What This Means To Me

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Why I'm Doing This

My Best Friend. My Biggest Heartbreak. My Lifelong Promise.

Written from the heart by Kylee Hebert, founder of 333 Wishes for a Cure.

There are some people who come into your life and change you forever. People who become such a big part of who you are that you cannot imagine a world without them.

For me, that person was Courtney.

Courtney wasn't just my best friend. She was my family, my safe place, my person, and someone I genuinely believed would be standing beside me for the rest of my life. She was supposed to be there for all the milestones, all the celebrations, all the ordinary days, and all the moments we hadn't even experienced yet.

We had so much more life to live together.

And on August 30, 2026, when Courtney passed away from cystic fibrosis at just 24 years old, a piece of me went with her.

I don't think there will ever be words powerful enough to describe what losing her has done to me. It's a kind of heartbreak that changes the way you see the world. It changes how you love, how you appreciate time, and how you look at the people around you.

But more than anything, it makes you realize just how unfair life can be.

Courtney deserved to grow old. She deserved to experience everything that life had waiting for her. She deserved more birthdays, more adventures, more laughter, more memories, and more time with the people who loved her.

She deserved a lifetime, not just 24 years.

And that's why I'm doing this.

Not because I think one fundraiser can change the entire world overnight, but because I refuse to stop fighting for a world where someone else gets the years Courtney never had the chance to live.

This Fight Started Long Before I Lost Her

My journey with cystic fibrosis awareness and fundraising didn't begin when Courtney passed away.

It began years ago, when I started to understand what living with this disease truly meant.

When someone you love has cystic fibrosis, you learn things that most people never have to think about. You learn what it feels like to worry about someone's breathing, to hear about hospital admissions, to watch plans get interrupted, and to see someone you love face challenges you cannot fix.

You learn that sometimes being there for someone means sitting beside them through the hardest moments, and sometimes it means simply trying to make them laugh and forget about everything for a little while.

There were so many times I wished I could take Courtney's pain away.

I couldn't make her lungs healthier. I couldn't make her treatments disappear. I couldn't promise her that everything would be okay.

But I could love her, support her, show up for her, and do whatever I could to help make a difference.

That is why I previously organized Ski for a Cure, a fundraising effort supporting the fight against cystic fibrosis.

Even back then, I wanted to be part of something bigger. I wanted to help raise awareness and support research because I knew firsthand how much this disease affected Courtney's life.

At the time, I was fighting alongside my best friend.

I never imagined that one day I would be fighting in her memory.

And that is a reality I am still learning how to live with.

Losing Courtney Changed Everything

When Courtney passed away, the world didn't stop.

People continued going to work, making plans, celebrating birthdays, and going about their everyday lives.

But my world felt completely different.

There are moments when I still want to pick up the phone and call her. Moments when something funny happens and she's the first person I want to tell. Moments when I wish I could hear her voice, see her smile, or just sit beside her and talk about absolutely nothing.

I miss the things that once seemed so small.

Our snowball coffee runs.

Our conversations.

Our laughs.

Our memories.

The comfort of simply knowing she was there.

There is a particular kind of pain that comes from losing someone who was supposed to be part of your future.

You don't just grieve the person you lost. You grieve everything that will never happen.

The birthdays she won't celebrate. The memories we won't make. The milestones she won't be here to witness.

And the hardest part is knowing that no matter how badly I wish for one more day, I cannot bring her back.

But I can make sure the world never forgets that she was here.

I cannot give Courtney more years, but I can spend mine making sure her 24 years continue to mean something.

She Still Has a Place in My Home, and She Always Will

One of the most personal ways I keep Courtney close is through a memorial I created for her inside my home.

Courtney has her own special spot.

A place dedicated entirely to her, filled with love, memories, and reminders of the beautiful person she was.

I have her photograph there, and I talk to her through it.

Sometimes I tell her about my day. Sometimes I tell her things I wish she were here to experience. Sometimes I laugh, sometimes I cry, and sometimes I just need to feel like I'm having a conversation with my best friend again.

And I know Courtney would absolutely love that she has her own little place in my house.

I can almost imagine what she would say about it.

To someone else, it might just look like a memorial with a photograph. But to me, it is so much more.

It's a place where I can still share moments with her.

It's a place where my love for her has somewhere to go.

