Restore Hope and Happiness to Birdie's Childhood

Hi there,

My name is Brenna Sanchez and I come to you with a heavy heart and an ask for support.

When she was born, my daughter, Birdie, was the happiest person I’d ever met. She’s almost seven now, and I haven’t seen her truly happy in years.

I’ve spent my life doing hard things. If you know me, you know that I’m tough, independent, persistent. So it seemed a natural next step to me — single, “getting up there” in age and enmeshed in my career — to become a single mother by choice. I’ve done hard things, I thought. I can do this.

After a difficult pregnancy, 40-hour labor and emergency C-section, she was here.

In the hospital, one of the nurses told me that newborns sleep well the first night, because they’re exhausted. The second night, the nurse said, my baby would be awake and crying — she needed to process everything she’d just been through to get here. This was the first time I’d considered babies as more than pink blobs, but sentient beings. The nurse told me to support and comfort her. “I know it’s hard,” I said, as she cried through that second night. “I’m right here. I’ll always be here.” Our connection was strong, deep and true.

The pandemic brought some personal and career changes that rocked our world. I was grateful for the support of a stellar online mom community. But being alone, with a toddler, during the pandemic, was … impossible. Every parent during that time learned just how long 24 hours can be.

One year into the pandemic, during the spring of 2021, Birdie started having truly epic meltdowns. She was 3½, and it felt like a phase, so I rolled with it.

But the meltdowns became longer and more intense. Physical. Violent. They look more like panic attacks. For the past three years, every morning, and sometimes several times per day, some trigger, generally around stress or transition, sends her into a full-body episode that can last more than an hour. At my best, I spend that time trying to keep us both safe, assuring her that “I’m right here. I’ll always be here.” When it passes, she climbs into my lap, and just breaks down sobbing, inconsolable. She feels helpless. We both do.

She has seen a revolving door of doctors and therapists. Our insurance, while blessedly comprehensive, offers a broken stable of providers, with high turnover and long scheduling waits. They have provided several diagnoses — behavioral, developmental, neurological. But no meaningful intervention or support, or even understanding.

In three years of relentless advocacy, every new lead comes with a gantlet of research, acronyms, paperwork, phone calls, dead ends, insurance glitches and long, painful intake calls. It’s all-consuming. I’ve been unable to work full time, let alone rebuild my career. I’ve gone deep into debt, just trying to keep the wolf from the door.

After extensive research, I've finally found a psychotherapist and a developmental pediatrician who seem really promising. Both specialize in children with neurological differences. While they’re willing to work with me, they don’t take insurance. For parents of special needs children, it’s a painful place to be.

I feel like I don’t have the bandwidth to be human, let alone properly love and nourish this child of mine. I just see darkness eclipsing her childhood.

The system has failed her. But I can’t. We can’t.

Please consider contributing whatever you can to assist us in covering these ongoing expenses. Every donation, no matter how small, brings hope and possibility, which is everything. It’s taking action, instead of helplessly, hopelessly navigating bureaucracy, while her one wild and precious childhood passes her by.

Thank you for your kindness, compassion and support during this challenging journey.

With love and so much gratitude,

Brenna