Aspen

💙 Here’s Aspen’s Story 💙 Told by her mom 💗

Aspen was born in February 2012—our first baby, perfect in every way. She entered the world with bright brown eyes, jet black hair, and what felt like endless possibilities. But just a few weeks in, those dreams were shaken. She began passing bloody stools, losing weight, vomiting forcefully, and screaming for hours—her tiny body wracked with pain we couldn’t soothe.

We bounced between children’s hospitals, desperate for answers. At four months old, after undergoing an upper and lower scope, Aspen was diagnosed with a severe milk protein allergy. Prescription hypoallergenic formula brought some relief, but her symptoms didn’t disappear. Every few weeks, they returned—like clockwork—paired with low fevers and GI distress we couldn’t explain.

Then came July 2013. We had just returned from visiting family in Virginia when Aspen caught a cold. What started as something simple spiraled quickly. Another “flare.” But this time, the fever spiked—fast and high. By the third day, alarm bells were ringing in my soul. I brought her to the pediatrician, who told me it was “just a virus.” Still, I couldn’t shake the dread settling deep in my chest.

In the span of a week, I took Aspen to three hospitals. I sat for eight hours in her pediatrician’s waiting room, begging for someone—anyone—to believe me. Doctors, friends, and family started to question me and my sanity. I felt like I was unraveling. Then came the unimaginable: the threat of Child Protective Services. That was when I knew I needed backup. 

My husband, Travis, was active-duty military, away in the field without communication. I had to send a Red Cross message to bring him home—something reserved for emergencies. I knew in my bones this was one.

Ten days into her fever, Aspen was finally admitted to the children’s hospital. It took three ER visits at that very hospital to get there. That night, a newly minted doctor—fresh out of medical school—was on the floor. Something he’d once read about sparked a memory and he ordered a ferritin test. That single decision may have saved her life.

The results came back: Aspen’s ferritin was so high the computer couldn’t calculate it.

Just 13 days after her fever began, we found ourselves in a hospital room, holding our baby while life-saving chemotherapy dripped into her veins. At barely 17 months old, Aspen was fighting a battle most people have never even heard of.

The doctor told us the diagnosis might be leukemia or something called Hemophagocytic Lymphohistiocytosis—HLH. Then he said the words that would haunt me: “Don’t Google it. Pray that we find a malignancy.” We were 3,000 miles from family. When we called to share the news, our parents packed their bags and left the next morning.

  Nothing prepares you for being 23 years old, holding one child while nursing another, and being told that one of them might not survive. I was the “crunchy” mom—organic everything, cloth diapers, no chemicals in the house. And yet there I stood, sobbing as I watched toxins drip into my baby, toxins we hoped would save her.

  There are no words for the pain of an HLH diagnosis. It’s not just a personal earthquake—it sends shockwaves through your entire world. Friends, family, strangers—they all feel it. And yet, in the depths of our fear and grief, people showed up.

Back then, resources were scarce. There were a few organizations and a Facebook group, but we felt like we were on an island. Then I found the Akin family. They had lost both of their beautiful boys to HLH—and yet they still reached out, offered support, and ultimately gave us the courage to seek a second opinion in Cincinnati when Aspen relapsed just nine weeks after diagnosis.

If I hadn’t spoken to them… if I hadn’t read their story… if something deep inside me hadn’t resonated with their loss and love, I don’t know that we would have fought so hard to go. But we thankfully did. The weather, the timing, the team—something greater aligned that day. And because of it, Aspen is still with us.

Aspen’s Journey – Part 2

Aspen’s first nine weeks of treatment—a grueling combination of chemotherapy and high-dose steroids—were a strange mix of hope and heartbreak. For the most part, she powered through like the fierce little soul she is. But even with the warning from doctors, nothing could have truly prepared me for the moment her hair began to fall out, just a couple of weeks into treatment. 

  Watching her beautiful hair fall out in clumps was like watching pieces of her childhood slip away. Then came the steroids—their side effects quickly puffing her tiny face into a round, unfamiliar version of itself. It was both expected and devastating.

  She was just a year and a half old. Barely a toddler. Yet every evening, the chemo-induced nausea crept in. The only remedy? Motion and air. So we pedaled on bikes pulling a bike trailer with her and little sister Jovie behind. For hours, we rode through the winding bike paths that traced throughout the city, starting from the safe haven of the Ronald McDonald House. That place—more than just a roof—offered something sacred: nourishment, kindness, and the quiet solidarity of other families who truly got it.