It's a reminder that although she is no longer physically here, she will always be part of my home, my family, and my everyday life.

I don't believe that loving someone stops when they pass away.

I believe you simply find new ways to love them.

And this is one of mine.

Courtney will always have a place in my home because she will always have a place in my heart.

The Part That Breaks My Heart the Most: My Son Will Never Get to Know Her

Of all the things I've had to come to terms with since losing Courtney, one of the hardest is knowing that my son will never get the chance to truly know her.

My son, JJ, was born on May 14, 2026.

Courtney was still here when he came into this world, and I never imagined that just a few short months later, I would be learning how to raise him in a world without my best friend.

Now, at just five months old, he is already becoming part of the traditions I've created to keep her memory alive.

Every single morning, we say good morning to Courtney.

We look at her picture, talk to her, and include her in our day.

I tell him about her.

I tell him who she was, how much she meant to me, and how lucky I was to have her in my life.

He doesn't understand it all yet. He's just a baby.

But one day, he will.

One day, he will know her name. He will recognize her face. He will hear the stories about our friendship, the funny things we did together, and the memories that still make me smile.

He will grow up knowing that Courtney wasn't just somebody in a picture.

She was someone who changed his mother's life.

Someone who was loved so deeply that even after she was gone, that love became part of our family's everyday routine.

It breaks my heart knowing that he won't get to experience her personality for himself. That he won't hear her laugh the way I did, or make his own memories with her as he grows up.

Instead, he will have to know her through my stories.

And I promise there will be no shortage of those.

I will tell him about her until he's old enough to tell the stories back to me.

He will know how funny she was, how strong she was, how much she loved, and how much I loved her.

He will know that she was so much more than the disease that took her life.

And most importantly, he will know that she was family.

The Letters We Write to Heaven

One of the most meaningful things I've done since Courtney passed is create a special letter box for her.

It's a place where we can write letters to Courtney and keep the words we wish we could still say to her.

Sometimes there are things you want to tell someone that don't disappear just because they're gone.

You still want to share your accomplishments. You still want to tell them about your day. You still want them to know how much you miss them.

You still have stories to tell.

So we write.

I write letters to Courtney, and I have started including my son in this tradition, too.

Right now, he's too little to understand what we're doing. But as he grows, I want him to be able to write his own letters to her.

Maybe one day he'll draw her a picture.

Maybe he'll tell her about his first day of school, a holiday, or something exciting that happened.

Maybe he'll ask questions about her.

And maybe someday he'll understand why his mom created a little box filled with letters to someone she loved so much.

It's not about pretending she is still physically here.

It's about teaching my son that love doesn't have to end with goodbye.

It's about showing him that the people who matter to us can continue to have a place in our lives, even after we've lost them.

Those letters are something I will treasure forever.

Because every single one is another reminder that Courtney is still loved, still remembered, and still part of our story.

My son may never get to make memories with Courtney, but I will make sure he grows up surrounded by the memories she gave me.

Why I Refuse to Stop Fighting

There is something that happens when you watch someone you love live with a disease like cystic fibrosis.

You begin to understand that behind every statistic is a real person.

A person who has a family.

A person who has friends.

A person who has hopes, dreams, fears, and plans for their future.

A person whose life means everything to someone else.

Courtney was that person for me.

And she is the reason I will never stop caring about this fight.

There have been incredible medical advances in cystic fibrosis research. Treatments have improved, lives have been extended, and progress continues to be made.

But there is still no cure.

And there are still people living with this disease who face serious complications, uncertainty, and the possibility of losing their lives far too young.

There are still parents who worry about their children.

Best friends who are afraid of losing each other.

Families sitting beside hospital beds hoping for good news.

People making plans while silently wondering what their health will look like in a few months or years.

I know that fear.

And now I know the heartbreak of what happens when the person you love doesn't get more time.

That's why this fight is so personal.

Because I don't want another best friend to have to write something like this.

I don't want another mother to have to explain to her child why someone they should have known is only present through photographs and stories.

I don't want another family to face the impossible task of saying goodbye to someone who should have had decades ahead of them.

I will continue fighting for cystic fibrosis awareness, research, and a cure for as long as I am alive.

Not just this year.

Not just for one event.

Not just while the heartbreak is still new.

For the rest of my life.

