I hope you all know just because I haven’t been posting doesn’t mean I haven’t been writing.

At what age do you think we realize our mortality? That is the question I posed while lying in the MRI machine, trying my hardest not to freak the fuck out over how claustrophobic I felt. God damn it, Maya. Why can’t you think about something more pleasant to pass the time? You just had the most incredible summer; a pinch-me moment summer. The pinch me moment came while I was on a whale-watching boat in the San Juan Islands of the Pacific Northwest. I had Poppy on my lap, and she was giggling over the ocean swells we were bouncing over. The salty ocean water splashed our faces, and there he was. Just across from us, I locked eyes with him. Those eyes were just as they had always been, only now, they were extra sparkly for me. He laughed out loud, took out his iPhone, and snapped a picture of Poppy and me. I felt my stomach drop as I pinched the inside of my arm, and I felt the slightest tinge of pain. I hadn’t had one of those moments since before Ronan died. Why can’t you think about that moment while you are lying here instead? Why the fuck do you have to have such a morbid brain? Duh. You know why. Insert dead child here. I closed my eyes to try to block out the impending doom blasting in my ears from the MRI machine. You would think with all the incredible technology in the world, somebody would have figured out a way to make this “experience” a little more pleasurable. 

Six days prior, I was on an airplane with Woody and Poppy en route to Omaha, Nebraska, to take Liam to college. Liam, Quinn, and their best friend Landon were driving Liam’s car out, and we had planned it so we would all arrive in Nebraska around the same time. Mr. Sparkly Eyes stayed behind because he had a couple of appointments and also the animals to look after. Despite my best efforts to get him to come, he remained steadfast in his decision. “Please.” I played with his foot under the dinner table, hoping I could coax him with the delicious homemade meal that I had placed in front of him. “My darling. The love of my life. Trust me on this one. This is an emotional time for all of you, taking Liam to college. I have things to take care of here, so I will stay behind while you spend this time together. It’s three days. You have to trust that I know what I’m talking about. I’ll say my goodbye to Liam here and let you all have your time in Omaha as a family.” 

“You are also our family, and everyone wants you to come, not just me. I understand your reasons for not coming, but I will miss you so much.” I pleaded, but I knew he wasn’t changing his mind.“It’s only a few days, my darling, but I will miss you, too.” He kissed the top of my forehead, and we finished up the rest of our dinner. We had been through a war to get to this point, and someday I will share that story, but not here.

I boarded the Southwest flight to Omaha a few days later and took a slew of emotions with me. Our first college kid drop-off. How the fuck are we all going to survive this separation? And why doesn’t anyone talk about how hard this transition is? What do you mean I must be so excited about sending my firstborn twin off into this big wide world and trusting that the Zodiac Killer won’t abduct him? Why can’t he remain with us for the rest of his life? Or better yet, let’s pack up and move to Omaha for half the year and spend the other half in Santa Cruz with Quinn. I’m not exaggerating when I say both of these “plans” had crossed my mind. Woody was not handling the boys leaving for college well. I was not handling the boys leaving for college well. But I think out of all of us, Poppy was the most heartbroken. Once the boys had decided on colleges, we discussed it more frequently, and she started having mini breakdowns. I wanted to be proactive in trying to help her navigate things, so I found a therapist for her to see once a week. Her therapist was a good fit and someone Poppy took to. I wanted to make sure she knew her sadness was valid and that she felt comfortable expressing whatever she may be feeling. Some nights I would find her in her bed, under the covers, with tears streaming down her face. I would crawl under the covers to hold her, and often, we would cry together. She would eventually find her way back to me, and the words would start. 

“Why do my brothers have to leave me behind?” 

“I’m never going to get to see them anymore.” 

“I’m going to be an only child now.”

“I’m going to be lonely because they are my best friends.”

“Who is going to play board games with me?” 

“Why can’t they just stay here and go to ASU?” 

I would answer her questions one by one. Eventually, I would make her laugh, and we would find our way out of the darkness and back into the light. I am quietly trying to teach her the importance of embracing the darkness in this messy, complicated world. That everything cannot be fixed with a fake smile or stuffing down feelings. Not acknowledging our truth can be detrimental to our mental health and significantly impact our lives in a harmful way. I cannot tolerate the fakeness that people carry around in this world, sprinkling it around like it is the answer to everything. Eventually, you will rot from the inside out, and I am such a huge believer that embracing the darkness has the power to invoke so much healing in ourselves and lead us to places we never knew we were capable of going. 

“Mama. How long is this flight? Did you pack my headphones? What about snacks?” I looked over at Poppy and felt my heart flutter. Fuck. I don’t know what I would do without her. For as much as she needed me, I very much needed her. She was the yin to my yang. My mini in so many ways yet so fiercely her own little being. She was magic and fire, and I still thank Ronan every fucking day for her. I KNOW he had a hand in giving us this little girl of ours. The sister he always wanted. His “Minnie Mouse,” as he wanted to name her. I pulled her backpack out from underneath her seat and got out everything she needed to occupy her for the next couple of hours. I pulled out my computer and spent the majority of the flight going over edits on my book while I listened to my writing music on my headphones. Side note: I ALWAYS only listen to Taylor Swift when writing. An hour and a half went by, and Poppy tapped my shoulder to ask if I would do an activity book with her. We had about thirty minutes before we landed, so I put away my things, and we started doing a crossword puzzle. Twenty minutes passed, and the flight attendant got on the loudspeaker to announce that we were making our descent and that the plane would be landing soon. That is the last thing I remember about our flight. I woke up on the tarmac of Omaha, Nebraska, in a parked ambulance with no memory of how I got there.

