I shuffled through my phone, scrolling through the pictures his parents had texted me.
In every single one, he was smiling.
Not just a polite grin or a small smirk — but wide, uninhibited, full-of-life smiles, the kind that light up an entire room and make you feel like everything might just be okay in the world.
Three-year-old Bowen Askew is that kind of child — my kind of toddler.
From Dallas, Georgia, Bowen is known for his laughter that fills the air like sunshine.
He loves hard, he feels deeply, and even at his young age, he seems to understand what it means to be blessed.
He adores Peppa Pig, plays Yahtzee (even if he doesn’t quite get how the scoring works yet), builds towers out of Magna Blocks, and zips around on his little scooter like he’s chasing the wind itself.
He loves his parents — Josh and Kellie — and his big brothers, Davis and Cooper.
And they love him with a fierceness that words can’t capture.
Together, they’ve stood by Bowen through what has become the greatest fight of his young life.
It began just a few months ago, in June of 2025, when something changed.
Bowen, once so full of energy, began to grow tired.
He wasn’t the same bouncing ball of joy; instead, he became lethargic, weak, distant.
Kellie, a NICU nurse who’s seen enough to know when something’s wrong, felt her heart sink.
His pulse was faint — too faint.
Without hesitation, they rushed to Children’s Health Care of Atlanta.
The news came faster than anyone was ready for.
Doctors had found a large brain tumor.
The diagnosis — Choroid Plexus Carcinoma (CPC) — was something no parent ever expects to hear.
It’s rare.
Aggressive.
Devastating.
Only one percent of all brain tumors in the world are CPC.
For most, it’s a medical term that never crosses their vocabulary.
For the Askew family, it became a word that would change their lives forever.
Bowen was scheduled for emergency surgery.
Nine hours.
Nine long, agonizing hours that felt like eternity for his parents sitting in the waiting room.
“I lost it,” Josh told me later, his voice trembling. “I thought we might lose him.”
But little Bowen — brave, unyielding Bowen — made it through.
When he opened his eyes in the PICU, weak but alive, there it was again — that smile.
That same big, bright, radiant smile that refused to fade, no matter how dark the night had been.
He stayed in the PICU for a week, his parents by his side every second.
When he finally went home, it was a small victory, a breath of relief in a sea of uncertainty.
But just two days later, Bowen was back in the hospital.
An infection had formed inside his skull.
Doctors had to remove part of his skull and start him on heavy antibiotics.
Most adults would struggle to endure that.
Bowen? He still found ways to laugh.
He played with toy cars on his hospital bed, giggling at the nurses, charming everyone who walked by.
His spirit was untouched.
A few weeks later, the family made another trip — this time to St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital in Memphis, Tennessee.
There, doctors offered a glimmer of hope.
“Doctors gave Bowen a better chance of survival,” Josh said quietly.
He began chemotherapy, but thankfully, avoided radiation.
Still, the road was far from easy.
They are now in theirfourth month of hospitalization at St. Jude.
“Bowen is nearing the end of his third chemotherapy cycle,” Kellie told me.
Her voice carried both pride and exhaustion.
“We had hoped to start his fourth cycle next week, but after multiple transfusions, we need to see his bone marrow start working better. Otherwise, we’ll have to postpone until his numbers recover.”
Each cycle was harder than the last — the nausea, the fatigue, the uncertainty.
Three cycles down.
Three more to go.
And yet through it all, Bowen’s optimism never faltered.
It was as if his smile had become medicine for everyone else.
“Bowen’s radiant smiles and playful personality have earned him the sweetest reputation with friends, doctors, and nurses here at St. Jude,” Kellie said.
He has that rare light — the kind that heals others, even as he battles his own pain.
Nurses often stop by his room just to see him giggle.
He plays peek-a-boo behind his IV pole, proudly shows off his stickers after blood draws, and insists that Peppa Pig keeps him company during treatment.
His laughter fills the hallways, a sound that reminds everyone why they fight so hard.
Josh and Kellie have learned to live one day at a time.
“This is not the journey we expected to face,” Kellie admitted, tears glistening in her eyes.
“But we know it has a purpose. And so far, we’re finding that it encourages others to find strength and happiness even in the hardest circumstances.”
There’s no telling exactly when Bowen and his family will return home to Paulding County, Georgia.
The doctors will decide when it’s safe — when his immune system is strong enough, when his body can handle the outside world again.
Until then, home is wherever they are together — even if it’s a hospital room filled with beeping monitors and the soft hum of machines.
At night, Josh reads stories aloud to Bowen while Kellie hums lullabies softly, the way only a mother can.
Sometimes, Bowen falls asleep holding his favorite toy — a tiny scooter replica.
It’s a reminder of the life waiting for him beyond these walls.
Back home, his brothers Davis and Cooper keep his toys ready.
They send him drawings, cards, and funny videos, promising to race scooters again soon.
The family’s faith holds them together.
They pray, they laugh, they cry — but they never stop believing that Bowen’s story is still being written, one miracle at a time.
And when that day comes — when Bowen finally returns home — the celebration will be more than just about finishing treatment.
It’ll be about survival.
About courage.
About a little boy who faced one of life’s fiercest storms and came out still smiling.
He’ll be reunited with his Peppa Pig episodes, his Yahtzee dice, his Magna blocks, and his scooters waiting by the porch.
And he’ll race across the driveway with that same infectious laughter that has carried his family through the darkest of nights.
One thing is for certain — his smile will shine brighter than ever before.
Because Bowen Askew isn’t just another child in the hospital.
He’s proof that even in pain, joy can still bloom.
That courage can come in small bodies with big hearts.
That sometimes, the smallest warriors teach us the greatest lessons about love, resilience, and hope.
And that’s my kind of toddler.
Nash Keen: The World’s Most Premature Baby Who Defied the Odds.1885
They call him the world’s most premature baby.
It’s a title no parent ever dreams of their child earning.
Yet for Nash Keen, it is a badge of courage, a reminder of the impossible odds he faced and the miracle he became.
Nash was born at just 21 weeks of pregnancy.
Barely halfway through what should have been nine months of safety in his mother’s womb, he came rushing into the world 133 days ahead of schedule.
