As “I Lived” by OneRepublic played through the speakers at Kentucky Children’s Hospital, Ella Ferris stood in the hallway shaking, waiting for the moment she had imagined for five years.
Ahead of her was the cancer-free bell, surrounded by nurses, doctors and family members who had walked beside her through every appointment, every scan and every setback since she was 14 years old. Just moments before, an older woman stopped her and offered advice Ella says she will never forget.
“Remember this day for the rest of your life, because I remember the day my son did it, and it was the best day of my life,” the woman told her.
When the music started, Ella opened the door, turned the corner and saw the bell waiting for her.
“I just started crying,” Ella said. “I didn’t think I was going to cry. I was like, you’re not going to cry. You’re not allowed to cry. And I just broke down.”
For Ella, ringing the bell on July 3, 2025, marked the end of a five-year journey that began with what she thought was a routine eye appointment and turned into a life-changing diagnosis.
In July 2020, Ella had just experienced what felt like the biggest disappointment of her life. She had failed to make her high school dance team, something she had dreamed about since childhood. Dance had always been central to her identity, and not making the team left her devastated.
At the same time, she was struggling to remember choreography and losing her balance—symptoms she thought were stress-related, not warning signs of something more serious.
After accidentally sitting on her glasses, she went to the eye doctor for what she expected to be a simple visit. Instead, doctors noticed something unusual and referred her to a neuro-optometrist, who ordered an MRI for the following day.
“I remember waking up on the day of the MRI just thinking everything was going to be OK,” Ella said. “Like, it’s not going to happen to me.”
Later that day, while sitting with her parents, her mother’s phone rang. The room fell silent as they learned doctors had found a tectal plate glioma brain tumor on her brain stem.
“I just remember everything in my body went limp,” Ella said.
Her mother’s reaction was immediate. “I just remember thinking: My daughter’s going to die.”
Ella ran outside crying, overwhelmed by fear and uncertainty. At 14 years old, she did not fully understand what a brain tumor diagnosis meant, but she understood enough to think the worst.
“I was 14. I didn’t have coping skills. I didn’t really know what that meant. I thought I was just going to die,” she said. Her father followed her outside, where she asked him the question that had taken over her mind.
“Dad, am I going to die?” He pulled her close and reassured her. “Of course not. You’re safe with me.”
Before leaving for the hospital, Ella packed quickly. She grabbed picture frames, clothes and her favorite stuffed animal. She hugged her dog and looked back at her house, unsure if she would ever return.
Doctors in the emergency room were shocked by the severity of her condition.
“They were just in awe,” Ella said. “They were like, she should be dead.”
She was diagnosed on July 1, underwent brain surgery on July 3 and was discharged by July 5. Even in recovery, her determination stood out.
“Within three hours of having surgery, I was trying to get up and do things on my own,” she said. “They were like, Ella, you just had brain surgery. Lay down.”
That determination carried her through the next five years of follow-up appointments, uncertainty and recovery. Every appointment came with fear, but she continued moving forward.
When she finally rang the bell, the moment felt surreal.
“I lived,” she said. “I did it. I finally did it.”
For many patients, ringing the bell signals the end of treatment. For Ella, it became the beginning of a new purpose.
Now a student at the University of Kentucky, she returns to Kentucky Children’s Hospital every Friday morning—not as a patient, but as a volunteer. From 9 to 11 a.m., she works with children undergoing treatment, helping them play, laugh and experience moments of normalcy.
“These kids are kids,” Ella said. “Yes, they have cancer, but they’re real people.”
She also serves on DanceBlue committee in family relations, supporting the same pediatric cancer community that once supported her. She said she was initially worried the experience would be too emotional, but instead it brought comfort.
“It’s really brought me more comfort with what I’ve been through,” she said. “I see bell ringings every week. I see kids hear the scariest news of their life, and two years later, I get to see them jumping and playing and dancing and ringing the bell.”
Some days are difficult, she said, especially when she hears stories no child should have to live through. Other days remind her exactly why she came back.
DanceBlue’s motto, “Joy Prevails,” has become something she carries with her daily. She recently bought a sweatshirt that reads “Always Choose Joy,” a phrase she says reflects how she now approaches life. “That’s just what I go by,” she said.
A few months after her own bell-ringing, Ella found herself standing outside another patient’s room. This time, it was someone else preparing for that same life-changing moment.
The girl was alone, and Ella walked in to offer the same words once given to her.
“You’re going to remember this day for the rest of your life, so take it in,” she told her.
Walking away, Ella realized how much her life had come full circle. The teenager who once stood terrified in a hospital hallway, unsure if she would survive, had become someone capable of offering hope to others.
“This is what I’m meant to do,” she said. “This is where I’m meant to be.”