“Do you know where you are?” My eyes slowly refocused as I looked at some sixteen-year-old paramedic asking me this question. A question that I couldn’t answer. I had no idea where I was. I could see a solemn-faced Woody trying to comfort Poppy. She was trying to be so brave but was quietly crying. I could see my daughter crying, but I could not figure out how to articulate any words or motions to comfort her. My brain cannot process anything that happened or what was going on at the current time. I was asked a few more questions by the paramedic, which I do not remember, and I have no idea if I was able to answer.

Mr. Sparkly Eyes called. “My darling. I’m on my way home, and then I’m getting on a flight. Woody called me from the plane and told me what had happened. I’m landing close to midnight. I’m trying to get there as fast as I can. I have the best doctor I know in Omaha at the ER waiting for you. She’ll look after you and update me on everything, but I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

I thanked him, told him I loved him, and hung up. I hardly remember arriving at the ER, but when we got there, we were met by multiple nurses and a doctor. Blood was drawn, vitals were taken, more questions were asked, and a CT scan was ordered. A couple of hours went by, and a doctor walked into the room. 

“Your lab work came back normal, and your CT is normal. Have you been under a lot of stress recently? You had a Grand Mal seizure, which can be induced by stress or lack of sleep.” 

I think about this question, but my brain feels foggy, and my head feels so heavy. I answer back. “Not more than normal, but maybe taking your firstborn to college is stressful? I’m not stressed, but maybe I am. I just feel sad.” 

She smiled at me and said, “Well, we can release you, or we can keep you, but if you stay, you’d have to stay in the Emergency Room because our hospital is full.”

“That’s not necessary. I want to be discharged.” I looked over at Poppy and Woody; both looked pale and terrified. 

“Alright. We will unhook your IV, and you can be on your way.” 

Twenty minutes later, I was out the door, walking to the car. I asked Woody what happened, and he explained details I had no memory of. I asked him if the boys knew, and he said he didn’t want to tell them until we saw them in person, which I was so thankful for. The car ride to meet the boys was quiet. I felt like absolute garbage. We arrived at Airbnb, and just as we parked and got out, the boys pulled up to us, horn blaring as the three of them were excitedly laughing away. They hopped out of the car only to be met by our stone-cold faces. 

“What’s wrong?” Quinn asked. 

Woody replied, “We just got out of the ER. Mom had a seizure on the airplane right before we landed.” 

All three boys looked shocked and perplexed.

“What the fuck?” Quinn said.

“Exactly. What the fuck is exactly how I am feeling.”

They all came up and hugged me and asked if I was alright. Besides the inside of my lip looking like raw cartilage and feeling extremely tired, I was ok.

“Yes, I’ll be fine. I’m just tired. Let’s get you settled and grab a bite to eat. I’m sure you all are starving.”

I managed to make it through dinner, although looking back, I don’t know how I didn’t pass out in the salad I was trying to consume. We returned to where Woody, Poppy, and the boys were staying and waited for Mr. Sparkly Eyes to land.

I sent him a slew of texts. 

“Is this brain cancer?” 

“Am I going to die?” 

“I don’t want to die.” 

“I’m so happy, and I haven’t been this happy since before Ro got sick.” 

“I love our life together. I love our love and what it has created for us.”

“And now I’m going to have some terminal illness and die, and I cannot leave my kids without a mom.” 

I didn’t care how irrational I sounded because I knew what would come next. It would be his arms, wrapped around me, talking me down from the ledge in the most rational way. In a way that only he can do. He knew just what to do with me and knew just how to handle all of my worst fears. 

Woody drove us to the airport close to eleven p.m. To say I am thankful for him is the understatement of my life. No matter what has happened and how different things are now, to me, he will always walk on water. He is the best of the best, my best friend and the two of us are in a better place than we have been in such a long time. Honesty will do that to you, as well as being on the same page about the kind of family dynamic we want to exist in. Not caring about what other people think/judge or gossip about also helps. We are family and that will never change. On the way to pick up Mr. Sparkly Eyes, we spoke quietly about what had happened on the flight. Woody was calm and rational, which is the way I knew him to always be-even in the worst of moments. But I knew he was worried as fuck. Mr. Sparkly Eyes arrived, and we picked him up at the terminal’s curb. He looked concerned but gave me a quick hug and said, “Well, this is one fucking way to get me to Omaha.”

I laughed out loud for the first time that day.

“You scared the shit out of me. Let’s get you to the hotel; I know today has been horrific.”

I let him sit in the front with Woody while I listened to them talk about what had happened and the plans for the rest of the weekend. 

The following morning, I woke up feeling like I had been in a horrific car accident. My entire body ached with pain I hadn’t ever felt before. I was exhausted, and my head still felt foggy, but there was no fucking way I was going to let that get in the way of moving Liam into his apartment. We spent the next two days getting him settled, and leaving him was as hard as I thought it would be. Poppy hugged him and sobbed goodbye. That in itself broke Woody and me. I was unprepared for how gut-wrenching this new life transition would be. I know this is a “win” in the parenting handbook of life, but it doesn’t make it any easier. 

Monday morning, I found myself in the patient room of a Neurologist who is good friends with Mr. Sparkly Eyes. The three of us sat there for an hour while he asked questions and examined me. He was pleased my CT was normal but wanted an MRI and an EEG. Wednesday afternoon, I found myself in an MRI machine pondering my morbid question. When in life do we realize our mortality? It was at this moment that I was down a rabbit hole of my own.

I watched a reel of my life in my head. All that I had done and had yet to do. Ronan’s life. Ronan’s death. The always present grief that I had finally learned to accept and understand. My book is almost finished but has not yet been published for reasons I can’t discuss now. Fuck. My kids’ lives are going to be filled with so much pain because I’m going to fucking die. The thought of Liam and Quinn enduring another loss nearly sent me over the edge. Thinking about leaving Poppy on this earth… no fucking way. I know we are not in control of any of this. I know this because of Ronan, and I start to think about the end of his little life again. Did he know he was dying? Did he know he was going to be ripped from my arms? Did he know I would spend the rest of my time on earth waking up every morning, and my first thought is always, “How am I going to get through this day without him?” Eleven years later, my grief is even more present in my life, but I have learned the secret to nurturing it; it keeps me close to him. I start to spiral and panic, and just as I think I’m going to scream for the technician to let me out, a little voice fills my head. 

“Stop it. Remember all the times Ronan would be in this machine, without anesthesia, holding completely still? Remember how brave he was? And he was only a baby. You are a full-blown fucking adult, so stop it. You don’t get to be scared, and even if you are, you don’t get to act like it.”

I closed my eyes and made it through the rest of my scan because of Ronan. I redressed and walked to the waiting room where Mr. Sparkly Eyes was. I asked him how long it would take to have my MRI read, and he told me probably a day or two. We went out to the car and drove to pick Poppy up from school. A couple of hours later, the images from my scan were uploaded to the portal. I could view the pictures, but because I’m not a doctor (duh), I had no idea what I was looking at. 

I handed my phone to Mr. Sparkly Eyes so he could take a look. He looked at the images for a few minutes, said he couldn’t see anything abnormal, but made a phone call anyway. Ten minutes later, my results were read, and thank fucking Ro, my MRI was normal. MSE grabbed my hand and said, “Look at me. You’re going to be fine. You don’t have cancer. There is no brain bleed. Whatever this is, we will handle it together. This very well could have been a fluke, as the Neurologist said. That you are in the five percent of people who have an isolated seizure once in their life, and it never happens again.” 

Usually, I would have the utmost confidence in his words, but my anxiety was at an all-time high, and I am generally not an anxious person. All these new feelings I was being flooded with were very unfamiliar to what I feel in my day-to-day life. I had one more test to do, an EEG, before I could confidently say nothing was seriously wrong, and I had to wait two weeks for that test to be done. After you have a seizure, it is a strict law in Arizona that you cannot drive for three months. Driving is one of my favorite things in life and a part of independence that is very important to me.

“But, AMY. I cannot drive for THREE MONTHS! Do you know what that means? All of my freedom is gone! No more road trips! No more coffee whenever I want it! No more driving in the car, blasting my music, however loud I want!” 

I hear my new friend I met through an old friend, laughing on the other end of the phone. “Maya. You need to calm the fuck down and just pretend you are living the life of Taylor Swift, who is black car driven everywhere. This is great; this is a dream come true. I would love it if I had someone to drive my ass around at all times. ” Once she put things this way, my whole perspective changed.

I had one person to drive me around for the next three months, and I wasn’t sure how it was going to go, but the first couple of weeks went like this:

Starbucks orders while I leaned over his lap, and Poppy chimed in from the back. He would laugh and say, “What did I get myself into?” Making him laugh feels like I’m wrapped up in my favorite sweater on the perfect autumn day. 

He takes Poppy to and from school. Some days with me and some days without. On the days I am not with them, I get a full report about what the two of them talked about and how “bloody funny, kind, and smart” my little girl is. 

He drops me off at my swim team and goes to work out until I finish. 

He drops me off for lunch with my girlfriends and sometimes joins us.

He takes me to my appointments—Poppy to her voice lessons, therapy, art class, drama, and other after-school activities. 

He takes me to the grocery store where we shop together, and he marvels at my bizarre opinions about specific olives and pickles. We converse about which milk is best, but he always defers to my choice. He stays at home with me while I work and is my harshest critic and my biggest cheerleader. 

But my favorite moments in the car are the sporadic dance parties. If he senses I am feeling anxious, worried, or annoyed with him over something stupid; his go-to is to blast Harry Styles. He moves his shoulders in a way that looks like he is dancing and begs me to dance with him. In these moments, I cannot resist his charm or his wicked smile. I have no power over myself, and I always laugh and dance with him. But then there are the quieter moments. Or the moments that he grabs my hand and says in that thick South African accent, “I am so madly in love with you. Because of you, I finally know what real love is. You have shown me what it is like to be loved truly.” These moments and all the quiet moments in between turn into deep conversations about life. This whole not being able to drive thing has turned into the most unexpected quality time. Not once has he made me feel like I am a burden, or that he is too busy, or I’m too demanding, or I take up too much space. He makes me feel imperfectly perfect, which is only one of the thousands of things he loves about me. 

Can I end this here? This feels like an excellent place to stop for now, but I promise there is so much more of this story to come. 

P.S. My EEG came back to normal. So, I am going to trust what the doctor has said and go with this as a fluke and a one-time thing. I do not have brain cancer. Or a brain bleed. Or Epilepsy. And I am not dying. But I also know that at any moment, life can change in an instant. So you can be sure that I am going to continue to live my life in a way where dance parties in a car full of laughter and love are a very regular thing.

I love you on a Sunday. And all of the other days that follow.

Ronan,

They say time heals all wounds, but we know that’s not true. It’s been ten years of not having you here, and my wounds are still just as deep, and the heaviness I carry with me never goes away. I have learned to live on this earth without you, but as time goes on, life without you feels harder. You are forever with me in everything I do and everywhere I go. Take today, for example.

Poppy has been taking piano lessons for a couple of years. Her piano teacher recently retired, so she connected us with somebody new. It is a Sunday, and I am rushing your sister out the door to lessons with a new teacher. I have an idea of where we are going as I put the directions on my phone, but the location doesn’t register with me until we pull into the parking lot. Until this point, I am lost in a conversation with Poppy. She is talking non-stop in the back of the car about her theories on religion. She wants me to explain Scientology to her. I tell her I don’t know enough about it, and I need to research it a bit more before telling her the premise. She heard it’s about aliens, and she wants to know who came up with that. Mind you, she is eight, but she is eight going on 18, and I am constantly in awe of how her little mind works. As we pull into the parking lot, I feel my stomach sink. I know this place, and I used to know it well. It is the parking lot of your preschool; I feel my stomach drop. I spent a year there with you in a mom and tots class. We never got the chance to return the following school year because you got sick.

I hold Poppy’s hand as we search for the classroom where she is taking her lessons. Out of all the classrooms here, she is right across from the room where I was with you. The memories come flooding back, and I see a sixty-second movie reel of our time here together. I see your plaid shorts, your polo shirts, your mischievous smile, and the way you looked at me like I was your everything. I see you sitting in circle time. I see us reading books and playing with trucks and legos on the carpet. I see the little playground where I help you dump the sand from your tiny little shoes. I feel the tears wanting to fall from my face, but I cannot break down now. I have to meet this new teacher, so I somehow find it in me to hold on to my composure. I talk with Poppy’s teacher for a few minutes and leave Poppy with her while I make my way back to the car.

The tears are now falling, and I know there is no stopping them, so I let them continue down my face. As I am walking to my car, my mom calls. For a long time after you died, I would have ignored her phone call for one of two reasons. 1) I was ashamed of my pain. My grief. My tears. Of not being strong because, as I was told by many, strong people heal, and strong people move on. I was not doing either, and I spent many years thinking I was so fucked in the head for constantly aching for you. 2) I wanted to protect my mom from my pain, and I thought the easiest way to do so was by putting up walls and shutting her out. After a lot of therapy from Dr. Jo and a lot of self-reflection, I realized everything I had been told about grief was not only wrong but damaging to my healing.

I picked up the phone when I saw who was calling, and as soon as I said hello, my mom said, “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” She can tell from my “hello” that I am not ok. It takes me a few minutes before I can answer her because I am crying so hard. I feel horrible, knowing I am making her worry, but she sits and tries to calm me down. I am finally able to tell her where I am and what I am feeling. She talks me through things with a soothing tone and acknowledges my pain. I know she hurts so much, too, and that will forever gut me. We speak on the phone for a few more minutes, and I tell her I love her as we say goodbye. I know I have to head back to Poppy’s lesson soon, so I pull down the mirror in my car to check my appearance. I look wrecked. My face is puffy, my eyes are red, and I wonder how to explain my face to her piano teacher. It is more than evident that I have been crying. I put my face mask on and head to her classroom, telling myself I don’t need to say anything. I don’t owe anyone an explanation for my pain. Plus, awkward. I’m not ready to share Ronan’s story with a woman I just met. I thank Poppy’s teacher for the lesson and grab her tiny hand as we make our way back to the car.

“What’s wrong, mama?” asks P. Nothing gets past her, especially when it comes to me and my emotions. I consider lying to her and hiding what is going on, but then I remember, that’s not how I do life with her. I don’t keep secrets; I let her see me in my rawest, human form. I tell her what’s going on. I start to cry again. She steps up into the car, turns towards me, and wraps her arms around me.

“I love you, mommy. I remembered that Ronan went here; I knew that would make you sad. It’s ok to be sad; I’m sad, too.” I kiss her little face and tell her how much I love her. We drive home, and she proceeds to tell me about a new project she is working on at school. She knows I need a distraction from the thoughts in my head.

At home, Poppy is busy playing with her legos, and I am busy changing the boys’ bedroom sheets. My sadness is still apparent as he walks into the room. He takes one look at me and says, “Uh-oh, my darling. What’s going on?” I look at him and then down at my feet. “Nothing. I’m just having a hard day; I’m ok.” He grabs my hand. “You’re not ok. And that’s ok. Talk me through what happened because that is what we do with one another, remember? That is why we are who we are with each other.” I start to cry again, but I know my tears and pain are safe with him. He spends the next few minutes validating my words and tends to me with a cup of tea and tears of his own.

My pain is acknowledged.

My pain is valid.

My pain is safe.

My pain is nurtured.

My heart is his.

