For those of you who don’t know me, hi, I’m Emma.
 I’m lucky enough to call Melissa (“Missy”) Pullon my mom.

For those who don’t know our story, it goes a little like this: shortly after my 11th birthday, my world stopped. My mom collapsed from a grand mal seizure, and just hours later, we got the news. A brain tumor.

That diagnosis turned our world upside down. After a full craniotomy, I watched my mom fight harder than I’ve ever seen anyone fight. She relearned how to talk. She relearned how to walk. I sat next to her, teaching her how to blow kisses and pick beads out of Play-Doh. She fought to be the mom my brother Austin and I needed. And boy, did she kick some ass (sorry, Mom).

After recovering, life seemed to settle back into a beautiful rhythm. She married the most wonderful man, and soon after, they adopted my little brother Mercer. But in the chaos of COVID, our world stopped again. The tumor was back.

The good news? Mom wasn’t done fighting. So she did what she does best. Alone in a hospital room, she fought for my two brothers and me. And again, she kicked that same amount of ass (okay, I’m done now, Mom, promise).

Recovery looked different this time. The surgery and subsequent seizures left her with hemiparesis on her left side, and while it never fully came back, she still found ways to walk, dance, do the splits, and yes, occasionally fall, always laughing as she got back up.

But over time, her right side has taken on more and more, trying to compensate for what her left side lost. Now, six years later, that right side has been pushed beyond its limits. It’s been damaged to the point where it requires reconstruction, and even then, it won’t be in a way that will allow her to walk again.

Last month, we opened a new chapter in her story: a wheelchair. It was hard news, shocking and scary, but she’s called it a blessing. She says it gives her a new perspective to serve her friends with disabilities at YoungLife, one that connects her even more deeply with them.

The best part? Insurance is covering what she affectionately calls the Lamborghini of wheelchairs. But as she says, her new Lambo can’t exactly hit 70 MPH on the 101. She needs a transit van, something that will allow her to keep living fully, serving others, and doing what she loves.

That’s why I’m here. I’m asking our friends and family to help make that possible, a chance for my mom to keep showing up for others the way she always has. Whatever you can give, whether it’s a donation, a prayer, or a hug, we’re deeply grateful.

My mom has the biggest servant’s heart. She’s faced life’s hardest chapters with courage, humor, and grace, and she’s not done serving yet.