TST. THE UNTOUCHABLE SPIRIT: HUNTING FOR JOY IN THE MIDST OF THE STORM

🦌 THIS KID… WE’RE GOING TO NEED A BIGGER WALL! 😂

Honestly, we are going to need more wall space for all these mounts soon!

For everyone wondering and checking in: Will is still out there living his absolute best life. His spirit is untouchable! 🛡️✨

Meanwhile, the rest of the crew is busy too:

• Charlie has spent the whole weekend with Frehley Wilson.
• As for me… I’m still trying to mend from this 72-hour stomach bug that I just can’t seem to kick. 🦠🤒
• And Jason just sent me this photo—looks like they’ll be home later than expected tonight!

So proud of Will’s resilience and his joy for life. It’s the best medicine for all of us. ❤️

#WillStrong #OutdoorLife #LivingLifeToTheFullest #Warrior #FamilyVibes #StrongerEveryDay

There is a specific kind of silence that fills a home when a family is fighting a battle that most people can only imagine in their nightmares. But in our house, that silence has been replaced by the roar of an engine, the heavy thud of hunting boots on the porch, and the proud laughter of a boy who refuses to let a diagnosis define his horizon.

I looked at the photo Jason just sent me from the field, and the first thought that popped into my head—somewhere between the nausea of a stubborn stomach bug and the overwhelming pride of a mother—was: “This kid… we are going to need a much bigger wall.”

The Gallery of Resilience

To most people, a “mount” on a wall is a trophy of a successful hunt. But in this house, every mount we hang is a monument to a day when Will felt strong enough to be out in the woods. Every set of antlers represents a morning where the crisp outdoor air tasted better than hospital cafeteria coffee, and where the thrill of the chase drowned out the hum of medical machinery.

Lately, those mounts have been coming in fast. Will isn’t just “getting by”; he is living his absolute best life. When people check in and ask, “How is Will doing?” they are often bracing themselves for a heavy answer. They expect to hear about fatigue, treatment side effects, or the weight of the struggle. And while those things exist, they aren’t the headline of Will’s story right now.

The headline is that his spirit is untouchable. There is a light in his eyes when he talks about his latest trek into the wilderness that no amount of chemotherapy can dim. He is teaching all of us that “quality of life” isn’t a medical term—it’s a choice you make every single morning when you put your boots on.

The Chaos of the “Crew”

While Will is out there conquering the wild, the rest of the crew is living out their own chapters of this weekend’s story. That is the thing about a crisis—life doesn’t stop for it. The laundry still piles up, the dog still needs to be let out, and the siblings still need their own adventures.

Our daughter, Charlie, has been the definition of “weekend warrior.” She has spent the entire weekend with Frehley Wilson, soaking up every bit of friendship and fun that a young girl deserves. In a family where so much focus is naturally pulled toward a brother’s health, seeing her out there having her own world, her own laughter, and her own “normal” is a blessing I don’t take for granted. She is our constant reminder that even when the world feels heavy, there is still room for sleepovers, playdates, and childhood joy.

The Mother’s Battle (and the 72-Hour Bug)

Then, there’s me. While the men are out securing trophies and the girls are out making memories, I have been locked in a 72-hour standoff with a stomach bug that simply refuses to leave.

There is a peculiar irony in being the “caregiver” who suddenly needs care. For three days, I’ve been trying to mend, trying to kick this virus that has left me feeling like I’ve gone ten rounds in a boxing ring. Being sick as a mother is hard enough, but being sick when your heart is out in the woods with your son makes for a very long weekend.

I’ve spent a lot of time over the last 72 hours staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet of the house, and waiting for my phone to buzz with an update. And then, the photo arrived. Jason’s message was simple: “We’re going to be late getting home.” In any other context, a husband telling his sick wife he’s going to be late might be a cause for a sigh. But for us? It was music to my ears. Being “late” meant they were having too much fun to leave. It meant the hunt was going well. It meant Will was feeling so good that he didn’t want the day to end. When you are fighting for every second, a “late night” is a victory.

Nature as the Best Medicine

We have spent a lot of time in offices with white coats and sterile equipment. We are grateful for every doctor and every nurse who has helped us along this path. But looking at Will lately, I am convinced that the woods are his real clinic.

There is something about the “Outdoor Life” that heals the parts of a person that medicine cannot reach. Out there, Will isn’t a patient. He isn’t a set of lab results or a scan date. He is a hunter. He is a woodsman. He is a kid with a bigger-than-life personality and a talent for finding the biggest buck in the county.

The resilience he shows is staggering. Most adults would have folded under the pressure he has faced, yet he carries it with a shrug and a smile. He has taught us that joy isn’t something you wait for; it’s something you pursue. You go out and you find it, even if you have to hike through the brush and sit in the cold for hours to get it.

Stronger Every Day

As I wait for them to pull into the driveway, I realize that these mounts we are running out of wall space for aren’t just for Will. They are for all of us. They are reminders that we are #WillStrong. They are physical evidence that we chose to live life to the fullest, even when the path was rocky.

So, yes, Jason, bring him home late. Let him stay out in the woods as long as his heart desires. We will find a way to make more room on the walls. We will move the furniture, we will take down the mirrors, and we will clear every inch of space we have. Because every trophy Will brings home is a story of a day he won. And in this house, we celebrate every single win.

Will’s joy is the best medicine I could ever ask for—even better than anything that could cure this stomach bug. To see him thrive, to see him happy, and to see him “living his absolute best life” is the greatest trophy of all.