Hoping, itself, is the actual story. It is unrelenting and unapologetic, asking us to be fully present in the moment- whether that moment finds us in a waiting room, crossing a finish line, or down on our knees. 

There is no way to prepare for that kind of heartache.  And almost always accompanying that ache is a tiny, dangerous voice in our head that says to us, this isn't how it was supposed to happen.  Not to me.

"Jared is happy, with his legos and his video games.  His life is good. If we could see things through his eyes, it’s so different. It’s a gift. He’s a good reminder to me- and to us as a family- to slow down.”





 “So many people have it way worse than me. Sometimes I think If you put all your cards on the table with everyone else’s, you’ll probably want to take yours back.”  

 And all the while, you wait for the dust to settle, sometimes wondering if it ever will. There is no manual for grief.  It takes no prisoners, and requires something different of you every day.

For those few minutes, she was just another kid playing with her cousins in her backyard. A little girl who wasn't afraid to die, and because of that, wasn't afraid to live fully in every moment she had left.


To say that it stormed is an understatement. It was fierce. But...nobody went home. No one phoned it in. I think we all knew it was her, and we waited for her to tell us it was time to run. 


There was no "ready, set..." that could have prepared any of those parents for the diagnoses their children faced. And the only finish line that matters to them now is the one that finds their babies healthy and cancer-free.