Six Years, Countless Scars, One Unbreakable Spirit
It was another long road trip to Memphis.
For the Boman family, the drive had become a ritual — one filled with both dread and determination.
Sitting in the back seat, 13-year-old
Krystalyn Boman stared out the window, the gray Tennessee sky reflected in her big, tired eyes.
They were heading to St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital, a place that had become her second home.
Today would be another round of scans and tests — the kind that decided whether hope could breathe a little longer.
Her mother sat quietly beside her, fingers tracing the edges of an old photograph taped to the dashboard — a photo of seven-year-old Krystalyn smiling with missing front teeth, before the diagnosis, before the medicine, before life changed forever.
Six years ago, Krystalyn was diagnosed with Ganglioglioma, a slow-growing tumor in the front part of her brain.
It was the word that shattered the world her parents knew.
The doctors spoke softly, explaining that though the tumor was not the most aggressive kind, it could return, it could change, and it would require years of vigilance.
From that day on, every milestone — birthdays, school plays, holidays — carried the shadow of “what if.”
What if it came back?
What if the scans were wrong?
What if this was the last normal day?
But through all the fear, there was Krystalyn — a little girl who refused to surrender her light.
Even in hospital rooms filled with the smell of antiseptic and the hum of machines, she made nurses laugh with her knock-knock jokes.
She gave names to her IV poles and decorated her chemo caps with glitter and stars.
And when her mother cried, Krystalyn would squeeze her hand and whisper, “Don’t worry, Mommy. God’s still got me.”
Years passed.
The tumor shrank, then stabilized.
She grew taller, her laughter louder, her courage brighter.
At i3 Academy Charter School, she became known not for her illness, but for her spirit.
She was an honor student, a helper in the library, and a friend to anyone sitting alone.
Her teachers admired her quiet resilience — the way she’d take her chemo before and after school, then show up to class with her notebook full of neat handwriting and colorful drawings.
The medicine made her tired.
Some mornings she’d stare at the mirror, watching strands of hair fall into the sink.
But she’d tie her scarf, straighten her shoulders, and smile.
Because in her mind, every day she could go to school was a victory.
She once told her mom, “Chemo doesn’t scare me. Missing out on life does.”
Still, no matter how brave she was, there were moments that cracked the armor.
In the past few months, three of her friends from St. Jude — children who once shared coloring books and IV snacks — had passed away.
Their names hung in the air like small prayers.
Every time she walked the hospital halls, she felt their absence in the echo of the floor tiles.
And that’s why this trip felt heavier.
The scans today would show if the cancer was still gone — or if it had crept back in silence.
Even for a warrior like Krystalyn, fear sometimes whispered louder than faith.
Her father tried to lighten the mood, playing her favorite playlist — a mix of Taylor Swift, gospel, and old Disney songs.
When “You’ll Be in My Heart” came on, she smiled faintly and hummed along.
At St. Jude, the nurses greeted her by name.
She hugged them all — each one a piece of her journey.
She changed into the hospital gown, lay still under the cool hum of the MRI machine, and closed her eyes.
She imagined herself standing under the summer sun, hair blowing, free.
Hours later, she sat waiting for the doctor’s results.
Her hands trembled slightly in her lap.
Her mother whispered, “No matter what he says, we keep fighting. Always.”
When the doctor walked in, he smiled — not the forced, professional smile, but one that came from relief.
The scans were clear.
For now, she was still winning.
Her mother cried.
Her father laughed through tears.
Krystalyn just sat quietly for a moment, then whispered, “Thank you, God,” her voice soft as a prayer.
She knew the road ahead was still long.
She’d continue chemotherapy until August 2026.
Her hair would thin again.
Her body would ache.
But she also knew something deeper — that life, in all its pain and imperfection, was still achingly beautiful.
As they drove home that evening, the setting sun painted the sky in gold and rose.
Krystalyn looked out the window and said softly, “Mom, I want to be a doctor one day — so I can help kids like me.”
Her mother reached back, brushing her daughter’s fingers with love.
“You already are helping, sweetheart,” she said. “You’re helping everyone who meets you believe again.”
And maybe that’s what makes Krystalyn’s story so powerful.
She is not defined by her diagnosis, but by the way she lives beyond it — with grace, with gratitude, with a strength far older than her years.
Somewhere in Memphis, a 13-year-old girl is still fighting, still dreaming, still laughing through the pain.
And as the world watches, we can all do one small thing — whisper a prayer for her tonight.
Because miracles often begin with a whisper.
And hope, like Krystalyn’s smile, is contagious. 💖