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My younger sister Kendall was my shadow when we were kids. Whatever I did, she wanted to do too. We loved playing pretend and watching Disney movies together. But what made her special wasn’t just how she looked up to me, it was how she was truly the kindest person that I have ever known. She was the kid who would notice someone sitting alone at recess and invite them to play. When she’d go to the grocery store with my dad, she’d always remember to ask for my favorite snack to bring home to me.
My sister was just like any other happy, healthy, seven-year-old. Until she wasn’t.
In January 2020, my parents started noticing that Kendall was experiencing coordination and balance issues. After she began falling frequently, they made the difficult decision to take her to the hospital. I remember my mom rushing to pack a bag for herself and Kendall as they headed to the ER for further testing. They stayed in the hospital for a week while doctors performed tests and Kendall received her first round of IV steroids. The doctors determined that she had a condition called ADEM, which causes inflammation of the brain.
We didn’t know it then, but she would end up being misdiagnosed at this hospital.
Throughout the next few months, Kendall received three different rounds of steroids to help treat her symptoms. She received the initial round in January, an at-home round in February, and then a final round in March when she returned to the hospital. The steroids would help for a few weeks, but she would ultimately start to decline again.
In April, my parents took her to the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, also known as CHOP, for a second opinion. After numerous tests, she was diagnosed with a rare and incredibly aggressive form of brain cancer. During her two-week stay at CHOP, my mom stayed with her because they only allowed one parent in the room due to COVID-19.
I was only ten at the time, so when I wasn’t at home with my dad, I was staying with my aunt and younger cousins. It all seemed like fun, spending quality time with them, having what felt like a never-ending sleepover. I realize now how thankful I am that they were there for me as a distraction. Otherwise, I would have been consumed with worry about what was happening to my little sister and whether she would be okay.
Sadly, on May 16, 2020, Kendall passed away.
Losing her, on top of still being in lockdown because of COVID, became the most devastating experience of my life. None of my friends understood what I was going through. And even though my parents were grieving too, they were grieving a child, I was grieving my sister. We were all handling our grief in very different ways. My parents had each other and their own way of coping, but I felt like I had no one. I wouldn’t open up to my friends or family, and I had never met anyone else my age who had lost someone so significant.
That was, until I came to Comfort Zone Camp.
I attended my first camp when I was 12 years old, almost two years after Kendall died. Walking onto the campground that first day, I had no idea what to expect. My mind was racing. What if the other kids don’t like me? What if I cry and they think I’m weird? What if I say the wrong thing? What if I don’t fit in? But those fears didn’t last long. After hearing kids in my healing circle share their stories of grief and loss, something inside me shifted.
I wasn’t alone anymore.
These kids. They got it. They understood because they were living it too. I left camp that weekend feeling more seen and supported than I ever had in my life. Camp taught me that I didn’t have to carry everything alone anymore. I learned to lean on my support system instead of bottling up my emotions. I discovered healthy ways to cope when my feelings became too overwhelming. Most importantly, camp showed me that I don’t always have to be strong—I don’t have to put on a brave face, especially not there.
Comfort Zone became so much more than just a weekend grief camp for me. It became a home for my healing. It gave me a safe place to process my grief, to connect with people who truly understood, and to heal at my own pace. Without pressure, without judgment. That’s why I knew I wanted to give back. The safety, support, and love I found at camp changed my life, and I wanted to help create that same space for other kids who were hurting. So I became a Junior Counselor. I wanted to be for them what the people at camp were for me, a steady presence, a shoulder to lean on, and a listening ear. I wanted to help build that same environment of understanding and healing that saved me.
The most important thing camp helped me realize that changed everything is this, even though my sister isn’t physically here anymore, she’s still a part of me.
Helen Keller said it beautifully: “What we have once enjoyed we can never lose; all that we love deeply becomes a part of us.” As long as I talk about her, share her stories, and keep her memory alive, she’ll always be with me.
I hope if there is anything that you take with you about grief, it is that. I’m so grateful for the staff, my big buddies, and everyone who makes camp possible. I’m grateful for all of you here tonight. Because of your support, kids like me get to attend Comfort Zone Camp programs completely free of charge.
You are a part of helping us find a path forward when everything feels broken and impossible. Thank you for believing in this place and for helping it continue to change lives, one grieving child at a time.
By: Jillian Bresocnik (Little Buddy)
Comfort Zone Camp provides a fun, safe place for children and teens who have experienced the loss of a parent or sibling. Through our free weekend camps and virtual support groups, grieving kids get to go back to just being kids again, meet other kids like them, and develop healthy coping skills to help navigate their grief.
Know a child who can benefit? Here are ways to help:
