Sometimes it helps to get things off one’s chest. So, here goes. I once wrote a letter to Madonna.

The letter did not ramble on about how I preferred her first album to Like A Virgin. Nor did I describe how it took me an additional five to ten minutes in the morning to get into the shower because I had to remove all of the black bracelets I wore because she did too.

And I did not mention how many times the VHS tape was rewound so I could watch her performance at Live Aid. I am not a math major, so could not have counted that high anyway.

I did write a multipage letter to Madonna telling her that we had something in common. I wrote to Madonna to tell her that we both had parents who died while they – and we – were too young.

I concede writing to Madonna is mortifying enough. To write to Madonna about a dead parent might qualify as mortification on steroids.

I had just read an article in some teen magazine in which she talked about the impact her mother’s death had on her and on her relationship with her father. Her words struck a chord in me in a way her music did not. I could relate to the meaning behind the words.

Anyone who knows me can attest to the fact that Madonna and I are not exactly individuals cut from the same cloth. For one, I am not an international superstar. I also am not someone who sets out to shock people or to make my social and political views known by wearing as few items of clothing as I can.

I am not transformative by nature. In fact, I am very much a creature of habit. Her mother’s death inspired her to constantly step outside the lines. I am more comfortable coloring inside the lines.

However, we both are stubborn and driven. And we both have – thankfully – outgrown the need to wear black rubber bracelets from wrist to elbow.

I wrote about the kinship I felt. I wrote about how my heart remained unhealed, but not broken. I wrote about how she seemed to be the only adult who could speak aloud the thoughts I harbored silently.

I never – thank God – sent the letter. I think writing it was a catharsis needed at the time. And it provided my mother with a few good chuckles when she found it tucked in an envelope and shoved under my bed with everything else but the kitchen sink.

The kinship I felt affirmed to me that I was not alone. That is why Comfort Zone camps and similar camps are so important and why I want to spread the word about them. It is why I have just completed my 15th marathon and why I will continue to run and to run and run again to make as many people aware of how they can positively impact the lives of children and their families.

They provide a sense of belonging. They open a child’s eyes to a future not defined by death, but by life. They offer hope.