As a child, I was haunted by a recurring nightmare of a doctor joyfully skipping down the street toward my house. He was there to take me from my family and add me to his “collection.” He always carried a string of balloons, each holding a child I recognized but couldn’t place. I knew we were always connected. When he reached my door, my mom would bring me to him, and he would “plug” a string into my chest, turning me into a balloon like kids, watching from the other side.

I spent my early years battling cancer. I didn’t know I had cancer at the time, just that I was there for “testing”—as if something “bad” was inside of me. I remember playing with other children in the hospital, bonding over shared experiences and IVs. At the time, I didn’t realize how these moments would later connect.

Years later, in my mid-20s, my mom shared that all the children I’d played with in the hospital—my friends—had died. I was the only survivor. One day, while journaling, I realized the children in my dream weren’t just a coincidence. They were the same children I had spent time with. I remembered playing with them and, later, playing alone after they were gone. My hospital had contacted Make-A-Wish, expecting me to die soon, and granted me one last wish. But I didn’t die. Unlike them, I survived.

That’s when I realized the dream was connected to my mortality. When the dreams appeared, the children weren’t physically present, meaning they were watching over me from the afterlife. I wasn’t fully on their side or this one—I was in between. It highlighted how close to death I had been and the guilt I felt for being the only one who survived.

For years, I struggled with survivor’s guilt. I couldn’t understand why I was spared. When I was diagnosed again and survived, the guilt intensified. Why am I alive?

Now, approaching my 30th anniversary of survival, I think about my friends and their families who have been gone for 30 years. My birthday typically represents grief, but last year I decided to live for them. Through me, they have life. Though I don’t know their names, I know they’re watching me, proud of who I’ve become.

I dedicate the rest of my life to living for them, knowing they’re always watching over me, experiencing it with me. This website, my life, my adventures, everything—is dedicated to them and their families. As the lone survivor, everything I have is for them. Through me, their memories live on.