LDL. Please keep praying that our warrior’s transition is peaceful… and that he isn’t scared.

That is the message Jaxen’s mother shared today — a mother lying beside her eight-year-old son, gently rubbing his head, memorizing every breath.

Jaxen has spent most of his young life fighting neuroblastoma. Hospital rooms became familiar before playgrounds did. IV lines, scans, and treatment plans replaced carefree afternoons. Through it all, he was described as brave. Gentle. Strong in a way that didn’t match his age.

Today feels different.

Redd says she recognizes the sound — a change in breathing she once heard days before her own mother passed. It’s a sound no parent ever wants to identify. The kind that quietly signals that time may be short.

She believes Jaxen is telling them he’s tired.

There are no bold declarations now. No pleas for impossible outcomes. No demands for miracles.

Instead, there is something softer.

Mercy.
Peace.
No pain.
And above all — that her son not be afraid.

“If love could heal you,” she wrote, “you would have been healed a long time ago.”

It’s a sentence that holds the weight of years.

Years of appointments.
Years of hope rising and falling.
Years of fighting for one more birthday, one more smile, one more ordinary day.

What would you want Redd to know right now?

Maybe this:

That she has already done everything a mother could do.
That love does not fail simply because the body grows tired.
That being there — fully present, whispering comfort, holding his hand — is not small. It is everything.

Children feel safety in the presence of the people who love them. If Jaxen is resting with his mother beside him, hearing her voice, feeling her touch, he is not alone. He is surrounded by the greatest protection he has ever known — her love.

Courage at the end of life does not look loud. It looks like staying. It looks like rubbing his head. It looks like telling him it’s okay to rest.

And if fear tries to creep in, maybe she can whisper this to him:

You are so loved. You are safe. I’m right here. It’s okay.

For any parent walking through this unimaginable moment, there are no perfect words. There is only presence. And love.

And sometimes, love is the most powerful comfort of all.