Growing up as the oldest of four kids taught me responsibility early on. I’ve always felt the pull to take care of my younger siblings—and, if I’m being honest, to boss them around sometimes too. I’m the one my parents go to when they need help with chores, babysitting, or anything around the house. At the same time, I’m also the person my siblings come to when they want to hang out, grab food, or just talk. That role has always been a big part of who I am. Everything shifted the winter of my eighth-grade year when my younger brother, Chase, was diagnosed with cancer. Suddenly, the hospital became a second home for my family. Chase and I have always been best friends, so watching his energy, humor, and sense of self fade was incredibly hard. Even though we were surrounded by family, I found myself pulling away, not really knowing how to handle what was happening. To cope, I threw myself into extracurriculars and spent as much time away from home as I could. Being there felt heavy, like a constant reminder of something I didn’t fully understand or know how to face. I didn’t talk about it unless someone asked, and even then, I struggled to find the right words. My default response became “It’s fine,” even though it wasn’t. Looking back, I can see I was protecting myself emotionally. As the oldest, my instinct has always been to protect my siblings, but this was something I couldn’t fix. Instead, I felt like I had to be strong for Chase—to act like everything would work out, even when I wasn’t sure it would. I wanted him to see confidence and hope in me and to know I would always be there for him. At the same time, I felt a responsibility to be strong for my parents. I took on more chores, helped care for my younger siblings, and tried to keep things running while my mom was often at the hospital and my dad was at work. Adjusting to this new normal was overwhelming. Everything changed so quickly, and I didn’t always know how to act around Chase or handle the added pressure. Even so, I’ve come to realize those challenges made me stronger. Chase’s journey didn’t get easier. After his initial diagnosis, he relapsed multiple times, each one taking a greater toll on him. Earlier this year, we were told he only had a few months left. On April 18th, Chase passed away. Losing him has been incredibly painful—not just for me, but for my entire family, our friends, and our community. I’m still learning how to process that loss and navigate the grief that comes with it. Even in the midst of everything, I feel deeply grateful for the love and support my family has received. The prayers, encouragement, and kindness from others are things I’ll carry with me forever. Through this experience, I’ve learned lessons I never would have otherwise. I’ve learned the importance of empathy and giving back to others in need. I’ve learned how to face difficult emotions instead of avoiding them, and how powerful faith can be during the hardest moments. I’ve also learned that it’s okay to ask for help. Most of all, I’ve learned to appreciate every moment. This experience has made me realize how quickly life can change and how important it is to cherish the people you love. Despite everything, I feel incredibly lucky—for my family, for the support system around me, and for the time I had with Chase.