I was 10 years old when my life was flipped upside down.

On June 28, 2016, I went about what I expected to be a normal day, but what I didn’t know at the time was that morning would be the last time my life felt truly whole. I walked into my mom’s room for something, just a quick question, expecting her to be the same strong, comforting presence she always was. But something was different. I saw her on the phone, her voice trembling, and her eyes filled with a fear I had never seen in her before. I asked her what was wrong, and for a moment, I could tell she was holding back something too big to explain, thus she looked at me and said, “Kyra, everything is going to be okay. I am just scared.”

At the time, I didn’t know how to understand that fear. I trusted her words because she was my mom—she was supposed to always make things okay. Little did I know those words would be the last thing she would ever say to me. Just 3 days later, on July 1, 2016, she was gone.

We never got to say goodbye.

I remember sitting in a room for hours that day, staring blankly at walls with my world unraveling as I was told she wouldn’t be coming home. As a child, how do you process that kind of loss? The truth is that you don’t. You just feel the weight of something incomprehensible, a sadness that becomes a permanent part of you. You go to sleep and wake up with it; you carry it into every part of your life, and nothing feels the same anymore.

Cancer didn’t just take my mom—it changed everything about how I saw the world. It shattered the sense of security I had as a child, forcing me to grow up faster than I should have. As the years passed, I learned more about the disease that stole her from me and how relentless and cruel it can be. Cancer doesn’t care how much you love someone. It doesn’t give you time to prepare. It just takes. My family wasn’t given the chance to fight for her, to gather around her like we wanted to, or to say that final “I love you.” Instead, it was over in a flash, and all we were left with was an overwhelming sense of loss and emptiness.

The pain of losing her is something I still carry with me every day, but it has also fueled me in ways I couldn’t have imagined back then. Relay for Life has become more than just a cause to me; it’s become a way to honor my mom, to keep her memory alive, and to fight back against the disease that took her too soon. So when I participate in Relay for Life, I relay not just in memory of my mom but in honor of my Opa, who is still here, and still fighting. I’m relaying for all the other families who have been through the same unimaginable heartbreak, for the children who’ve had to say goodbye too soon, and for the people who are still fighting, including my incredible Opa. I relay because cancer doesn’t just take lives—it leaves a trail of grief behind for those of us who are left to carry on without the ones we love.

Cancer taught me that time is precious, and Relay for Life gives me a chance to make the time we have matter. It’s my way of standing up to cancer, of saying that this disease will not take anything more from me than it already has. I relay to give hope to others, to be part of a movement that says we can make a difference, we can find a cure, and we can create a world where fewer families have to go through what mine did. Through Relay for Life, I am reminded that we are not alone in this fight. That is why this is so important to me—it’s not just any event, it’s a reminder that we are stronger together. It’s a symbol of hope, of remembrance, and of resilience. It’s a promise that no matter how hard this journey is, we will keep moving forward.

My mom may no longer be here, but through Relay for Life, her spirit lives on. Every step I take is a step for her, a step toward healing, and a step toward hope. And as I relay, I hear her words echoing in my heart, reminding me that “everything is going to be okay,” even when it feels impossible to believe. I want to thank you for being part of this meaningful journey. Every single contribution helps.

With so much love,

Kyra