Liberty’s Light — The Girl Who Danced Through the Storm
There are souls who walk through life as if they were made of sunlight — glowing, warm, impossible to forget.
Liberty “Libbie” Annalyce Ashworth was one of those rare souls.
On January 4, 2025, just two days before her 19th birthday, she gained her angel wings.
But in her short time here, Libbie lived more fully, more fearlessly, and more beautifully than most do in a lifetime.
When It All Began
Libbie was still a child when the first signs appeared.
In sixth grade, she began to feel unwell — her energy fading, her appetite slipping away, pain creeping into her back.
Doctors couldn’t find answers.
They said it was normal, just growing pains, stress, or hormones.
But deep down, her family knew something wasn’t right.
By the time she reached high school, the symptoms became impossible to ignore.
There was blood in her stool — not once, but again and again.
Her parents took her to specialist after specialist, desperate for someone to listen.
But each time, the answer was the same:“It’s probably nothing. Teen girls often have stomach issues.”
It wasn’t nothing.
One night, the pain became unbearable — sharp, deep, and relentless.
Her parents rushed her to the hospital.
There, after years of uncertainty and dismissal, came the words that changed everything:
Stage 4 colon cancer.
The World Stopped, But She Didn’t
The diagnosis was devastating — aggressive, advanced, and rare for someone so young.
But even in that moment, Libbie’s spirit didn’t break.
She took a deep breath, looked at her parents, and said softly, “Okay. Then let’s fight.”
And she did.
Through chemotherapy, surgeries, endless hospital stays, and days when her body trembled with exhaustion, she never lost her light.
She faced pain with grace, fear with faith, and uncertainty with hope.
Her nurses called her “the smiling fighter.”
Her doctors marveled at her strength.
Her friends said that even when she was too weak to stand, she’d still find a way to make them laugh.
A Dreamer, A Dancer, A Teacher at Heart
Long before cancer entered her life, Libbie had dreams — big, bright dreams.
She wanted to become an elementary school teacher, to guide children with the same kindness and patience she’d always shown others.
After graduating high school, she pursued her passion for education, majoring in elementary education at university.
She loved her classes, loved learning how to connect with kids, and loved imagining the day she’d have a classroom of her own — walls lined with drawings, books stacked high, laughter filling the air.
But Libbie wasn’t just a scholar.
She was an artist.
A dancer.
A performer whose movements spoke what words could not.
She joined her university’s dance team, and despite treatments, fatigue, and pain, she refused to give up the art that made her soul feel free.
When the music played, her body came alive — graceful, fearless, strong.
Even on her hardest days, she’d say, “If I can still dance, then I can still fight.”
Every performance was more than choreography.
It was a declaration: that beauty could exist alongside pain, that strength could coexist with vulnerability, and that hope could live even in the shadow of fear.
Her Light, Her Legacy
Libbie had a way of making everyone feel seen.
Her smile was magnetic — the kind that warmed the coldest hearts.
Her laughter, bright and contagious, could chase away even the darkest moods.
She was the friend who remembered birthdays, who sent good-luck messages before exams, who hugged you just a little longer when you needed it most.
People described her eyes — a dazzling blue, deep like the ocean — as “windows to her soul.”
They reflected everything she was: kind, curious, and full of life.
Even in her final months, Libbie continued to inspire those around her.
She spoke openly about her journey, raising awareness for colon cancer in young people, determined to make sure no one else’s symptoms would be ignored.
She shared her story not out of pity, but out of purpose.
“If my pain can help someone else find answers sooner,” she once said, “then it’s worth it.”
The Day Heaven Gained a Dancer
On January 4th, 2025, surrounded by love, Libbie’s fight came to an end — but her spirit soared higher than ever.
Her parents held her hands, whispering prayers through tears.
Her room was filled with photos, soft lights, and the faint echo of her favorite music.
There was peace — not in the loss, but in knowing that she had lived exactly as she had always wanted: brave, joyful, and full of love.
Friends, classmates, and community members gathered in the days that followed, sharing stories of how Libbie had changed their lives.
Teachers spoke of her dedication.
Teammates remembered her laughter during practice breaks.
Children from the schools where she volunteered drew pictures of her — their “Miss Libbie,” who taught them kindness just by being herself.
A Love That Lives Beyond Time
Libbie’s journey was not defined by cancer — it was defined by how she lived through it.
With faith.
With laughter.
With the unshakable belief that every day, no matter how hard, was still a gift.
Her family carries her light with them — in the way they speak her name, in the stories they share, in the sunsets that remind them of her smile.
They say she’s still dancing — only now, her stage is in heaven.
And somewhere above the clouds, she’s twirling freely, blue eyes shining, golden light all around her.