Thankful for the opportunity to continue talking about Ronan, Taylor, childhood cancer, and the horrifically hard world of bereaved parents.

https://kjzz.org/content/1737378/you-were-my-best-4-years-scottsdale-mom-reflects-taylor-swifts-rerelease-ronan?fbclid=IwAR0enkIGpunEZ1qheo1ngCebWs7VHK59S0wR3YE7pVWlQJaviWYlMFquNSk

Loving Ro was Red

Ronan,

You are unequivocally everywhere, yet you are nowhere. My eyes still wander for you while making my morning coffee as a hummingbird appears outside my window. I still spend my days chasing glimpses of you in the grocery store as a little boy who looks to be about four years old crosses my path. I search for you in the impish eyes of Quinn, the stoicism of Liam, and the mischievous giggles from Poppy. I desperately beg for you to make an appearance in my dreams, but you never do. Instead, I find myself having the most vivid dreams about things like freeing the Orcas at SeaWorld, your old Oncologists, and situations in my life that feel very unresolved or out of control. My dreams are never about you, and I still don’t understand why when you are constantly on my mind. Last night I went to bed thinking about a phone call I received earlier in the day and the email that followed. Because the email was on my mind as I drifted off to sleep, I spent most of the night dreaming about our friend, Taylor Swift. I woke up the following day in disbelief at the reality of what had occurred the day before.

“A number I don’t recognize called my phone and left me a voicemail. From somebody named Tree. I don’t have any idea who that is.” I looked up at Mr. Sparkly Eyes, and yes, his eyes still sparkle. “My darling, call the number back.” This came from the man who answers every phone call from every unknown number that rings him up. “Ok. Maybe. I’ll call back in a bit; I’m going to look through my emails first to see if I was supposed to talk to someone that I have forgotten about.” He kissed the top of my head as I got up to get to the appointment I was running late for. I did a quick search in my emails, but nothing came up from anyone named Tree. Maybe it was a newly bereaved mom I was supposed to speak to? I’ve been doing a bit of that here and there for Dr. Jo, and a couple of them I hadn’t heard back from. I decided to call back the number from my car, and a woman’s voice answered the phone.

“Hi Tree, it’s Maya Thompson returning your call.”

“Maya! I’m so happy to hear from you; I wasn’t sure if this was still your number.”

My internal dialogue was running wild. Shit! This person knows me, yet I can’t place her. I decided to give it another few seconds to see if I could figure it out.

“It’s still my number; how are things?”

“Great! Taylor has an email she wants to send you, but before she sends it, I need to make sure your email address is still the same.”

Taylor. OMG. It’s Tree. As in Taylor’s everything, Tree. That Tree! I tried to keep my composure as if Taylor contacting me was a daily occurrence. We spoke for a few more minutes as she confirmed my email address, and we said goodbye.

I pulled my car over and called my everything, my New York City, Little Rachel. She picked up, which I was so thankful for because it was the middle of the day, and I knew she was more than likely having sessions with her patients.

“Taylor’s sending me an email,” I blurted out as soon as she picked up. “What?” She squealed with excitement. “What is happening over there?” I told her the back story, and we went over the endless possibilities of what the email could potentially say. I continued refreshing my emails, but nothing new had come through. We chatted giddily for a few more minutes, and I promised to call her as soon as I heard anything. I somehow made it to my destination safely, and as I pulled in, I checked my email.

Taylor’s email was there, but I won’t be sharing her entire email publicly. She is and will always be one of the things I hold dearest to my heart, and her beautiful words will remain private. I skimmed the email. Tears sprang to my eyes. I went back and reread her words, slowly this time as I tried to comprehend what I was reading.

Let’s back up for a bit. In 2019 it became public knowledge that Taylor was being screwed over in the worst way possible by Scott Borchetta of Big Machine Records and the disgusting Scooter Braun, who must be from the pits of hell. I watched from afar as her life’s work, her blood, sweat, and tears, were stolen from her by vile men because, at the end of the day, when you have an unscrupulous soul, greed is the ultimate decision-maker. You can read Taylor’s public letter below as the cliff notes to the unraveling of the painful betrayal.

“For years, I asked, pleaded for a chance to own my work. Instead, I was given an opportunity to sign back up to Big Machine Records and ‘earn’ one album back at a time, one for every new one I turned in. I walked away because I knew once I signed that contract, Scott Borchetta would sell the label, thereby selling me and my future. I had to make the excruciating choice to leave behind my past. Music I wrote on my bedroom floor and videos I dreamed up and paid for from the money I earned playing in bars, then clubs, then arenas, then stadiums.
Some fun facts about today’s news: I learned about Scooter Braun’s purchase of my masters as it was announced to the world. All I could think about was the incessant, manipulative bullying I’ve received at his hands for years.
Like when Kim Kardashian orchestrated an illegally recorded snippet of a phone call to be leaked and then Scooter got his two clients together to bully me online about it. Or when his client, Kanye West, organized a revenge porn music video which strips my body naked. Now Scooter has stripped me of my life’s work, that I wasn’t given an opportunity to buy. Essentially, my musical legacy is about to lie in the hands of someone who tried to dismantle it.
This is my worst-case scenario. This is what happens when you sign a deal at fifteen to someone for whom the term’ loyalty is clearly just a contractual concept. And when that man says, ‘Music has value’, he means its value is beholden to men who had no part in creating it.
When I left my masters in Scott’s hands, I made peace with the fact that eventually, he would sell them. Never in my worst nightmares did I imagine the buyer would be Scooter. Any time Scott Borchetta has heard the words’ Scooter Braun’ escape my lips, it was when I was either crying or trying not to. He knew what he was doing; they both did. Controlling a woman who didn’t want to be associated with them. In perpetuity. That means forever.
Thankfully, I am now signed to a label that believes I should own anything I create. Thankfully, I left my past in Scott’s hands and not my future. And hopefully, young artists or kids with musical dreams will read this and learn about how to better protect themselves in a negotiation. You deserve to own the art you make.
I will always be proud of my past work. But for a healthier option, Lover will be out August 23.”

