11/03/2026
It’s been a little quiet here, and I apologize. There are definite seasons to grief, and for whatever reason, this fall has sent me back to some darker days.
There’s no rhyme or reason to it.
It’s hearing Miley Cyrus sing The Climb on the drive home from work, and suddenly the tears come. In an instant, I’m standing outside McKenna’s hospital room, trying to pull myself together before walking back in after hearing her diagnosis.
It’s watching families we know navigate this monster, watching their children fight while parents try desperately to preserve some sense of a normal childhood. And suddenly, I’m consumed by the guilt of telling McKenna, “We’re trying to make you feel better,” instead of telling her she was dying. We wanted so badly for her to find moments of joy for as long as she could.
It’s waking in the middle of the night with the agony of remembering how she lost her abilities, one by one, and the helplessness of knowing there was nothing we could do to stop it.
It’s feeling the constant need to do more…to make the foundation stronger, fund more research, and be more involved. But also knowing that work and the responsibility of providing benefits for our family sometimes limit what I can give.
The trauma of childhood cancer doesn’t follow a timeline. It doesn’t disappear when your child is declared NED or, in our case, when they pass away. The effects are life-changing for everyone involved. The ripple effects create waves that continue to rock your boat for the rest of your life.
I share all of this not for sympathy, but to let you know where I’ve been and that I’m fighting to find my way back.
Because our kids need us now more than ever. They need us to tell their stories, fight for research funding, and give them (and their families) something that every child deserves…HOPE for a future.
So please stay with us on this journey, even during the quiet seasons. Even when you don’t hear from us as often as you’d like.
You are making a difference. More than you know. ❤️