09/04/2026
A message from JKMF President Gayle:
Johnny would be 18 today.
Eighteen.
I have written about Johnny countless times. I have told his story. I have talked about his courage, his fight, his legacy, and the things we do in his name. But today, I don't want to talk about the foundation. I don't want to talk about cancer. I don't want to talk about statistics or awareness or the work we continue because we lost him.
Today, I just want to talk about my son. My Johnny.
Because before he was a diagnosis, before he was a fighter, before he became a name people know through this foundation, he was simply a boy who was so incredibly, unmistakably Johnny. And he was something special.
He had a light about him. The kind of light you don't fully recognize while you're standing in it because you assume it will always be there. The kind that filled a room without asking for attention. The kind that made people feel better just by being near him.
He was funny. He was stubborn. He was loving. He was mischievous. He was sensitive. He was fiercely himself. He had opinions, a huge heart, and a way of making us laugh that I would give anything in this world to hear one more time.
He was my boy – he IS my boy. My first born, the one that made me a Mom. And I miss him in ways I don't have words for.
I miss the ordinary things most. The things you never think you'll have to live without. His voice. His laugh. The sound of him walking through the house. The little things he said. The way he looked at me. His questionable dance moves. The way he said, “I love you Smother”. The feeling of knowing my son was somewhere in this world and I could reach him.
There is no preparing a mother for the day she has to keep living when her child cannot. And there is no "moving on" from losing your child. You simply learn how to carry an unbearable love in a body that still has to wake up every morning.
So today, on the day my beautiful boy should be turning 18, I am carrying him and all the love he gave so freely with me. And so is John, and so is Madelin.
She misses her brother deeply. She loves him deeply. She carries pieces of him with her, in her memories, in her heart, in the stories she tells, and in all the ways she continues to keep him close. I watch her miss him quietly in her own way, and I watch her love him, and there is something both heartbreaking and beautiful about knowing that Johnny is still such a huge part of who she is.
He is still her brother.
He is still our son.
He is still loved.
He is still missed.
He is still here, in every person he touched, in every memory we refuse to let fade, in every act of kindness done in his name, and in every little piece of light he left behind.
And tonight, as we have done so many nights before, we will hold a candle for Johnny.
Because a candle is a small thing.
But even the smallest light can push back against an enormous darkness.
And we will keep his light burning.
For him.
For us.
For every person who loved him.
For every child still fighting.
For every family who knows this kind of loss.
And because Johnny deserves to be remembered not for the way his story ended, but for the beautiful boy he was while he was here.
Happy 18th birthday, Johnny.
I wish more than anything that I could be watching you blow out 18 candles tonight.
Instead, I'll be holding one for you.
And I will keep holding it for as long as I live.
I love you. I miss you. I am so proud to be your mom. 🕊️🩷🕯️
