There are moments in life that split everything into a before and an after.
For Anna’s family, that moment came the day the doctors said the words no parent should ever hear —acute myeloid leukemia.

Anna was nine years old — a bright, smiling girl who lived for football, laughter, and the simple joys of being a child. She played forWashington United FC, where her teammates called her “Lightning Anna” because she was fast, fearless, and always the first to run toward the ball. Her ponytail bounced as she sprinted across the field, her laughter echoing in the air.

At home, she was the sunshine of the family — the kind of child who sang in the morning, who hugged tightly, who found joy in everything. Her parents often said she had “an old soul,” wise beyond her years yet full of mischief.

But everything changed one spring afternoon.

The First Signs

It began with what seemed like a cold. Anna was tired, pale, and not quite herself. She started missing practices, saying she felt dizzy or that her legs ached. Her coach noticed her slowing down during drills — something unheard of for the energetic girl who never wanted to stop playing.

Her parents thought it was a virus. But when the bruises started appearing — dark, unexplained patches on her legs and arms — and when Anna began to bleed easily from small cuts, they knew something was wrong.

The hospital visit that followed would turn their world upside down.

After blood tests, scans, and anxious waiting, the doctor walked in, his expression heavy. He sat down quietly and said the words that no one is ever prepared to hear:

“Anna has acute myeloid leukemia — AML. It’s a rare and aggressive form of blood cancer.”

Her mother’s heart shattered in that instant. Her father felt the room spin. They looked at their little girl — their vibrant, laughing Anna — and could not comprehend how such darkness could invade something so full of life.

The Battle Begins

Treatment began immediately. Within days, Anna was admitted to the children’s oncology unit. The walls were painted bright colors, covered with drawings and stars, but no amount of color could hide the fear that hung in the air.

Anna was scared, but she tried not to show it. On her first night, she asked her mom, “Will I still be able to play football when I get better?” Her mother smiled through tears and whispered, “Of course, my love. You’ll run even faster.”

Chemo started the next morning — harsh, relentless, unforgiving. The medicines that were supposed to save her also stole her hair, her energy, her appetite. The girl who used to chase balls across the field now lay in a hospital bed, surrounded by tubes and monitors.

Still, she smiled.

Every morning, nurses would find drawings by her bedside — hearts, stars, her team logo, and stick figures playing soccer. “This is me,” she’d say, pointing to the one in the middle. “I’m still playing, even from here.”

Hope in Small Moments

Weeks turned into months.
Between treatments, Anna made friends with other children in the ward. She became like a big sister to the younger ones — sharing stickers, telling jokes, and showing them the bracelets her teammates had made for her.

Her team, Washington United FC, became her biggest cheerleaders. They sent her videos before every match, shouting, “This one’s for you, Anna!” They wore orange ribbons — the color for leukemia awareness — on their jerseys.

When she was well enough, Anna would watch her team’s games on her tablet, her eyes lighting up every time she saw her number — 9 — on the screen. “That’s my lucky number,” she’d whisper proudly.

The hospital staff adored her. They called her “Coach Anna” because she would encourage everyone — doctors, nurses, and even parents — to stay positive. “We’re all on the same team,” she’d say. “We just have to keep playing.”

The Hard Days

But AML is a cruel opponent. It fights back even when you think you’re winning.

Some days, Anna was too weak to sit up. The treatments left her nauseous, trembling, and in pain. She lost weight, her skin turned pale, and her once-bright eyes dimmed with exhaustion.

Her mother would sit beside her, holding her hand, whispering stories about their next summer vacation, about the beaches they would visit, about the day Anna would lace up her cleats again.

Sometimes Anna would nod, other times she’d simply close her eyes and whisper, “One day.”

The nights were the hardest — long hours of beeping machines, quiet tears, and silent prayers. Her father would stay awake, counting each breath, terrified of what might happen if he closed his eyes.

But every morning, when the sun rose, Anna would find a way to smile. “We made it another day,” she’d say softly.

A Ray of Light

After months of chemotherapy, doctors announced that Anna was in remission. It was a fragile, beautiful word — remission. Her family cried tears of joy. Her teammates celebrated, sending her a jersey signed by every player, with “Never Give Up” written in big letters across the front.

