Kind Like Katey

Three Years Without Katey — October 11, 2026

Three years.

I don’t know how that’s possible. Three years since my sister died. Three years since I lost my person.

I’ve spent a lot of time lately looking back at our last conversations. Reading old text messages, remembering those final days, and wondering how I didn’t realize what was happening.

The strange thing is how normal some of those conversations were.

We talked about family. We complained about people getting on our nerves. We talked about a puppy. We laughed about things that probably wouldn’t make sense to anyone else.

We were just being sisters.

And now, looking back, I find myself wishing I’d said something different. Something more meaningful. Something worthy of being one of our last conversations.

But how was I supposed to know?

I knew she was sick. I knew things weren’t going well. But I believed there was still time. Another appointment. Another treatment. Another chance for things to turn around.

I never imagined that within days, she would be gone.

And I think that’s one of the hardest parts of losing someone. You don’t always know when you’re doing something for the last time.

The last phone call. The last laugh. The last time you complain about something stupid and the other person knows exactly what you’re talking about.

I wish I’d known.

I would have hugged her longer. Asked more questions. Told her all the things I assumed I’d have years to say.

But I also wonder whether she would have wanted anything to be different.

Because she was still Katey. Even when she was sick, she was making jokes, talking about everyday life, and being the sister I’d always known.

She wasn’t just my sister. She was the person I could tell anything to. The person who knew our history without me having to explain it. The person who understood why something bothered me before I even finished telling the story.

And that’s what I miss.

I miss being able to pick up the phone and tell her something ridiculous. I miss hearing what she thinks. I miss laughing about things nobody else would understand.

Sometimes something happens and I still think, I need to tell Katey.

And then I remember.

Three years later, that still hurts.

Since losing Katey, I’ve faced my own breast cancer diagnosis. And there have been moments throughout my journey when I’ve wanted my sister more than ever. Not because she would have had all the answers, but because she would have understood.

There’s something especially difficult about going through something your sister went through and not being able to talk to her about it. I have so many questions I wish I could ask her. So many things I wish we could share. And sometimes I just wish I could hear her voice telling me everything is going to be okay.

Yesterday, we walked in Charlotte wearing shirts that said Kind Like Katey. We walked to honor her, to celebrate those still here, and to remember those we’ve lost.

Seeing her name on those shirts meant more to me than I can explain.

I started Kind Like Katey because I don’t want her to be forgotten. I want people to know who she was, not just what happened to her. I want to share her stories, remember the little things, and hopefully encourage a little more kindness along the way.

Because she was so much more than cancer.

She was a daughter, a mother, a wife, a sister, a friend, and so many other things to so many people.

And to me, she was my person.

I can’t bring her back. I can’t change those last conversations. And I can’t get another ordinary day with her.

But I can keep talking about her.

I can tell her stories. I can remember her laughter. I can carry her kindness into the world.

And maybe, with time, I can stop wishing I’d known the end was coming and start being grateful that, right up until those final days, we were still just two sisters talking about life.

Three years without you, Katey.

I still have so much to tell you.

I love you, my beautiful sister.