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Maktub
Maktub
August 08, 2025 by Katie Travis |Leave a Comment
Written by Daddy…
Our 5-year-old daughter, Eminence, is on Day 23 of 29 straight days of chemo to heal her body of leukemia.
There’s a word that has lived in our hearts for years now.
It’s Arabic.
Maktub.
It means, “It is written.”
Katie first introduced me to it when we started dating.
At first, I didn’t fully understand it. But the more life we lived together — the highs, the losses, the moments that felt divinely timed — the more that word took root.
It stopped feeling like just a phrase. It became a promise.
Maktub: that everything happens for a reason.
That even the broken roads lead somewhere.
That even when life feels upside down, there is still a purpose, a plan, a thread being woven that we cannot yet see.
It became so sacred to us that we gave it to our daughter as her middle name: Eminence Maktub Travis.
Because from the very beginning, Emi was meant to be here.
Written in the stars.
Written in love.
Written in our hearts.
A few weeks before our world turned upside down — before we heard the word leukemia and everything stopped — Katie told me she had a special gift planned for my 50th birthday.
A tattoo.
Not just any tattoo.
The word Maktub.
In Katie’s handwriting.
I felt like a little kid being handed a dream.
Like I was unwrapping a gift I had longed for but never thought I’d receive.
I’d been talking about getting another tattoo for years… and this one would mean everything to me.
Right inner forearm.
Big, bold, 10 inches long.
Something I could see every day.
A reminder to trust — even in the storm.
But then… July 14th happened.
The diagnosis.
The hospital.
The 2½-year treatment plan.
The fear.
The cost.
The weight.
And now? That tattoo feels far away.
Like a dream from another lifetime.
I’ve quietly let it go to hold something much heavier.
Because how could I spend money on myself when our family is trying to survive this?
How could I justify a “want” when we’re calculating medical costs, lost income, and gas for weekly three-hour drives to the hospital?
How could I put ink on my skin when all I want is healing in my daughter’s body?
So, I set it aside.
Because that’s what you do as a parent.
You give.
You sacrifice.
You put yourself last.
And yet… the sadness lingers.
Because that tattoo wasn’t just a want.
It was a piece of my heart.
A piece of our story.
A symbol of who we are — and who we’ve always tried to be.
Maybe one day I’ll still get it.
Maybe someday, when Emi is through the worst of this.
When we’re on the other side, looking back at how far we’ve come.
Maybe then I’ll roll up my sleeve and finally write the word that’s carried us through it all.
Until then, the ink lives in my soul.
And every time I whisper Maktub, I remember…
This story — as painful and unfair as it is — was written.
So is Emi’s strength.
So is Katie’s love.
So is our fight.
And maybe… so is the redemption waiting for us at the end of this battle.
Maktub.
It is written.
Many of you have asked how you can help — and we are so grateful.
The truth is, this 2½-year journey with Emi’s leukemia treatment plan is long and heavy. Between travel, time away from work, medical costs, and simply trying to stay present for her through every step, we’re learning to accept help in ways we never imagined we’d need to.
If you feel led and are in a position to give, we’ve set up a donation page to help ease the financial burden so we can keep our focus where it matters most — on Emi’s healing.
Your support — whether through prayers, donations, or sharing her story — means more than we could ever put into words.
Thank you for being part of Team Emi.