  Outside those walls, though, it was different. Explaining HLH to strangers was like trying to tell a story in a language no one spoke. Aspen didn’t have cancer, but she looked like she did. The comments came like little stings—“At least it’s not cancer,” or “It could be worse.” Most people meant well. But meaning well doesn’t always feel well.

  And some weren’t even trying.

  One afternoon, in the middle of treatment, I took Aspen to McDonald’s with my mom. Her steroid-fueled emotions—what we jokingly called “roid rage”—were peaking. When I tried to explain that the fries had too much sodium (doctor’s orders because we struggled to get her to eat anything besides salty pretzels), she launched into a meltdown, loud and fierce. Just a toddler craving salt—just a mama trying to explain the unexplainable. Behind us in line, a man muttered with disdain, “Looks like she’s already had too many fries,” referencing her swollen, moon-shaped face. I remember how my whole body tensed. I wanted to turn around and unleash a storm. I wanted to make him understand. But I didn’t. I stayed still, because Aspen needed calm. Still, that moment burned itself into memory.

  But for every moment like that, there were moments of pure, unexpected grace.

Like the time we rode an elevator with another family. A curious little girl, maybe four years old, pointed at Aspen’s NG tube and asked, “Why does she have an elephant trunk?” Her parents were mortified. We laughed and explained—it’s how Aspen gets her medicine and sometimes her food. The girl nodded thoughtfully, then beamed and said, “That’s cool!” before launching into a story about unicorns and glitter or something equally delightful but lost to my memory.

  That’s the thing about kids. They ask. They wonder. But they almost always lead with kindness—unfiltered and beautiful.

  The moral? Curiosity is never the problem. It's the lens of compassion that makes all the difference.

Aspen’s Journey — Part 3

When Aspen was diagnosed with HLH in August 2013, we were told it was secondary HLH—triggered by an infection, not genetic. Her doctors assured us that nine weeks of treatment would be enough. After that, we were told, she could live a long and healthy life. Travis and I had quietly discussed the idea of a second opinion, but in our young and hopeful hearts, we clung to the idea that it wouldn’t be necessary—not unless she relapsed.

  So when Aspen finished her final dose of steroids and completed chemotherapy, we felt like we could finally exhale. We decided to celebrate with a weekend trip to Portland—a three-hour drive from home. I had tickets to a convention I’d been looking forward to all year, a rare chance to connect with a few close mom friends. We needed a sliver of normalcy, a break from fear.

  But in the middle of the convention crowd, Travis turned to me. He was carrying Aspen in a baby carrier. His face was pale. “I think she’s spiking a fever,” he said. My stomach dropped. We hadn’t packed a thermometer—I hadn’t even thought of it. Someone nearby let us borrow one, and our worst fear was confirmed: Aspen’s temperature was climbing.

  We sprinted to the car and made a split-second decision to drive three hours back to her home hospital, worried the local children’s hospital wouldn’t know how to treat HLH. We gave her Tylenol and hoped it would buy us time. Those three hours were a blur of headlights and rain, our hearts pounding louder than the windshield wipers. Aspen worsened before our eyes. By the time we reached the ER, her fever had soared to 107 degrees. Medications weren’t working. She was admitted straight into the PICU.

How could she get that sick that fast? Was this really secondary HLH? Had something been missed? Were we wrong to trust that nine weeks was enough?

  The questions clawed at us in the sterile quiet of the hospital room. The answers, when they came, were the kind that gut you. Genetic testing was labeled "negative," so the medical team suggested she would now need nearly a year of chemotherapy.

  Terrified and uncertain, we asked for a transfer to Cincinnati Children’s Hospital—a leading center for HLH care. The request was denied. We were left with two options: keep Aspen there and follow a treatment plan we no longer trusted, or discharge her and find our own way across the country.

Once she was stabilized on steroids again, we chose the second option.

  Thirty-six hours after discharge, we boarded a plane bound for Cincinnati with two children under two and no return date. Flying in the day a group of bicycle riders rode 700 miles, ending at the children’s hospital, to raise money for HLH research felt like fate. 

  We couldn’t afford the plane tickets, but a kind agent at Southwest helped us get there. What do you pack when you’re leaving everything behind? For us, it was five suitcases, a mix of warm and cool clothes, and a gnawing sense of the unknown.

