Ok. Gosh. Stop crying.
Some of my favorite posts are the ones I write when I sit down intending to write something else entirely. This was one of those. Surprise: unresolved trauma from five years ago and a sudden spiral into existential questions about the point of digital organization.
What I actually meant to write about—what I’ll try to write about now—is something far more exciting and far less likely to make you cry. And if it does make you cry, they’ll be the good kind. Hot, happy tears.
A couple of weeks ago, Beaudin and I had the honor of speaking on behalf of the Emily Whitehead Foundation to a group of high school students at the Ranum Innovation Center. (You can read more about that here.)
As often as I find myself reflecting on the trauma of the last several years, I also return—again and again—to the unexpected gift of advocacy on this side of things. Being the voice I desperately searched the internet for when Beau was diagnosed never gets old. Any time a cancer parent reaches out and says, “Hey, I read your blog…,” I’m stopped in my tracks by how humbling it is to be trusted with someone else’s fear, questions, or hope.
In ways that still make me feel a little sick to say out loud, there are moments when the ability to help someone else makes even the worst parts feel like they’re doing something good now—like I’m useful in a way I don’t know I ever could have been without this suffering.
Coming up soon, Beau and I have a couple of new advocacy opportunities that I’m really excited to share. I’ll share one now.
It’s a continuation of our work with the students at the Ranum Innovation Center, in partnership with the Emily Whitehead Foundation. Together, the students and Beau will be delivering Believe Bundles to patients at Children’s Hospital of Colorado.
Believe Bundles are care packages created for patients who have just had their world turned upside down. We know first hand that a cancer diagnosis comes with a tidal wave of information, appointments, fear, and exhaustion—and these bundles are meant to meet families right there in the middle of it. They’re filled with small but meaningful comforts: soft blankets, activities to pass long hours, gift cards, self-care items, and thoughtful surprises chosen to say, you are not alone.
What I love most about Believe Bundles is that they don’t try to fix the unfixable. They simply show up. They offer warmth, normalcy, and a tangible reminder that a whole community is standing behind you, even if you can’t see it yet.
The students at the Ranum Center for Innovation were asked to raise funds for Believe Bundles—and you better believe I signed our community right up to help.
I knew The Heavy Wait readers, along with our family and friends, would understand exactly why this matters.
If you’ve ever received a care package inside a hospital, you already know.
And if you haven’t, take it from me.
It’s the kind of moment that quietly says: Yes, the world is impossible and hard—but this soft blanket is here to remind you that softness still exists. That someday—maybe six years down the road—you will find yourself in moments that feel gentle again. Moments where you’re helping someone else and wondering how you ever could have been so useful, if not for this impossible season.
Join Beau and me in donating to the Ranum Innovation Center Believe Bundle Fundraiser.
I can’t wait to tell you about our day delivering them.
All. The. Feels.
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