Sad and grossed out,
💔
Taylor

I remember reading Taylor’s words and how nauseous I felt after. I had so many sleepless nights during the next few months. I worried about Taylor’s heart. I wondered what would happen to you. You are my life’s work. You are my blood, sweat, and tears, and now somebody other than Taylor “owned” you. I vented on my social media accounts about the unfairness of it all, not knowing if anyone was listening to what I was saying. There started to be chatter on the internet of Taylor re-recording all her old albums so she could own her OWN music again, which was such a bloody smart move. Taylor soon confirmed she was going to do so. I felt so proud of her upon hearing this news, and I let the happiness of that carry me through my grief of letting our song belong to people who didn’t deserve it. ‘Ronan’ was always going to be a charity single, never attached to an album of hers. In my mind, there was no way she was going to re-record it, and I understood why. Knowing that Taylor had taken the most horrific situation and had found a way to get her art back made my wounds hurt less. I was just thankful she had done the most incredible thing for us in the first place. That was more than enough. It was always going to be more than enough, and I had let go of wishing it could be any other way.

Now back to a part of her email that I received.

“I’ve recently completed the re-recording of my 4th album, Red. It’s really exceeded my expectations in so many ways, and one of those ways is that I thought it would be appropriate to add ‘Ronan’ to this album. Red was an album of heartbreak and healing, of rage and rawness, of tragedy and trauma, and of the loss of an imagined future alongside someone. I wrote Ronan while I was making Red and discovered your story as you so honestly and devastatingly told it. My genuine hope is that you’ll agree with me that this song should be included on this album. As my co-writer and the rightful owner of this story in its entirety, your opinion and approval of this idea really matters to me, and I’ll honor your wishes here.”

It took me an hour to absorb the words in front of me. I shared the news with your brothers, Poppy, your daddy, Mr. Sparkly eyes, and a couple of my dearest friends. I cried while sharing the news. I called Tree back and spoke to her for a few minutes about what had just occurred. I told her of course, Taylor had my permission to put ‘Ronan’ on Red. I tried my best to articulate how much this meant to me through my tears, but there are not enough words in the English language that will ever be able to appropriately convey my feelings about this. Taylor has anchored you to this world so you will never be lost, and now she has ensured you will forever be safe in a new, permanent home. She is once again giving a voice to the often voiceless, bereaved parents of the world as well as childhood cancer which deserves so much more funding than it gets.

“Red (Taylor’s version)” will be out November 19th and on that album, there will be you. It is the most perfect album for you to be on as it represents so much heartbreak, love, and pain.

I have so much more I want to talk about and so much more I want to write about, but I’m under a book writing deadline that I need to get back to.

I miss you. I love you. I hope you are safe.

My dearest Taylor,

I love you.

My words of thank you will never be enough. Thank you for keeping Ronan safe. Thank you for never forgetting him. Thank you for breaking rules and breaking free. Thank you for that heart of yours that is made of pure gold. You are a constant source of inspiration to me in so many areas of my life, and there is nobody in the world I would rather have Ronan with than you. I’m going to write to you separately about this but for now, thank you.

Are you ready to be a Spicy Monkey??

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Our lovely friends at SpirtHoods are re-relasing the ever so popular Spicy Monkey just in time for September! There will only be a limited number available and the first time around, they sold out fast!

Stay tuned for a release date! We love this company so much!!!

 

 

https://www.spirithoods.com/spicymonkeys

Dear Empire State Building, Part 7

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Dear Empire State Building,
My name is Sabrina Houara and I just finished my first classes at Arizona State University, where I’m majoring in health sciences pre-professional, hoping to finish in 3 years instead of four. That’s me: over-achiever, future doctor, overall nerd, and voice for kids with cancer.
I know with every part of me that I was meant to be a pediatric oncologist, but I may have never found this path if it hand’t been for Maya and Ronan and their inspiring love for each other. Like so many others I first heard Ronan’s story when Taylor Swift first sang her song Ronan, based on Maya’s blog. I looked up the story and spent the next few weeks reading and bawling.

 
It seemed unimaginable to me that this beautiful little boy could have been ripped from the world so soon, and that so many kids are taken by this awful disease known as childhood cancer. I’m still baffled by the statistics. I knew after just a few posts in that I had to do whatever I possible could to help change this, but I still wasn’t sure how. Then a few days later I approached my parents with an idea: I wanted to be a pediatric oncologist, and they were completely on board. I quickly began forming this idea of what kind of doctor I would be, but I already knew. I would be the kind of doctor I would want for myself, for my own children whenever I have them. I want to be the type of doctor to fight for each and every patient with everything I have, because this is life or death for them. When I tell people that I’ve decided to go into this field I’m usually met with some form of the phrase, “Oh that will be so sad, I could never do that.” But if I can save the life of just one child, it will be worth it to me. These kids will be dying whether or not I’m right there on the front lines, so I will do everything I can as a doctor to help change this for them.