From the first meeting with the Cincinnati care team, we knew this was where we were meant to be. They confirmed what we feared: despite not having a definitive genetic cause found, Aspen had primary HLH and would need a bone marrow transplant. She was added to the transplant list that very day.

  We left the hospital, crossed the Ohio River, and rented a small apartment for three months. At a nearby discount furniture store, we bought the cheapest couch and mattress we could find. The next day, Travis flew back to Washington to pack up our life—our car, whatever belongings he could squeeze in—and drive across the country.

We finally had a plan: keep Aspen stable until transplant. We had shelter. We were about to have transportation. But we had two looming obstacles: we were flat broke, and Travis was still active duty, stationed in Washington, without permission to transfer to Ohio.

  We swallowed our pride and started a GoFundMe to stay afloat. Medical bills, travel costs, housing—it all stacked up faster than we could keep up. Meanwhile, Travis filed for a compassionate transfer. He was denied. Again and again. Desperate, we sent binders of medical records, testimonials, and letters from doctors and HLH families to our congressional representatives. It literally took an act of Congress to keep our family together.

  Two months after we arrived in Cincinnati, Travis was finally granted approval to move. He returned to Washington, packed our on-base housing, cleared post, and rented a moving truck. Too strapped for hotels, he laid one of the mattresses in the back of the truck and slept there—through one of the coldest months of the year.

  The day before he arrived, I signed the lease on a small two-bedroom townhouse, 30 minutes outside the city. We unpacked just in time—one week before Aspen was scheduled to be admitted for her bone marrow transplant.

  It finally felt like things were falling into place. We had housing, transportation, a care plan, and—most importantly—each other. Maybe, just maybe, we could get through this and someday return to a “normal” life.

  But what we didn’t know then is that life would never be normal again. HLH doesn’t end with treatment. It shadows everything. It lingers in the quiet moments. A cough in the room becomes a trigger for panic. A fever can still mean danger. Every trip away from home sparks anxiety—Did we pack the meds? The thermometer? Your future—the one you imagined full of memories, family holidays, grandchildren—is torn apart and rebuilt around uncertainty.

And this… this was only the beginning.

⚠️ Proceed with caution warning ⚠️ 

Aspen’s Journey – Part 4

I once heard a speaker at a medical conference describe bone marrow transplantation like this: “It’s akin to dropping an atomic bomb on a city and praying something is left to rebuild.”

  In January of 2014, just before Aspen’s hospital admission, Travis and I sat across from her care team, absorbing the gravity of what lay ahead. The statistics were sobering—back then, the 15-year survival rate for a bone marrow transplant hovered around 53%. For HLH-specific cases, the outlook was even murkier.

  I want you to pause and think of the person you love more than anyone in the world. Now imagine flipping a coin: heads—they live. Tails—they don’t. Could you sign the paper to make that choice?

  But survival doesn’t always mean what we think it does. For us, it wasn’t only about Aspen making it out of the hospital. We had to ask: What if she lost her ability to walk? To speak? To eat? What kind of life would be waiting for her on the other side?�Spoiler: all of those fears became reality.

  Bone marrow transplant isn’t the dramatic, cinematic procedure some imagine. There’s no high-tech miracle moment. Instead, you check into the hospital and receive a brutal chemotherapy cocktail designed to obliterate your immune system. Then, in a moment that feels almost anticlimactic, a bag of donor stem cells is hooked up—a quiet transfusion of hope. If you're lucky, those tiny cells begin rebuilding what was destroyed.

  Even before Aspen received her cells, we sensed this journey would not be kind. Within weeks, she faced an HLH flare, a severe allergic reaction to her donor cells’ preservative, dangerous blood pressure spikes, searing mouth sores, a pain pump, and her first of many stints in the PICU. 

  As time wore on, her body became a battlefield. Graft versus host disease. Thrombotic microangiopathy. Antibodies attacking her own cells. Blood transfusions became constant. Her speech regressed. Her body weakened. She could no longer walk. She vomited so often and so violently, the memories still invade my dreams.

  By fall, nearly a year had passed and she was still hospitalized. We had moved out of our townhome only three months after moving in—it was too far from the hospital for Aspen’s acuity. The Ronald McDonald House became our haven. In that modest space, we rebuilt. We found support, a hot shower to cry in, people who understood the trenches of pediatric illness, and a community that became family.

