The idea started in the most ordinary way possible—sitting on Alexa Mendoza’s bedroom floor, surrounded by half-empty soda cans and her dog asleep on a pile of notes.

“So,” Alexa said, twirling the mic cord around her finger, “we’re actually doing this?”

You grinned. “Yeah. Why not? You said you wanted to help people. This is… helping.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You make it sound easy. It’s not like people want to hear two teens talking about chemo, hospital food, and panic attacks.”

“Yeah,” you said. “But maybe someone needs to.”

Alexa looked at you for a moment, her teasing expression softening. “Okay,” she said finally, “let’s call it Louder Than Silence. Because that’s what it feels like—like no one ever wants to talk about what’s actually hard.”

The first episode was clumsy. You both laughed too much, stumbled over words, and Alexa kept accidentally bumping the mic. But when she talked about her first day back to school after treatment, her voice shook—and it wasn’t nerves. It was honesty.

And that’s when everything changed.

The messages started trickling in: teens who’d been sick, friends who didn’t know how to help, even parents who just wanted to understand. “You make it sound less scary,” one wrote. “Like we’re not alone.”

Alexa read that one aloud, her voice breaking a little. “We did that,” she whispered.

You smiled. “You did that.”

“No,” she said firmly. “We did.”

Weeks turned into months, and Louder Than Silence grew. You recorded in coffee shops, hospital waiting rooms, even in the car during treatment days. The podcast wasn’t polished—but it was real.

One night, after recording a particularly emotional episode, you found Alexa staring at the “ON AIR” light.

“You know,” she said softly, “I used to hate my story. I didn’t want anyone to know. But now… I think it’s okay that they do.”

You reached for her hand. “It’s more than okay. It’s brave.”

She squeezed back, a small smile curving her lips. “Brave, huh? You make me sound like a superhero.”