 
The thing is, it won’t matter how good of a doctor I am (and I plan on being a flipping good one) if we can’t get more funding for childhood cancer. The more funding we can get, the more experimental trials we can fund, and that brings us one step closer to finally finding a cure for this horrible disease that is taking the lives of so many children. The key to getting more funding is to raise awareness, to get people to realize that childhood cancer is a real problem, and that it takes the lives of 7 children every day in the US alone. Those who survive are left with side effects from treatment that will affect them for the rest of their lives. We need for more people to see this, to want to help.
This is where you would come in. Lighting the Empire State Building gold for one day in September would bring heaps of awareness. Many families were seriously hurt when you denied their requests, it felt like you were saying their child didn’t matter. I don’t know any of this firsthand, but it’s easy to tell from the social media campaign that came soon after two non-profits filled out your application and were denied.
You can still make this right. Please find it in your heart to change your mind, for these kids. For Ronan and far too many others. Help us make it so that no parent, grandparent, aunt, uncle, sibling, or cousin has to watch their loved one slowly die as a result of childhood cancer. Help us make it so that no child knows the pain of having their little body invaded by cancer and the horrific treatments that go with it. Help us raise awareness for childhood cancer so we can find a cure and no child will ever die from this killer again. Again I say, you can still make this right.

 
Sincerely,

 
Sabrina Houara
Childhood Cancer Awareness Advocate and Future Pediatric Oncologist

Dear Empire State Building, Part 6

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Dear Empire State Building,
My name is Jennifer Garcia and I am a 24 year college student from California. I have been to New York once and I remember feeling like it was the most magical of places, the place where anything could happen. I always aspired to go back one day and I hope when I get the chance that I can know that for one day in September the top of the Empire State Building sparkled gold for our kids. I say ‘our’ kids because it shows how much of a tight knit group of people we are, us activists for childhood cancer awareness.

You think that we are pushy, mean and threatening? We are passionate, angry, devastated and some broken beyond repair by the loss that we face everyday. The loss of a child whether it was our own child, a friends child, a little brother or sister or a beautiful boy with the most sparkling blue eyes that you only know through photographs and the words of a mom who will never stop fighting for him. I was aware that kids get cancer, I saw the St. Jude commercials and I would frown for a moment and then the program I was watching would come back on and I was sucked back into the happy state of ignorance. All that changed when I watched Taylor Swift sing at the Stand Up To Cancer telethon. Before she even finished the song I was sobbing uncontrollably. When i was finally able to compose myself I raced to my laptop and typed “Ronan” into Google. My world changed that day I could no longer just shake my head and think how sad when I saw the St. Jude commercials or the collection jars at the supermarket. I started doing research and was horrified when i found out how underfunded pediatric cancer research is. All the times I donated to American Cancer Society only 1 cent for every dollar went to pediatrics. Our kids are getting swept under the rug like a dirty secret. It seems like the world is whispering, “Shhh, If we don’t talk about it maybe no one will notice.”

Well, we have noticed, it is all around us, the world is full of scary things and we want to protect our children any way we can. Unfortunately, we can’t protect them from this we can kiss away their tears and try to make them smile but this isn’t just a scraped knee or them teased at school. This is the biggest bully they can face and no matter how much we whisper to them “It’ll be okay” we know this is one thing we can’t promise to save them from. There is nothing worse then knowing you can’t protect them. When I read that Maya was trying to get you guys to go gold for ONE day in September, sadly my first thought wasn’t this should be easy. My first thought was this is going to take some work to get noticed. What kind of world are we living in where we have to shout and send out petitions and trend worldwide on twitter to raise awareness for childhood cancer. You light up different colors for the dog shows and the Ninja Turtles movie premier. Are dogs and ninja turtles more important than our kids? In a way that is what it sounds like your saying.

I read the message that you don’t take requests from individuals just organizations. The Ronan Thompson Foundation is an organization and they along with thousands of others are begging, yes begging, you to change your mind and do what is right. Restore our faith in humanity and turn gold for one day. We are not a picky bunch, you choose the day in September. Just please light up gold. I am not one to beg or plead but I want to have kids one day and I don’t want to bring them into this world knowing that Cancer is a possibility for them. I want them to have endless possibilities for happiness and success. I want them to live spicy sparkly lives and I want to know that the possibility is there for all kids. We can’t save them all but we can try. We can try extra hard for those kids that didn’t get to reach their full potential. The one’s that we only saw fleeting glimpses of the outstanding things they were going to do. Help us make their lights continue to glow gold.
Be Bold Go Gold,
Jennifer

Dear Empire State Building, Part 3

Ronan, before he was diagnosed.
Ronan, before he was diagnosed.

 

 

Dear Empire State Building,
My name is Payton. I am fifteen, almost sixteen. I have never been in the hospital. I do not have cancer. None of the people close to me have cancer. Still, I am a pediatric cancer advocate. I read the blog of Maya Thompson after I heard Taylor Swift’s song Ronan. This soon led to multiple children on Facebook, who I look for on my newsfeed everyday. One of these children is Lilly Bumpus. She’s a beautiful toddler, in remission. She suffers from side effects of the 75% adult strength chemo she was given. Seizures and tics, with no explanation. She has night terrors, about people coming in and waking her up in the middle of the night to check her vital signs.

I’m writing this from a hospital bed, as my appendix was just removed. So I can understand how the nighttime checks could scare someone so young. What just happened to me is nothing. Nothing, compared to what so many children go through. They live with IV needles and ports and constant pain. I don’t know if you’ve ever had to leave a needle in your vein for a long time, but it sucks. These children go through surgery and chemo, radiation and clinical trials. While we, as people who understand how horrible this disease is, fight for awareness, these kids, teenagers, and babies fight for their lives. In the US, 7 of them lose everyday. 46 are signed up to fight. Families are forced into this battle, for their kids. I cannot even imagine life without my little sister. Some of those siblings, whose brothers and sisters you refuse to represent, know what that life is like.