  Travis and I were young—just kids ourselves, really. I turned 24 in Aspen’s hospital room. That year aged us in ways that no one can see, but that we feel in our bones. I remember sobbing over FaceTime in Aspen’s ICU room as I said goodbye to my grandmother, holding tightly to the sliver of hope that I wouldn’t lose my daughter, too. 

  Between medical bills, research articles, pleas for help from organizations, and round-the-clock care for a critically ill child—while also trying to be present parents to another—we learned to function on fumes. We could hear Aspen’s bloody vomiting in our sleep, rising zombie-like from the bed, bucket in hand, ready. 

  The toll it took was staggering—on our bodies, on our minds, on our marriage. It felt like we were screaming into a void no one else could hear. We tried to protect others from the full weight of our nightmare, wrapping our updates in a thin veil of positivity. But inside, we were shattered.

  Still, we clung together, bound by trauma, held together by love. Every step forward felt like it was met with a shove back. And then the worst blow came—graft failure. After nearly a year of fighting, we were told the transplant hadn’t worked. Aspen left the hospital more fragile than when she entered.

  And we were left with impossible questions: Do we go straight into another transplant? What are the odds she’ll survive it? Can her organs take any more?

  There were no clear answers.

 But here’s what we did have: Aspen. Still with us. Still smiling.

Still radiating light.

 In the face of it all, Aspen glowed. She taught us that children are made of magic and steel. Their resilience can shake the foundations of despair. And in her quiet strength, we found our reason to keep going.

  We weren’t done fighting. Not yet. Not ever.

Aspen’s Journey — Part 5

When we agreed to a bone marrow transplant, we did so believing Aspen had primary HLH—likely caused by a yet-undiscovered mutation. We were told her risks mirrored those of others with HLH. 

  Almost a year post-transplant, the results of her whole exome sequencing finally came in. The answer was waiting all along: Aspen had XIAP deficiency—a known genetic mutation previously believed to occur only in males. With that single call, everything shifted. What once seemed like a scattered storm of random complications suddenly formed a pattern. Her body wasn’t just reacting—it was following a script written in her DNA.

  I barely had time to process the news before hanging up and dialing an infertility clinic. Aspen’s best chance at surviving another transplant lay in a perfect sibling match. Her sister wasn’t one. Most people associate IVF with infertility—but it can also screen embryos for specific genetic conditions. In theory, we could create a sibling who wasn’t just a match, but a miracle: a potential cure wrapped in new life. We could fulfill our dreams of a large family and simultaneously save Aspen. 

  The catch? The science was there, but the cost—$25,000 per round—was entirely on us. No insurance coverage. No safety net.

  We did what desperate parents do. We sold what we could. Emptied our accounts. Maxed our cards. Poured in tax returns and every ounce of hope we had left. Our first embryo didn’t survive. Undeterred, we launched straight into round two. Our families pulled from their retirements to help. We borrowed, begged, and leaned hard on love. 

  Two healthy embryos. Another miscarriage. I lost that pregnancy while sitting beside Aspen’s hospital bed as she was enrolled in a clinical trial—a long shot, but maybe enough to buy us time.

  Out of money, out of options, we turned to the world. Again. We asked for help—again. Our story spread. Encouraging words poured in. So did hate. Death threats. Judgments from strangers. We were exposed, vulnerable, and deeply exhausted. But we kept going. We had to. A glimmer of hope followed. 

  The clinical trial worked—Aspen stabilized. We took a Make-A-Wish trip to Disney. And then, something miraculous: I was pregnant. With twins. Both healthy. Both perfect matches.

  We planned to use their cord blood for Aspen’s future transplant. But the pregnancy brought its own hurdles. At 28 weeks, during what should’ve been a routine infusion for Aspen, the stress from an adverse reaction to her medication sent my body into labor. Travis rushed from work to be with Aspen and Jovie. I drove myself—contractions mounting—to the hospital. Three months of hospital bedrest followed, and in May 2016, our twins arrived earthside. Tiny, beautiful, and full of hope.

  That summer, we sat down with Aspen’s team for a pre-transplant meeting. She was only five, but her spirit was anything but small. “I want to go to school,” she said. “I want to play soccer. And I really want to go to a birthday party.” It hit me then—how much she had missed. Childhood milestones most families take for granted were, to her, distant dreams.

  But Aspen was stable. How many opportunities would she get to be a typical child? Was this our only shot? So, we gave kindergarten a chance—and Aspen soared. 

