06/10/2026
Sitting here on the eve of the 7th anniversary of my daughter’s death, I remember that night so clearly.
Death was encroaching, and we knew it. The signs were all over her. We knew that at any moment she could take her last breath.
I left UC Davis that night to go be with my other two girls at the Ronald McDonald House, leaving Louie at the hospital with Avalynn. I remember thinking she might take her last breath that night.
And if I’m completely truthful, part of me secretly hoped she would.
Not because I wanted her to die. I desperately wanted my daughter to live.
But watching your child suffocating on her own body’s fluid, unable to speak, unable to tell you what she needs, brings a desperation I don’t know how to explain unless you’ve lived it.
I wanted life and death in the same breath.
I was begging God to heal her while also begging Him to take the pain away.
Those two prayers collided inside of me, and I didn’t know what to do with either of them.
We had watched our daughter suffer for so long, and now everything was coming to a screeching halt. We knew we were getting incredibly close to saying goodbye forever.
Tomorrow marks a threshold I’ve thought about for a long time.
Seven years here.
Seven years gone.
Avalynn lived seven years on this earth, and tomorrow she will have been gone from it for seven years.
I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t affecting me tonight.
This week has been filled with Avalynn’s Hope Foundation, walking alongside a sick friend, and standing beside friends who lost their son in a horrific accident.
Today, I sat beside those friends in a courtroom as they once again had to tell the story of their son’s death and wait to hear what consequences would come from the life that was taken.
And now tonight, I sit here on the eve of the day we lost our own daughter.
Maybe that’s why everything feels a little closer to the surface tonight.
Sometimes I look at what Avalynn’s Hope has become and realize that it looks like so many different things.
Sometimes it’s financial help.
Sometimes it’s holding someone’s hand.
Sometimes it’s talking with a social worker or helping a family navigate a hospital.
Sometimes it’s going to doctor’s appointments.
Sometimes it’s sitting beside someone who just received news they never wanted to hear.
And sometimes it’s helping a family plan a funeral for a child they never imagined they would have to bury.
We put ourselves out there to stand beside people who are hurting, overwhelmed, scared, or simply need someone in their corner. And sometimes that means putting our own pain aside for a moment to carry some of the weight of the person standing next to us.
Most days are good.
And then there are days like today when it hits differently.
The weight of what we carry reminds me of where we came from and who we have become in the middle of all of this.
Tomorrow, October 6th, as we remember Avalynn and mark seven years without her, I’m asking you to consider giving to Avalynn’s Hope Foundation in her memory.
Your donations allow us to keep walking alongside families just like ours. Families sitting beside hospital beds. Families trying to understand diagnoses. Families struggling financially because everything in their lives suddenly stopped. Families preparing for outcomes no parent should ever have to prepare for.
No amount is too small.
Every gift helps us keep showing up.
Thank you for loving our family, remembering our girl, and continuing to believe in what has grown from the most painful chapter of our lives.
Seven years here. Seven years gone.
We miss you, Avalynn Hope.
And we will keep showing up for families in your name.
