A Letter to the Scared Parent

I love a good social media trend. So when photos from 2016 started filling my feed, I opened my camera roll — curious, nostalgic, ready to smile at how much life has changed.

Instead, I was taken straight back to a year I’d tried hard to forget.

Hospital rooms. A tiny body curled up in pain. Swollen toes and knees. No answers. A little girl facing more than any child should. And a mom — me — terrified, exhausted, and completely unprepared for what came next.

I didn’t know how to advocate for us yet. I didn’t know how to ask the “right” questions, or whether I was even allowed to ask questions at all. I didn’t know who to call, where to turn, or how to explain to friends and family what juvenile arthritis even was. I felt alone, misunderstood, and overwhelmed.

I closed my photos app quickly. Those weren’t memories I wanted to sit with.

But all weekend, I couldn’t shake them.

Then Monday morning came. I opened my email and saw messages from newly diagnosed families — parents standing exactly where I once stood. And suddenly, that scared mom from 2016 came rushing back.

What she didn’t lack was strength or love. She had plenty of that, from an incredible partner and friends who checked in after appointments and showed up when they could. What she didn’t have was a network that truly understood.

She didn’t have Cassie + Friends.

She didn’t have a community of parents who understood the fear, the grief, and the steep learning curve. She didn’t have someone to show her how to give methotrexate injections — how to somehow become a nurse overnight. She didn’t have the tools she didn’t yet realize she needed: understanding JIA subtypes, navigating appointments, explaining a complex diagnosis to grandparents, teachers, and friends.

She didn’t know research was happening. She didn’t know people were fighting for a pain-free future for her child — people who had never even met her family. She didn’t know she wasn’t alone.

The Marissa in those 2016 photos was so scared. She needed a Marissa in 2026.

And now, I get to be that person for so many families, at every stage of this journey.

If you’re learning how to give injections for the first time, I’ve been there. If you’re trying to explain to a school why your child needs accommodations or is missing classes, we’ve done that too. If you’re advocating for medication access, filling out insurance forms, or wondering why everything feels so complicated — I understand.

If you’re asking whether your child can still swim, dance, do theatre, try yoga, or simply be a kid — we get that. If you’re supporting a sibling who doesn’t quite understand why everything has changed, and wondering whether their needs are being seen too — I’m navigating that as well.

This journey is hard. It’s emotional. It can feel isolating.

But it does not have to be lonely.

I am so grateful that a few Google searches and emails led me to an organization that has supported my family for the last ten years — and that the support we can offer families today has grown so much over that time.

At Cassie + Friends, our Family Navigation Program exists so no parent has to stand where I once stood without support. We walk alongside families — answering questions, sharing lived experience, connecting you with resources, and reminding you that you are capable, even on the days you don’t feel like it.

If you’re a scared parent reading this: I see you. I remember you. And I’m here.

If you’re looking for support, please reach out.

You don’t have to do this alone anymore.

— Marissa

You don’t have to navigate this alone.

If your child has been recently diagnosed — or if you’re feeling overwhelmed at any stage of the journey — our Family Navigation Program is here to support you with lived experience, trusted information, and compassionate guidance.