For a few precious months, life felt normal again. Anna went home. Her hair began to grow back, soft and fuzzy. She returned to school part-time, her classmates cheering when she walked through the door. She even went to one of her team’s games, sitting on the sidelines wrapped in a blanket, cheering louder than anyone.

“Look out, I’m coming back soon!” she shouted, grinning.

Her laughter was music to everyone’s ears.

When the Storm Returned

But AML is relentless. One day, during a routine check-up, her doctor noticed abnormal cells in her blood again. The cancer had returned — stronger, faster, and more aggressive than before.

Her mother felt her knees buckle. Her father couldn’t speak.

Anna listened quietly, then looked at her parents and said, “It’s okay. I beat it once; I can try again.”

She was only nine, but her courage was that of someone far older.

The second round of treatment was even tougher. Her body was weaker now, her immune system fragile. The doctors talked about bone marrow transplants, clinical trials, and experimental treatments. Every option came with risks.

Through it all, Anna never stopped believing. She told her nurses she wanted to be a doctor one day — “so I can make kids feel better like you do.”

The Final Battle

In her last weeks, the hospital room became her world — covered in drawings, cards, and messages from friends, teammates, and strangers who had heard her story. The walls were filled with hope, even as her body grew tired.

Her teammates came to visit one weekend, standing outside the hospital with banners that said “We love you, Anna”. They couldn’t go inside because of infection risks, but Anna saw them from her window. She pressed her hand to the glass and whispered, “I love you too.”

That evening, her parents sat by her side. The machines hummed softly. The room was filled with the gentle glow of fairy lights she had asked to hang around her bed.

“Are you scared?” her mother asked quietly.

Anna shook her head. “No. I’m just tired. But I’m not giving up. I’m just… resting.”

She fell asleep holding her mother’s hand.

On April 11, 2008, Anna took her last breath. The world outside kept spinning — cars moved, birds sang — but for those who loved her, everything stopped.

The Aftermath

Washington United FC released a statement the next day. It read:

“It is with deep sadness that we share the heartbreaking news of the passing of Anna. Our hearts are broken, and there are no words that can express the pain and sorrow felt by all who knew and loved her. We send our love, strength, and prayers to the family during this unimaginable time. May they find comfort in the memories, the laughter, and the beautiful light that this child brought into the world.”

Over that weekend, every match began with a minute of silence. Players stood in circles on the field, heads bowed, armbands black, hearts heavy. The crowd stood too — parents, children, strangers — united in grief, honoring a girl whose bravery had touched them all.

At one match, the announcer said softly:

“This minute of silence is for Anna, our number 9. She played with courage, laughter, and heart. She will always be part of our team.”

The referee blew the whistle. The silence was absolute. And in that stillness, it felt as though Anna was there — running across the field, smiling, her hair flying behind her.

The Legacy of a Little Fighter

Anna’s family has since dedicated their lives to raising awareness about acute myeloid leukemia and supporting children’s cancer research. They started The Anna’s Light Foundation, helping families facing the same nightmare they once endured.

Each year, Washington United FC holds the “Anna’s Cup”, a youth soccer tournament in her memory. Children wear orange ribbons, and before the games begin, they shout together, “Play with heart — like Anna!”

Her teammates say they still feel her presence. “Sometimes when the sun hits the field just right,” one of them said, “it feels like she’s running with us again.”

Her coach keeps her jersey — number 9 — framed in his office. He often looks at it before every game and whispers, “This one’s for you, kiddo.”

What She Taught the World

Anna’s story is not just about loss. It’s about courage — the kind that shines even in the darkest moments. It’s about the power of community, love, and the unbreakable spirit of a child who refused to be defined by her illness.

She once wrote in her hospital notebook:

“Even if I can’t play football again, I’ll still be part of the team. Because once you love something, it stays in your heart forever.”

Her words now live on — printed on the back of Washington United’s jerseys, reminding every player why they play, and for whom.

Anna may be gone, but her light remains — in the laughter of her teammates, in the strength of her family, and in every child who dares to fight, to dream, and to believe.

Rest in peace, little one.

You will forever be our number 9.
You will forever be our light. 🕊️