As we gaze at Owen today, it's as if we're looking at a stranger, yet, undeniably, he is our son—our brave little warrior whose resilience tests the bounds of what we thought possible. In the span of this tumultuous journey, he's gained an astonishing seven pounds, his cheeks blooming outward in a manner that would be endearing if not for the circumstances, resembling a chipmunk's storage. His once slender abdomen now distends before him, a testament to the tumult. The act of walking, a simple joy once taken for granted, has been wrested from him, his bones aching too severely to bear the weight of his battle-scarred body. The emotions he wrestles with are as palpable as they are varied; sadness and anger intermingle, fueled by an insatiable hunger—a cruel gift from the medications he must endure. Yet, Owen is alive. It's a truth that, amidst the tempest of his treatment, can slip through our fingers like grains of sand.

In the daily maelstrom of managing side effects, it's all too easy to lose sight of this fundamental truth. Concerns cloud our thoughts—worries about his burgeoning weight and whether this path he's on, paved by an artificially amplified appetite, might lead him toward a lifelong struggle with food, mirroring our own battles. The questions spiral from there: What are these steroids etching into the very fabric of his being? His bones, his muscles—what unseen toll are they exacting? Will he be able to chase the fleeting shadows of a normal childhood, experience the tumultuous yet thrilling journey of adolescence, and stand firm and fulfilled as a man?

He's alive. This single thread of truth weaves through the grand tapestry of our worries, binding us to hope. Everything else, every shadow of future concern, is a bridge we'll cross with determined strides when—and if—the time comes. We're committed to guiding Owen through developing healthy eating habits, a pledge that perhaps shines a light on a path of betterment for us. We're prepared to support his first tentative steps back into a world that doesn't wince at the touch of the ground, enlisting the expertise of a physical therapist if that's what it takes to challenge him at just the right pace.

This journey isn't one in which we walk alone. Beyond the clinical confines, a community of warriors and their families extend their hands in solidarity. Some bear the scars of triumph; others bear the weight of loss. But all share the unspoken understanding of what it means to fight for every heartbeat, every breath.

The specter of what could have been had we chose inaction haunts our quieter moments, an abyss so profound that it summons tears unbidden. The thought of a world devoid of Owen's light, laughter, and sheer presence is unbearable—a reality we refuse to contemplate. So when we look into the eyes of our son, seeing the pain and the struggle, it's a clarion call to muster every ounce of strength to embody the resilience we wish to instill in him. It's a reminder that the weight of potential futures—of what could have been or what may yet come to pass—should not be his to bear.

In this, we find our resolve and our purpose. We face each day with a steadfast heart to shield Owen from tomorrow's burdens while nurturing the flame of hope that dances within us all. Ultimately, it is not just about surviving; it's about thriving, about carving out moments of joy and normalcy amid the storm. It's about living, truly living, and showing Owen that strength doesn't always roar. Sometimes, the quiet voice at the end of the day whispers, "We will try again tomorrow."