Maya Thompson’s older sons learned that at 8 years old. When his 1 year old sister got a black eye in a baby tumble, one of these boys asked his mom if baby Poppy was going to die. An 11 year old. Because he watched as cancer took his 3 year old brother. No child should ever have to fight cancer, no parent should ever have to lose a child to cancer, no sibling should ever have to watch this disease take their brother or sister. You don’t need to know someone closely. You just have to look around and realize how wrong these kids’ situation is. You just have to want to help them. To tell everyone, “pediatric cancer is wrongly underfunded, and we need awareness, so we can save these kids.”

Some people are pulled into this fight for their loved ones,and to make sure it never happens to someone else’s, but I fight for all of them. For Ronan and Lilly, Paxton and Mateo, Ellie and Alyna. I want you to light up gold, so in the future, Babies like Alyna, toddlers like Ro, and teens like Talia won’t die. So Lilly and Kaitlin and so many others can stay in remission. And Mateo and Ellie and every other kid facing cancer can win. Childhood cance is wrong. You don’t have to experience that to know it’s true.

 

Please light up gold,
Payton

Be Bold Go GOLD!

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It’s time to… #BeBoldGoGold!

Get your glitter on! We’re kicking off Childhood Cancer Awareness Month with a bang & a sparkle! Throughout September, we’re turning ourselves into spicy, gold human billboards for childhood cancer awareness and want YOU to join us! Welcome to the #BeBoldGoGold Challenge!

HOW IT WORKS:

-You deck yourself out in your gold bling or glitter—jewelry, clothes, facepaint, you name it, you rock it. You head out into a public place. Talk to at least one person about childhood cancer—tell them a fact, like that 46 are diagnosed with cancer every day. The goal is to raise awareness, so talk to as many people as you can & encourage them to take the #BeBoldGoGold Challenge

-Film/photograph your adventure, and tag us in it! We’re reposting submissions to our new #BeBoldGoGold Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter. When you post your video/photo, nominate 3 people to carry out the challenge by tagging them. They have 48 hours after being tagged to get their gold on! Make sure to hashtag #BeBoldGoGold and #RTF.

-At the end of September, we’re giving a prize to whoever goes all out and makes the biggest impact (aka raises the most awareness)! We’ll also have #BeBoldGoGold shirts available to purchase (link coming soon). If you would prefer to donate instead of (or in addition to) the challenge, visit: http://www.theronanthompsonfoundation.com/ & share the link.

The Challenge kicks off August 29th… stay gold!

Dear Empire State Building, Part 3

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Dear Empire State Building Employees,

There is something you need to understand about childhood cancer and those affected. And there is something you need to understand about social media. We don’t fight alone. Nobody does. A stranger’s battle becomes each of ours. We are in it together. We all talk to each other, and we know it was more than one individual who requested you to light up gold. We know. At least two nonprofit organizations have filled out the form on your website, in hopes of seeing your building light up gold for one night next month. One night is all we ask. We know you have gold light bulbs. Sure, individuals have requested for you to do the same, and perhaps you feel justified in denying them, and perhaps you are, in fact, justified. But when two nonprofit charities have diligently filled out the form, and sent it in, and they are still refused, what then? Are we supposed to just give up? That isn’t how we operate at all. We fight daily for our kids, for our families, for the other kids we know who are fighting for their lives, and yes, for ourselves. Because some of us, me included, are survivors of childhood cancer.

And we all are friends on social media platforms. We all talk to each other. We know who has filled the form on your website. We know parents who posted pictures of their sick children on your Facebook wall, and those posts were promptly deleted by the person who who administrates the page. We just wanted you to see what you were saying no to. We just wanted you to see who you were saying no to. We wanted you to see the babies you are refusing to help. But you just block everyone. Why? We are just going to keep asking. I think all of you know that.

In your statement, you say you provide lighting for World Cancer Day in partnership with American Cancer Society. That is pretty amazing. But did you know that American Cancer Society only gives a penny or less out of every dollar they receive to pediatric cancer? There is a reason why we want you to go gold next month. Pediatric cancer is grossly underfunded. It gets less than 4% of federal funding and there are more types of childhood cancer than you can count on your fingers. On both hands. Everyone in the childhood cancer social media community and in their orbits knows about childhood cancer. Most people step up to help. Other people have their own causes, their own problems. But for us, this is it. This is worth fighting for. Would you not say your own children were worth fighting for? Would you not do anything for them? Their lives depend on you. Sick children’s lives depend on us, on awareness, on action.

That brings me to what you said about people getting frustrated and wishing cancer on you. First off, I doubt that was what really happened. Nobody in this community would ever wish cancer on somebody else, even someone they don’t get along with very well. Cancer is a horrible nightmare. If you had gone through it, either yourself or with a loved one, you would know that. If someone within our community is “abusive,” as you say, then it is out of sheer frustration and has nothing to do with you personally. We are all human. We are all running a million miles a minute and getting nowhere fast. You said no to Thumbs Up for Lane Goodwin Childhood Cancer Foundation and you said no to The Ronan Thompson Foundation. We have been asking for at least two years. If we get a little frustrated, who are you to blame us, really? Kids are dying every single day all over the world, and these are battles we can’t fight for them. But the fight for awareness and funding? That is what we can do. We will keep coming. We will keep asking. And that is a promise.

Sincerely,

Danielle
Stage IV neuroblastoma survivor
Diagnosed at 15 and a half months

 

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