My name is Isaiah Steward. Some people know me as the little boy this Foundation is named after. But before I was ever a foundation... before I was ever a story... I was just a kid.

I loved to laugh. I loved playing my PlayStation. If you came to my house, I'd probably ask if you wanted to play a game with me. And if there was a Monopoly board sitting on the table... just know I was going to do everything I could to beat you!

I loved my Chicago White Sox. I loved spending time with my family. And more than anything... I loved people.

I never really met strangers. To me, everyone was just a friend I hadn't talked to yet. If I walked into a room and you were having a bad day, I'd probably do something silly just to make you smile. Seeing people happy made me happy.

Most people looked at me and saw a little boy. Some people looked at me and saw a little boy with sickle cell disease. But that's never how I wanted people to remember me. Sickle cell was something I lived with. It was never who I was.

There were days my body hurt so badly that I couldn't play outside. There were birthdays spent in hospital rooms instead of with friends. There were nights when my dad sat beside my hospital bed praying that the pain would go away. I know it hurt him — because every time I was hurting, he was hurting too.

But do you know something? Even when I was in the hospital, I still wanted to make other people smile. One of my favorite memories was walking around Children's Healthcare visiting other kids who were patients just like me. Some of them looked scared. Some were lonely. Some were hurting.

So I'd go say hello. I'd talk to them. I'd laugh with them. I'd remind them they weren't by themselves — because nobody should ever feel alone. Especially a kid.

My dad always tells people that I taught him how to love. I'm not sure about that. I think we taught each other. He was my hero. He never left my side. He learned every medicine. He stayed awake through long nights. He celebrated every good day with me. And on the hard days, he reminded me that tomorrow would be better.

My dad couldn't take away my sickle cell disease. Believe me... if he could have, he would have traded places with me in a heartbeat. That's how much he loved me.

In 2019, I went home to be with Jesus. I know my dad's heart broke that day. Mine would have too. But before I left, I left him something much bigger than sadness. I left him a purpose.

Today, when you see the Isaiah Steward Foundation, you're not just seeing my name on a building or a website. You're seeing my heart. Every family that gets help, every child who smiles, every parent who finally feels understood, every person who learns about sickle cell disease — that's my dream still growing.

If you're a child living with sickle cell, I want you to know something. You are stronger than you realize. You are loved more than you know. And you are so much more than your diagnosis. Never let anyone tell you differently.

If you're a mom or a dad reading this, I know you're tired. I know you're scared sometimes. I know there are days when you wish you could carry your child's pain instead of watching them go through it. My dad understands. He has been exactly where you are. That's why he built this Foundation — not because he lost me, but because he loves families like yours. He never wants you to feel alone.

And if you're someone who has never been affected by sickle cell disease — thank you for taking the time to meet me. Maybe God brought you here for a reason. Maybe you're here to help another family find hope. Maybe you're here to make sure another little boy or little girl gets the chance to keep chasing their dreams. If that's you... thank you. Because every act of kindness keeps my story alive.

I may not be able to meet you in person. But through this Foundation, I hope you'll know me anyway. I hope when you think about me, you don't think about the hospital. You don't think about sickle cell. You think about a little boy who loved his PlayStation, who couldn't wait to play Monopoly, who cheered for the White Sox, who loved making people smile — and who believed every person deserves hope.

Before you leave, can I ask you one favor? Help my dad. Help another family. Help another child. Help someone smile today. That's what I would have done. And if you do... then a little piece of me is still here.

Thank you for taking the time to hear my story. I hope we get to help write yours.