  For the next six years, she lived louder than most people do in a lifetime. She made fast friends, devoured birthday cake, breakdanced in Times Square, and RV’d through 31 states during the pandemic. Her laugh lit up rooms. Her joy contagious.

  We always knew it couldn’t last forever. But we hoped. That science would catch up. That safer transplants were coming. We aimed for five years—maybe ten. What we gained was more than time.

  We gained life.

 We gained belly laughs and muddy soccer cleats and growing our family to 8. We gained scribbled art on the fridge in our forever home and sleepy movie nights cuddled on the couch as a family. We gained a front-row seat to Aspen becoming Aspen.

  And perhaps most importantly, we learned to slow down. To savor the moments that don’t look like milestones. Because the truest miracles we’ve received isn’t found in test results or trial outcomes.

  It’s in the time we’ve been given together. For that…that is everything.

Aspen’s Journey — Part 6

March 2020. The world shut its doors and held its breath. Panic swept through cities like wildfire, shelves emptied, streets quieted, and masks became the new normal. But for us, that fear wasn’t new—it had already lived with us for a number of years.

  Long before COVID became a household word, we knew the weight of caution. After diagnosis we avoided grocery stores, held our breath in hospital cafeterias, and eyed every cough and sniffle like a loaded threat. Masks weren’t a novelty—they were our everyday armor, a fragile shield for Aspen’s life after her bone marrow transplant. For a child with a failed graft and a faulty immune system, the stakes were always high. The world had just caught up to the reality we already experienced.

  When the first positive cases reached hospitals, we called her care team. The message was clear: if Aspen got COVID, it could trigger a life-threatening relapse. Four days later, we packed our apartment into storage, bought an RV, and drove eight hours to a quiet campground near Cincinnati—close enough to the hospital, far enough from risk. And then, a few months later, something incredible and unexpected happened.

  We turned survival into adventure. With the blessing of her care team, rescue meds on board, and the world socially distanced, we set off through 31 states, finding freedom in wide-open skies and winding trails. We isolated under stars, found solace in roasted marshmallows, and searched for fossils in deserts, slowing down, always hoping. It was a strange, beautiful chapter of life on the edge and we had the time of our lives. Together in <400 square feet. Together as a family. 

  We made it almost three years without Aspen catching COVID. Then, in late 2021, we bought our dream home. The kids begged to go back to school. They were tired of being apart from the world. We said yes.

  Two weeks later, COVID swept through our house. One week after that, Aspen had her first full-blown HLH flare in six years.

What followed were years of midnight drives and emergency decisions. Dozens of 14-hour round trips through storms, close calls, and the silent terror of the unknown. Every flare was a ticking clock. Every delay, a gamble. Our local hospital couldn’t handle her care—Cincinnati remained our lifeline.

  A year ago, we made the impossible choice again: we enrolled Aspen in yet another clinical trial. Once more, she became a pioneer—one of the first to try a brand-new medication. No promises. No guarantees. No roadmap. But hope has never been optional for us.

  Since then, life has been relentless.

Twenty-eight hours a month in the car, sometimes more. A 50/50 chance of placebo brought another move into an RV—this time in the dead of winter, with five kids, two large dogs, and one very pregnant mama trying not to bump into each other in the tiny space we called home. It was cramped, chaotic, and yet another adventure.

  And now? The trial is helping—but it’s not a forever fix.

 Gene therapy is still years away. Aspen now battles psoriatic arthritis. Psoriasis builds up in her ears, impacting her hearing and self-confidence alike. Cataracts are forming in her eyes, and we wait, bracing for the next change. We juggle doctor visits, insurance fears, and policy shifts that feel like a trap door waiting to open beneath us and sweep away our treatment options. So here we are. Preparing for another transplant.

  We’re working with her team to plan it, but Aspen has dreams of her own: she wants to attend hospital camp this summer, mark a few adventures off her bucket list, and walk into high school with hair on her head and strength in her steps after BMT. 

  We’re scared—truly scared. But living in fear of having this disease forever is worse. 

  What if she flares during a sleepover?

What if she’s away at college and there's no hospital nearby?

What if we lose health insurance? 

 What if the clinical trial is discontinued?

What if the next flare is the one we can’t outrun?

