Jackson’s Story
A love letter. A legacy. A promise to keep fighting.
Before cancer ever entered our lives, music was already part of Jackson's story.
When Kayla was pregnant with him, she played music constantly—singing to him, listening to records, especially The Head and the Heart. It was our soundtrack. It filled our home. And once Jackson was here, I'd dance around the kitchen island with him in my arms, laughing, swaying, holding him close.
Music wasn't background noise for us—it was connection. It was comfort. It was love.
We didn't know then that music would become something else too.
On February 15, 2018, we learned Jackson had Acute Myeloid Leukemia (AML). The kind of sentence that splits your world cleanly in half: before and after. Nothing about it felt real—until it was all real. The hospital. The waiting. The words you can't un-hear. The way time moves strangely when you're terrified.
One of the most beautiful truths about Jackson was that even while his body was fighting, his spirit was still so clearly him. Sweet. Curious. Gentle. Bright.
Not long after, genetic testing brought more difficult news: Jackson had a rare, aggressive form of AML with a 20% survival rate.
The number sits with you differently when it's your child. Twenty percent. We held our 18-month-old son and tried to make sense of odds that felt impossibly small.
We were told chemotherapy alone wouldn't be enough. Jackson would need a bone marrow transplant to have a chance. And so we did what parents do when the unthinkable is placed in front of them:
We fought.
Jackson endured six cycles of aggressive chemotherapy. Then came his first bone marrow transplant—with Kayla as his match, which felt like hope wrapped in love. For a brief, beautiful moment, we thought we were winning.
But on day +15, complications struck. The transplant failed. So we did it again. A second transplant. This time with a donor we'd never meet—a stranger who chose to save our son's life.
What we remember most isn’t the illness.
It’s his smile, his laughter, and the light in his eyes.
One hundred and seven consecutive days in the hospital. Our world became those four walls.
But our family and friends made sure it didn’t feel sterile or cold. They helped us transform Jackson’s hospital room into a space filled with love—pictures from home taped to the walls, his favorite toys scattered across the floor, reminders of the life we were fighting to get back to.
Our nurses became family. They didn’t just take care of Jackson—they took care of all of us. They celebrated the tiniest victories with us and held us together on the days we were falling apart.
And music stayed with us through all of it.
At CHOP, music therapy became one of the places Jackson could breathe. A place that softened the edges of a world filled with beeping machines and exhaustion and fear. Music helped him feel safe. It helped him feel like Jackson.
Our community—our people—they showed up. They lifted us when we had nothing left. They reminded us we weren’t alone.
But in the middle of all that—Jackson still found joy.
He smiled through hard days. He played. He kept swimming.
And so did we.
Music didn't cure him. But it gave him moments where cancer wasn't the loudest thing in the room.
For a while, we got to step outside the hospital walls again. And then, in January 2019, Jackson relapsed.
We kept fighting—because that’s what love does. Love stays. Love tries. Love refuses to give up even when the path is brutal. We pursued every option we could. But here’s what we want you to know about those final six months:
Jackson lived.
He wasn’t just a kid with cancer. He was our son—an old soul who loved, laughed, and played like any other little boy.
We took him to Disney World with our extended family. We went camping. We visited the Poconos, Dorney Park, and Hershey Park. We played at playgrounds. We went to the beach.
He devoured tomato pie. He loved superheroes and John Deere tractors and music that made him want to dance. He spent precious time with family—especially his cousins Lily and Piper. He was surrounded by people who adored him.
In between treatments and appointments and impossible conversations, Jackson got to be exactly who he was meant to be: a happy, curious, beloved little boy.
In early July, his condition took a turn for the worse. Jackson passed away on July 12, 2019—just nineteen days before his third birthday.
We carry him with us —
in every breath, every step, every reason we keep going.
And the truth is: his story didn't end that day.
Because love doesn't end. And purpose doesn't end. And the fight doesn't end.
We created Jackson's Journey because everything we do is anchored back to him. This is how we honor him. This is how we carry him. This is how we keep showing up for families walking into the same terrifying hallways we once walked into.
And we chose a Rock Out Childhood Cancer benefit—built around music—because music was part of Jackson's healing long before we ever understood how much healing we would need. It held us together when nothing else made sense. It gave Jackson joy in the hardest moments. It gave us moments we still return to—like dancing around the kitchen island with our boy, while the record played, and life felt simple and whole.
This is our love letter to him.
Just keep swimming, Jackie T.
Mom and Mama 💛