That’s not today’s date.
But it’s the one that will forever live in my heart — October 10, 2022.

It’s the day our world was turned upside down.
The day we heard the words no parent should ever have to hear.

The day we lost everything that once felt normal.

That morning, I woke up thinking it would be just another ordinary day.
I didn’t know it would be the day I said goodbye to who I was before.

The day I would learn that childhood cancer wasn’t rare — not anymore, not for us.

They tell you, right after the diagnosis, “Remember, it’s not your fault.”
But how can it not feel like your fault when your baby suddenly has cancer?

I remember holding her, crying, staring blankly into the wall, and hearing the doctor’s words echo over and over again in my mind — “She has cancer.”
It replayed like a broken record until the world went quiet.

The first photo I ever posted after that day — that was the last picture of Kensley before we went to the children’s hospital.
I’ve looked at it so many times since.

She was smiling.
I wasn’t.

I remember being tired, frustrated, overwhelmed.
She had been sick for weeks, and every doctor visit ended the same — they brushed me off, told me it was nothing serious.

If only they had listened sooner.

That day, we were trying to fix a water leak.
I was juggling a thousand things at once.
Kensley just wanted to be held, but I kept asking her to go play because I was too overwhelmed.

If I could go back to that day, I’d stop everything.
I’d hold her.
I’d ignore the stupid water leak.
I’d cherish every single second of that “normal” day, because I didn’t know it was the last one we’d have.

That guilt — it never goes away.
It sits quietly in the corner of your heart, whispering, “You should have known.”

After that, everything changed.
Four rounds of chemotherapy.
Tumor removal.

Two more rounds of chemo.
Radiation.
Transplant.
Immunotherapy.
Seven surgeries.
Eighteen months of fighting for her life.

Eighteen months of watching my baby endure things no child should ever have to face.

She lost her hair, her appetite, her energy — but never her spirit.
She’s the strongest, most resilient little girl I’ve ever seen.

There were days when I thought I couldn’t do it anymore.

Days when I cried until there were no tears left.
But Kensley?
She kept smiling.

Even with chemo running through her veins, even when she was hooked up to machines, she’d find a reason to laugh — or steal a pack of Oreos and run down the hospital hallway.

How could I fall apart when she was fighting so hard to live?

So, I learned to smile again.
I learned to pretend.
To dance around the hospital room until she fell asleep.

To laugh even when my heart was breaking.

Then the lights would dim.
The beeping of machines would fill the silence.
Nurses would whisper numbers to each other.

And I’d sit there, alone, tracing her tiny fingers, wondering how we got here.

Wondering if I’d ever see her run through the grass again.

You learn quickly that cancer steals time.
It steals birthdays, holidays, and childhood memories.

We missed Christmas.
We missed Santa.

We missed bubble baths, playgrounds, dirt under her fingernails.
We missed life as we knew it.

But in that loss, something else began to grow — faith.
We drew closer to God, because there was nowhere else to turn.

We met other cancer moms who became family.

We were surrounded by nurses who didn’t just treat our child — they loved her.
We were lifted by strangers who sent prayers from places we’d never been.

When the time came to switch hospitals, people questioned us.
“Why not St. Jude?” they asked.
But the answer was simple: When you know, you know.

I had the chance to speak to an oncologist at St. Jude, and another at Vanderbilt — Dr. Benedetti.
The moment I spoke with him, I knew.
He understood exactly what Kensley had.

He specialized in her cancer — the very thing St. Jude’s didn’t.
I hung up the phone and told Cameron, “We’re going to Vanderbilt.”
I didn’t need another opinion.
God had already told me what to do.

Since that day, I’ve never doubted that decision.
Even when it came to the hardest part — the transplant.
I was terrified.

For three days, I wrestled with fear, calling and meeting with Dr. Benedetti, asking every question imaginable.
But finally, I surrendered.
God whispered, Trust me.
And I did.

Then came Dr. Ho, our transplant doctor.
He never forgot about Kensley’s dog, Ace.

Every visit, he’d ask, “How’s Ace doing?”
And when he finally approved her transplant, he smiled at Kensley and said, “She’s one tough cookie.”

That Halloween, her mamaw made her a cookie costume.
When we came back to show Dr. Ho, he laughed until his eyes watered.
It was a moment of joy in the middle of so much pain.

Through every surgery, every sleepless night, I’ve felt God’s hand on her.
He has held her in His palm from the very beginning.
We’ve lost friends along this journey — families who weren’t as lucky.

Their children’s laughter now only echoes in memory.
Every loss cuts deep.
Every time, I ask God, “Why them? Why not us?”
And every time, the answer is silence — and yet, somehow, peace.

Because faith isn’t about understanding.
It’s about trusting even when you don’t.

Kensley is light.
Pure, radiant, unbreakable light.

She has taught me what courage really means.
What love without limits feels like.
And what faith looks like when you’re standing in the fire.

Even now, long after the last round of chemo, I still flinch at every bruise, every stomach ache, every complaint of leg pain.
It’s as if the shadow of cancer never really leaves.
It lives quietly in the back of your mind, reminding you of everything you almost lost.

But today, instead of crying, we choose gratitude.
October 10th will always hurt, but it’s also a reminder — we made it this far.
We’re still here.
Kensley is here.
Alive. Smiling. Dancing.

We’ve seen miracles.
And for that, we are thankful.

To everyone who prayed for us, who sent love, who stood by our side when the nights felt endless — thank you.
Your faith carried us when ours was fading.

And to my brave little girl:
You are my miracle.
My warrior.
My heartbeat.
No matter what lies ahead, you’ll always be the brightest part of my world.

We love you, Kensley.
And we thank God every single day for the gift of your life.

