Patrick DiVita

I recently got a Sanskrit symbol with the word “Vilomah” tattooed on my inner bicep. In English, it means “out of the natural order.” There are words for when a spouse loses a spouse—widowed. A child loses their parents—an orphan. But until recently, there was no word in English for a parent who loses a child. Vilomah gives a name to that kind of grief—one that breaks the natural order of life. This is another tribute to my daughter.

If it could speak, it would gently say her name—Morgan. It would tell the story of a father forever changed by the loss of his 12-year-old daughter to brain cancer. Her name, birthdate, and the exact time she entered this world are tattooed on me—a permanent reminder that she was here, and she mattered. My ink carries grief, love, and strength. It would say I turned pain into purpose, building a photography business in her honor, capturing life the way she saw it.

If I won, I’d donate the first $5,000 to DIPG research in my daughter’s name. I left my career to be with her through her battle, living off my 401K and credit cards just to survive. It destroyed my credit and left me in debt. I couldn’t leave the house for 14 months after losing her. This would help me rebuild, grow my photography business, and honor her by turning pain into purpose—one step, one image, one life at a time.