Throughout Will’s long and tumultuous journey, we have shared every spectrum of emotion with you: the explosive joy of good news, the righteous anger at the injustice of disease, and the humor we used as a shield against the darkest hours. But today, this moment carries a different kind of weight. It isn’t a loud storm filled with thunder and lightning; it is a heavy, thick, and suffocating stillness where every breath feels labored.
After everything Will has endured—high-dose chemo, painful cramps from magnesium depletion, and the invasion of neurotoxicity—this fight has entered a phase that none of us, no matter how much we tried to prepare our hearts, were truly ready to face.
Strength in the Silence
We often define strength by resistance—by a battle cry or a supernatural effort to stand back up. But in that hospital room today, Will’s strength revealed itself in a different way—quieter, and infinitely more heartbreaking.
It showed in the long pauses between unfinished sentences. It showed in his deep, tired eyes as he looked out the window, where the sunlight continued to dance on the world outside, even though it felt like it no longer belonged to his world inside. It showed in prayers that are no longer shouted, but whispered in the shaky breaths of his parents and family standing guard around his bed.
The doctors are still there, flipping through thick stacks of medical files. The family is still there, never wavering from this small fortress we’ve built. But the air in the room has shifted. There is an invisible but undeniable transition occurring. Everyone who stepped into that room today felt it: our little warrior is truly weary. Not the kind of tired that comes after a day of play, but the exhaustion of a soul that has fought too long on a battlefield that is far too cruel.
The Detail That Changes Everything
In today’s medical update, there was one specific detail that fundamentally changed how we view the road ahead. The numbers on the monitor might look the same, and the protocols might still be in motion, but a new clinical reality has emerged that forces us to look at this fight through a different lens.
It is a truth so painful that we are not yet brave enough to write it clearly on social media, or even to speak it aloud to one another. Saying it feels like acknowledging that an old chapter has closed, and the next one may carry colors we never wished to paint in our minds.
It changes how we look at the future. Instead of long-term goals for the months and years to come, we are learning to measure the value of every single present second. Instead of asking, “How do we kill every last cancer cell?” a different, softer, yet more agonizing question has begun to creep in: “How do we make sure Will feels the most peace?”
The Tug-of-War of the Heart
Watching Will calmly accept his own exhaustion is a kind of pain that is impossible to describe for Jason and me. We are used to pushing him, encouraging him, and fighting alongside him. But today, looking at him, we realized that sometimes loving a warrior isn’t about forcing them to pick up their sword again; it’s about sitting down beside them, holding their hand, and giving them permission to rest.
Every moment right now feels like walking a razor-thin wire. On one side is the instinct to fight until the very last breath; on the other is a profound love urging us to protect him from unnecessary suffering. This balance is brutal. We are learning to walk this wire with trembling legs, but with all the faith we can muster.
Faith in the Dark
Though this moment feels heavier than anything we’ve shared before, it does not mean we have given up. Faith isn’t only for when the sun is shining; true faith is when you choose to look toward the light even when the darkness is closing in.
We believe God is still present in this quiet room. He is present in Will’s labored breathing, in the tightly gripped hands of our family, and in the silent tears of the doctors. We believe that no matter how the road ahead changes, Will will never have to walk it alone.
We need our “village” now more than ever. Not for medical advice, and not for theories about the future. We simply need prayers for peace—a peace that surpasses all understanding. Pray that Will feels wrapped in love, and pray that we have the clarity to make the best possible decisions for him.
A Promise to Our Community
We know you have walked with Will since the very beginning. You have laughed, cried, and hoped with us. We promise to share more when our hearts are ready, when the words no longer feel like they are choking us.
In the meantime, please remember Will not as a patient who is exhausted, but as the greatest warrior we have ever known. A warrior whose greatest strength wasn’t in his muscles, but in a heart that remained brave until the very end.
Thank you for being part of our breath. Thank you for not leaving when the fight became quiet and heavy. Please, keep lighting those candles for Will, because that light is warming this room more than you know.
A Prayer for Tonight:
For Will, and for every family walking through the valley of the shadow.
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