That’s not today’s date.
But it’s the one that will forever live in my heart — October 10, 2022.

It’s the day our world was turned upside down.
The day we heard the words no parent should ever have to hear.
The day we lost everything that once felt normal.

That morning, I woke up thinking it would be just another ordinary day.
I didn’t know it would be the day I said goodbye to who I was before.
The day I would learn that childhood cancer wasn’t rare — not anymore, not for us.

They tell you, right after the diagnosis, “Remember, it’s not your fault.”
But how can it not feel like your fault when your baby suddenly has cancer?
I remember holding her, crying, staring blankly into the wall, and hearing the doctor’s words echo over and over again in my mind — “She has cancer.”
It replayed like a broken record until the world went quiet.

The first photo I ever posted after that day — that was the last picture of Kensley before we went to the children’s hospital.
I’ve looked at it so many times since.
She was smiling.
I wasn’t.

I remember being tired, frustrated, overwhelmed.
She had been sick for weeks, and every doctor visit ended the same — they brushed me off, told me it was nothing serious.
If only they had listened sooner.

That day, we were trying to fix a water leak.
I was juggling a thousand things at once.
Kensley just wanted to be held, but I kept asking her to go play because I was too overwhelmed.

If I could go back to that day, I’d stop everything.
I’d hold her.
I’d ignore the stupid water leak.
I’d cherish every single second of that “normal” day, because I didn’t know it was the last one we’d have.

That guilt — it never goes away.
It sits quietly in the corner of your heart, whispering, “You should have known.”

After that, everything changed.
Four rounds of chemotherapy.
Tumor removal.

Two more rounds of chemo.
Radiation.
Transplant.
Immunotherapy.
Seven surgeries.
Eighteen months of fighting for her life.

Eighteen months of watching my baby endure things no child should ever have to face.
She lost her hair, her appetite, her energy — but never her spirit.
She’s the strongest, most resilient little girl I’ve ever seen.

There were days when I thought I couldn’t do it anymore.
Days when I cried until there were no tears left.
But Kensley?
She kept smiling.

Even with chemo running through her veins, even when she was hooked up to machines, she’d find a reason to laugh — or steal a pack of Oreos and run down the hospital hallway.
How could I fall apart when she was fighting so hard to live?

So, I learned to smile again.
I learned to pretend.
To dance around the hospital room until she fell asleep.
To laugh even when my heart was breaking.

Then the lights would dim.
The beeping of machines would fill the silence.
Nurses would whisper numbers to each other.

And I’d sit there, alone, tracing her tiny fingers, wondering how we got here.
Wondering if I’d ever see her run through the grass again.

You learn quickly that cancer steals time.
It steals birthdays, holidays, and childhood memories.

We missed Christmas.
We missed Santa.
We missed bubble baths, playgrounds, dirt under her fingernails.
We missed life as we knew it.

But in that loss, something else began to grow — faith.
We drew closer to God, because there was nowhere else to turn.
We met other cancer moms who became family.

We were surrounded by nurses who didn’t just treat our child — they loved her.
We were lifted by strangers who sent prayers from places we’d never been.

When the time came to switch hospitals, people questioned us.
“Why not St. Jude?” they asked.
But the answer was simple: When you know, you know.

I had the chance to speak to an oncologist at St. Jude, and another at Vanderbilt — Dr. Benedetti.
The moment I spoke with him, I knew.
He understood exactly what Kensley had.

He specialized in her cancer — the very thing St. Jude’s didn’t.
I hung up the phone and told Cameron, “We’re going to Vanderbilt.”
I didn’t need another opinion.
God had already told me what to do.

Since that day, I’ve never doubted that decision.
Even when it came to the hardest part — the transplant.
I was terrified.

For three days, I wrestled with fear, calling and meeting with Dr. Benedetti, asking every question imaginable.
But finally, I surrendered.
God whispered, Trust me.
And I did.

Then came Dr. Ho, our transplant doctor.
He never forgot about Kensley’s dog, Ace.

Every visit, he’d ask, “How’s Ace doing?”
And when he finally approved her transplant, he smiled at Kensley and said, “She’s one tough cookie.”

That Halloween, her mamaw made her a cookie costume.
When we came back to show Dr. Ho, he laughed until his eyes watered.
It was a moment of joy in the middle of so much pain.

Through every surgery, every sleepless night, I’ve felt God’s hand on her.
He has held her in His palm from the very beginning.
We’ve lost friends along this journey — families who weren’t as lucky.

Their children’s laughter now only echoes in memory.
Every loss cuts deep.
Every time, I ask God, “Why them? Why not us?”
And every time, the answer is silence — and yet, somehow, peace.

Because faith isn’t about understanding.
It’s about trusting even when you don’t.

Kensley is light.
Pure, radiant, unbreakable light.

She has taught me what courage really means.
What love without limits feels like.
And what faith looks like when you’re standing in the fire.

Even now, long after the last round of chemo, I still flinch at every bruise, every stomach ache, every complaint of leg pain.
It’s as if the shadow of cancer never really leaves.
It lives quietly in the back of your mind, reminding you of everything you almost lost.

But today, instead of crying, we choose gratitude.
October 10th will always hurt, but it’s also a reminder — we made it this far.
We’re still here.
Kensley is here.
Alive. Smiling. Dancing.

We’ve seen miracles.
And for that, we are thankful.

To everyone who prayed for us, who sent love, who stood by our side when the nights felt endless — thank you.
Your faith carried us when ours was fading.

And to my brave little girl:
You are my miracle.
My warrior.
My heartbeat.
No matter what lies ahead, you’ll always be the brightest part of my world.

We love you, Kensley.
And we thank God every single day for the gift of your life.