage, and grace.

And in that moment, I understood something profound: Death is not always a tragedy.
For some, it is the end of suffering — and the beginning of a legacy.

Thaen was one of those rare souls.
A fighter.
A light.
An enduring legacy.

Her story remains with me — a quiet reminder that even the briefest life can illuminate the world with extraordinary tenderness.

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