Childhood cancer families face the unimaginable. But after the diagnosis, life doesn’t stop. There are still school days, friendships, birthdays, practices, games, laughter—and children who desperately want to feel like themselves again.
For our son, that meant sports.
He has always loved hockey and soccer. Sports were never just activities for him; they were part of who he was. So throughout his treatment, we tried to protect that sense of normalcy. We wanted him to know that cancer was something he was going through—not something that defined him.
His first year of hockey, his team was incredibly supportive. They showed up for him and made him feel like he still belonged. We will always be grateful for that.
The second year was different.
While our son was still in treatment and working toward recovery, we were told that the team could not support him until he was fully recovered. For our son, that was devastating. Hockey was something he lived and breathed. His team had been part of his life since he was three years old. Losing that connection at a time when he needed it most was heartbreaking.
Thankfully, another team stepped up.
Thankfully, another hockey community welcomed him and supported his love for the game. They understood that he might need to do things differently. They gave him a place to belong while he continued to heal. We will forever be grateful for their acceptance and the light it brought back into his life.
And yet, while out for a summer skate, a few of his former teammates ignored him. Others suggested that he had left because he thought he was “too good for the team.”
Too good?
This is a child who experienced liver failure just 10 months ago and nearly lost his life. A child who had to learn to walk again, then run, then skate. A child who has spent the past year and a half enduring more than most adults could imagine.
He isn’t “too good.”
He is recovering.
He is fighting.
And he deserves support, not criticism.
That is why his experience with soccer has meant so much to our family.
His soccer community has shown us what inclusion can look like. They have been willing to meet him where he is—to work with him at his pace, on his timing, and according to how he is feeling that day. There is no pressure to be the player he was before. There is simply encouragement to be the player he can be today.
This summer, when he finally stepped back onto the soccer pitch, parents were cheering for him. On our side of the field, there wasn’t a dry eye.
It wasn’t just about soccer.
It was about seeing our son reclaim a piece of his childhood.
Community matters. More than we sometimes realize, the little things matter. An invitation. A place on the bench. A teammate who says, “We’re glad you’re here.” A coach willing to adjust. A parent who cheers. A community willing to meet a child exactly where they are instead of judging them for where they aren’t yet.
For families living through childhood cancer, normalcy isn’t about pretending cancer didn’t happen. It’s about making sure our children are still allowed to be children while they heal.
They are not their diagnosis.
They are athletes, teammates, friends, siblings, students, artists, comedians, dreamers—and so much more.
Our son has been through the ringer. He has fought incredibly hard to get back to the things he loves.
All he needs from the people around him is what every child deserves: support, understanding, patience, and the chance to belong.