In loving memory of
Liberty “Libbie” Annalyce Ashworth (2006–2025)
A daughter, a dancer, a dreamer, and a teacher at heart.
She fought with courage.
She lived with love.
She will be remembered forever.
Two Percent of Miracles — The Unforgettable Journey of Nightbirde.2906
Nightbirde’s Light — The Song That Never Faded
There are voices that rise above the noise of the world — voices that carry not just melody, but truth.
Jane Kristen Marczewski’s was one of them.
To millions, she was Nightbirde — the fragile girl with a golden smile and a voice that trembled with hope.
But to those who knew her heart, she was something more — a reminder that beauty can bloom even in the darkest night.
The Beginning of a Song
Jane was born with music in her veins.
She wrote her first lyrics before she ever knew the weight of pain, sang her first songs before she knew how much they would one day matter.
Her melodies were simple at first — soft stories about faith, love, and the quiet corners of the soul.
But beneath the softness was strength — a strength she would come to need more than she ever imagined.
In 2017, her world cracked open.
A diagnosis — breast cancer.
The words hung heavy, impossible, like a sentence written in a language no one wants to learn.
She fought.
With grace, with grit, with a faith that glowed even when her body dimmed.
A year later, she was declared cancer-free.
The world seemed bright again.
She dreamed, she wrote, she sang.
She believed she had outrun the storm.
But storms have a way of circling back.
The Return of the Battle
In 2019, the cancer returned.
This time, the doctors said the words no one wants to hear: “Three to six months.”
But Jane was never one to listen to fear.
Instead, she smiled — that radiant, disarming smile — and whispered to the world, “Not yet.”
She poured her pain into poetry, her fear into melody.
And in 2020, once again, the cancer was gone.
Her voice grew stronger.
Her spirit, unshaken.
She began to dream again — not of survival, but of living.
The Audition That Changed Everything
When she walked onto the America’s Got Talent stage in 2021, barefoot and fragile, no one in the audience knew the full story.
Her hair was short, her frame slight — but her eyes burned with life.
“I’m Jane,” she said softly. “I go by Nightbirde.”
Then came the song.
“It’s OK.”
A song she had written in the thick of her struggle — about breaking apart and still believing in the light.
Her voice floated through the room, trembling but fearless.
The lyrics carried the ache of someone who had been to the edge and come back singing.
When she finished, the crowd erupted.
Tears fell.
Simon Cowell — a man not easily moved — pressed the Golden Buzzer.
Confetti rained down like sunlight through rain, and Jane stood in the middle of it, laughing and crying all at once.
For a brief, shining moment, the world saw what she had always been — not a patient, not a statistic, but a miracle in motion.
The Weight Behind the Smile
But behind that viral smile was a body still fighting.
Her cancer had spread — to her lungs, her spine, her liver.
She was told she had only a 2% chance of survival.
And still, she smiled.
Still, she sang.
Still, she told the world:
“Two percent is not zero percent. Two percent is something, and I wish people knew how amazing it is.”
Those words became her anthem — not just for the sick, but for anyone who had ever felt hopeless.
She reminded the world that even the smallest chance, the tiniest flicker, was worth fighting for.
When her health worsened, she stepped away from America’s Got Talent to focus on healing.
But her voice — that beautiful, trembling voice — continued to echo online.
She shared updates from her bed, poems from her heart, laughter from her pain.
Her strength was never loud; it was quiet, constant, and deeply human.
The Final Verse
On February 19, 2022, surrounded by her family, Jane’s song came to its earthly end.
She was just 31 years old.
The world dimmed for a moment — not because her light went out, but because it had shone so brightly.
In her final message, she reminded everyone:
“It’s important that everyone knows that I’m so much more than the bad things that happen to me… You can’t wait until life isn’t hard anymore before you decide to be happy.”
Those words became her legacy — a melody still carried in hearts around the world.
The Legacy Lives On
In the wake of her passing, the Marczewski family created The Nightbirde Memorial Fund, a foundation dedicated to supporting cancer research and helping patients who cannot afford treatment.
Through that work, her song continues — not through microphones or stages, but through every life it touches.
In early March, family and friends gathered in Ohio for her Celebration of Life.
There were flowers, candles, and laughter between tears.
They played her songs — her voice rising once more, clear as sunlight through clouds.
It felt, for a moment, as though she was still there — smiling, barefoot, whispering that it’s okay.
Forever Nightbirde
Jane Marczewski’s story isn’t one of tragedy.
It’s one of defiance, faith, and beauty — of a woman who sang through the storm and taught the world how to find joy, even in pain.
Her body may have surrendered, but her music never will.
Every time someone listens to “It’s OK,” her spirit breathes again — a quiet reminder that even a 2% chance can change the world.
Rest peacefully, Nightbirde.
Your song lives on — and the world is better because you sang it.