Why 333 Wishes for a Cure Means Everything to Me

333 Wishes for a Cure is so much more than a fundraiser.

It is one of the ways I am turning my love for Courtney into something that can help others.

It's a promise.

A promise that her story won't end with her passing.

A promise that her name will continue to be spoken.

A promise that her memory will continue to bring people together.

And a promise that I will keep doing my part in the fight against cystic fibrosis.

I am putting my heart into every part of this event.

Every handwritten donation request letter.

Every business I contact.

Every conversation about cystic fibrosis.

Every detail I plan.

Every person I invite.

Every donation we receive.

Behind all of it is Courtney.

Sometimes I sit and think about how badly I wish I could show her everything I'm working on.

I wish I could call her and tell her about the ideas I have. I wish I could ask her what she thinks. I wish she could laugh at me for stressing over every tiny detail and trying to have everything planned months in advance.

Because that is exactly what I'm doing.

I'm trying to make this as special as I possibly can.

Not because I need everything to be perfect, but because Courtney deserves something beautiful.

I want this event to be filled with the kind of love she gave to everyone around her.

I want people to smile when they see her pictures.

I want them to laugh when they hear stories about her.

I want them to understand how much she meant to us.

And I want anyone who is currently fighting cystic fibrosis to know that there are people who will never stop standing behind them.

On August 1, 2027, when we gather in Marblehead for 333 Wishes for a Cure, I know there will be moments when my heart feels incredibly heavy.

Because the one person I wish could be there most won't be physically standing beside me.

But I also know that every person who shows up, every dollar raised, and every step taken will represent something so much bigger than the heartbreak.

It will represent hope.

It will represent love.

And it will represent a future worth fighting for.

To Courtney, My Best Friend Forever

Court, I wish you could see everything I'm doing.

I wish you could see the place I've made for you in my home, although I know you'd probably have something hilarious to say about having your very own spot.

I wish you could see me talking to your picture every day, telling you about life and everything you've missed.

I wish you could hear me and JJ saying good morning to you.

I wish you could see the letters we're putting in your box.

I wish you could watch him grow up and become the little person I always imagined you'd get to know.

And I wish more than anything that you could just be here.

There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think about you.

There isn't a version of my future where you won't be part of my life.

You might not be here in the way I want you to be, but you're still here in the things I do, the stories I tell, and the love I carry.

And I promise you, my son will know who you are.

He will know your name before he understands what losing someone means.

He will know your face from the pictures around our home.

He will know your story because I will tell it to him over and over again.

And one day, when he is older, I hope he understands that the reason his mom worked so hard for this cause was because she loved someone so much that even losing her couldn't make that love go away.

I wish I could have saved you, Court.

I wish there had been a cure in time.

I wish you had gotten everything you deserved out of this life.

But since I cannot change what happened, I will do everything I can to make a difference for the people still fighting.

I will be your voice.

I will share your story.

I will celebrate your life.

I will continue to raise awareness.

And I will never let the world forget you.

I will keep Courtney's memory alive until I take my final breath.

Not because I am unable to move forward, but because moving forward will always include carrying her with me.

She was part of my past, she is part of my present, and she will forever be part of my future.

This Is My Lifelong Promise

I know that finding a cure for cystic fibrosis is not something that will happen because of one person or one fundraiser.

It takes researchers, doctors, scientists, families, advocates, donors, and communities coming together year after year.

But I also believe that every contribution matters.

Every dollar raised supports the possibility of progress.

Every person who learns about cystic fibrosis becomes someone who can help spread awareness.

Every family who receives support is a reminder of why this work is so important.

And every advancement brings us closer to the future that Courtney deserved.

I cannot promise exactly when a cure will be found.

But I can promise that I will never stop advocating for one.

I will continue raising awareness, supporting the CF community, sharing Courtney's story, and doing everything within my power to help bring us closer.

Because this isn't something I'm doing for a few months.

It isn't something that will end when our walk is over.

This is something I will carry with me for the rest of my life.

For Courtney.

For every person still living with cystic fibrosis.

For every parent who deserves to watch their child grow old.

For every child who deserves a future without this disease.

For every best friend who deserves decades of memories instead of a lifetime of wondering what could have been.

And for every family who deserves more time together.

Courtney's life may have ended on August 30, 2026, but the love I have for her never will.

Her name will be spoken in my home.

Her picture will have its special place.