 What if… what if…

  These questions haunt families like ours. Every decision is a domino. Every choice has consequences. One wrong move, and everything could unravel—our home, our safety net, the life we've fought so hard to build and hold together.

  But we keep going. Because Aspen does.

She wakes up, battles through, and dreams anyway. She, like her siblings, is our inspiration. Our greatest adventures. Our everything.

Aspen’s Journey — Part 7

A diagnosis like HLH doesn’t just echo through your life—it shatters it. The impact reverberates in your bones, your breath, your being. In the aftermath, pieces of who you once were quietly fall away, replaced not by choice but by necessity—with invisible armor, forged from heartbreak, resilience, and relentless love.

  Ten years ago, I was a stay-at-home mom, proud and fulfilled in that calling. I envisioned a life shaped around my children’s needs and the ever-changing demands of military life—rooted, yet flexible. But then came the storm.

  In those first fragile days after Aspen’s transplant, I was drowning—lost in a sea of uncertainty, desperation, and helplessness. 

  I craved answers, direction, purpose. So I made a choice. That summer, I enrolled in online classes. By fall, I was back on campus—driven not by ambition, but by the urgent need to secure a future for our family. We knew Travis’s time in the military was ending; Aspen’s condition tied us to Cincinnati, and our compassionate assignment was slipping through our fingers like sand.

  So, every Monday before dawn, I loaded a toddler into the car and drove seven hours from Cincinnati to Virginia. Every Thursday night, I turned around and did it again. Travis stayed behind with Aspen, and thanks to the grace of one of her nurses, we made it work. 

  Barely. A pulmonary embolism nearly stopped me in my tracks—but even then, I knew: this wasn’t a detour. It was our chance at survival.

  Since Aspen’s diagnosis, I’ve returned to school three times. Nursing, to understand the clinical side of “rare.” Business, to grasp the system we were up against. And ultimately, I learned how to advocate—not just for Aspen, but for families like ours who live on the edge of a devastating diagnosis that few understand.

  The road has been long and grueling. Travis rode over 3,000 miles on his bicycle to raise money for HLH research and better treatments. We joined forces with advocacy groups, mentored families just starting this journey, organized blood and marrow drives. I sat on hospital advisory boards, joined safety and design committees for a new hospital wing that we would ultimately call home, and poured myself into reshaping the systems that failed us. We became ambassadors for a nonprofit working to build pediatric hemonc care close to home—so no family would have to travel for the lifesaving help their child needs.

  None of this is said for praise. It’s said because this is what HLH demands. This is the reality when a rare disease takes root in your family.

  It didn’t just affect Travis and me. It changed the trajectory of our entire family. 

 Jovie, Aspen’s sister, took her first steps in a hospital hallway. Our children were born into this life—its unpredictability, its heartbreak, its urgency. Field trips missed. Plans canceled. Social isolation. Middle-of-the-night emergencies, with one parent gone and one sibling missing. The constant ache of never knowing what tomorrow might hold.

  The financial toll is staggering. Insurance denials. Endless battles over billing, authorizations, experimental treatments. Gas money. Hotels. Food. Out-of-pocket therapies. The burden stacks higher and higher—and we’re among the lucky ones.

  Even the social safety nets designed to catch families like ours are frayed and failing. I spent countless hours in government offices with crying babies, holding pay stubs and paperwork, only to be met with apathy—or told it was “lost in the system.” We bought a house just to get a third insurance plan so Aspen could access basic therapy services. Can you imagine? A child relearning to walk being told “it’s not necessary.”

  Nearly a decade later, we are still fighting. Still navigating red tape and bureaucracy when all we ever wanted was time—time to help our daughter heal, time to be a family.

  This diagnosis is a full-time job, and yet the system rarely offers grace to the families carrying its weight. But there is hope.

  Hope is in the community that rallies around families like ours. It’s in the doctors and nurses who show up day after day, never wavering. It’s in the friend who drops off dinner, the neighbor who organizes a blood drive, the donor who doesn’t hesitate. It’s in the hospital nurse who selflessly offers to help—not out of obligation, but because she’s the only one you trust. It’s in the prayers whispered, the thoughts sent, the messages that simply say, “I’m here.” It’s in the hearts of advocacy groups who help fill in the gaps. 

  Hope lives in every person who’s walked beside us—even if only by reading these words and holding space for our story.

  We never wanted to be part of this club. No one does. But Aspen is still here. Still fighting. And because of that, so are we.

We are the lucky ones.