When people ask me what my end goal is with sharing these stories, the simplest answer is this: I want to write a book. But in reality, it’s so much more complex. Some days, it feels like this is about Kingston’s resilience—how he inspired countless people by refusing to give up, living as if there was nothing he couldn’t conquer. Other days, this space becomes a refuge for me, where I can unravel the tangled waves of grief and release anger and sadness in ways that feel safe. And sometimes, it’s about my spiritual journey—how my understanding of God and life beyond this one has shifted profoundly since Kingston passed.
If you’re new to my posts, it might seem confusing. One day, I’m expressing rage over a thoughtless comment someone made to a grieving mother, and the next, I’m sharing a strange but meaningful encounter from years ago that suddenly feels relevant now. This story doesn’t move neatly from point A to point B. It’s a chaotic, non-linear path that reflects how my mind works, how healing unfolds, and how grief weaves itself into my understanding of Kingston’s life and death.
Kingston’s Story: A Triumph Beyond the Fight
For years, I thought Kingston’s story would resemble a feel-good Disney movie—a kid beats cancer, learns to walk again, and goes on to play baseball, the ultimate comeback. That’s the kind of story we love to hear, the one that makes everything feel right with the world. But then life threw us back into the fire, and I realized stopping the story at that triumphant moment would have been a disservice to his journey.
Yes, Kingston was resilient. Yes, he was extraordinary. But his story is about so much more than the battles he fought and the victories he earned. It’s about the deep understanding he had as his time on this earth came to an end—insights far beyond what any child his age should possess. His intuition about what was coming left me awestruck, even though I couldn’t fully grasp it in the moment. And now, every day, I feel his presence in ways that challenge everything I thought I knew about life, death, and what exists beyond.
A Journey of Unraveling and Rebuilding
Some days, I want to explore these spiritual lessons—delve into the signs Kingston sends, the moments that feel like gifts from a world beyond. On other days, I need to scream into the void about how unfair it all is. And then there are moments when I feel driven to make sense of it all, to untangle the lessons Kingston left behind, and share the messy, magical collision of grief and spiritual awakening.
If you’re trying to follow along, I understand if it feels disjointed. One minute, I might be sharing an emotional encounter from a hospital hallway, and the next, I’m venting about something someone said yesterday. But I promise—it all connects. Every piece of this journey fits together, even if it’s not immediately obvious. The goal is to keep going, to peel back the layers of meaning, explore Kingston’s magic, and discover the questions that grief forces me to ask. It’s not a straight line, but it’s my line—a story that demands to be told.
Why Stories Matter: Transforming Grief into Purpose
It was our path to walk, just as others have walked it before us. Throughout this journey, I’ve been told more times than I can count that one day, what Kingston and I went through might help someone else survive. That idea used to make me angry. I didn’t want our pain to be used as someone else’s survival guide—not because I lack compassion, but because I wouldn’t wish this experience on anyone. But the truth is, without the mother who came before me—who reached out despite her own grief—I might not have made it. She showed up, still raw from her loss, and drove me to pick up Kingston’s ashes so I wouldn’t have to do it alone. That gesture saved me.
None of us deserve to lose a child. And none of us want to hear clichés like “everything happens for a reason” or “good will come from this.” That’s not how it works. There’s no reason that can justify the horror. But when you’ve lived through something that could destroy you, you have to find some small sliver of meaning—or it feels like your child’s death meant nothing.
The only way I can make peace with Kingston’s death is by helping others survive their own pain, by giving them the strength to stay when the weight of grief feels unbearable. I’m still here, breathing, because my purpose isn’t fulfilled yet. And that means I’m not with Kingston, which is a truth I’ve had to learn to live with. It doesn’t mean I’m okay with what happened, and it doesn’t mean “everything happens for a reason.” Some things are simply tragic, senseless, and should never happen. But even in the midst of that truth, I choose to find something—no matter how small—that makes Kingston’s life and death mean something.
