A treehouse, a graduate, and the ripple effect of kindness

6/1/2026

Tatumn Carr walked into the fifth-floor playroom at Banner Children's at Desert on a recent Friday morning and paused. The warm, cozy tree-trunk nook with painted branches extending across walls and ceiling looked exactly as she remembered—except now, she was viewing it through the eyes of a high school senior rather than the eight-year-old girl who helped envision it.

"It was kind of surreal seeing the treehouse again now that I'm about to graduate," Tatumn said, settling into the nook for the first time in a decade. "It's really fulfilling to see that it's been put to such good use—if it helps someone smile or forget about treatments for a few minutes, then that makes me happy."

Tatumn's return visit, filmed as part of her senior graduation project, represents more than a nostalgic homecoming. It's a powerful reminder that philanthropy isn't reserved for the wealthy or the retired—it can begin at any age and take many forms.

Charity Carr, second from right, revisits Tatumn's Treehouse with daughters Taylor and Tatumn Carr (second from left and middle). 

The journey that led to this moment began with heartbreak. Diagnosed just before her second birthday with Stage II Intermediate-Risk Neuroblastoma, Tatumn faced a tumor so large in her tiny body that it extended from her spine into her left lung, compressing her spinal cord. What started as occasional tripping escalated within two weeks to crawling, then to near paralysis.

After being turned away multiple times by medical professionals who didn't take their concerns seriously, Tatumn’s mother Charity finally refused to leave a hospital emergency room until someone listened. "There is something wrong with my daughter and no one is listening," she remembers saying. That night changed everything—an emergency MRI revealed the massive tumor. Tatumn needed immediate surgery.

The initial prognosis was devastating. Doctors first told Charity to prepare to lose her daughter, believing Tatumn had Stage IV High-Risk Neuroblastoma. But after a week of intensive testing, they discovered Tatumn had a rare presentation of the disease, with the tumor originating in her spine rather than the typical location. She was restaged to Stage II Intermediate-Risk, and suddenly, survival became possible.

Tatumn transitioned to Banner Children's at Desert for her ongoing treatment. That transition marked a turning point. "Banner felt hopeful, warm, welcoming, and safe," Charity recalled. "After everything we had experienced, that difference in culture and care mattered more than I can explain."

At Banner Children's, Tatumn endured five surgeries, chemotherapy, blood transfusions, over 50 scans under anesthesia, and months of medications and injections at home. She lost her hair, her eyebrows, and her energy. But she also gained something profound—a perspective on life and compassion that most people don't develop until much later.

"Going through cancer at such a young age gave me a different perspective on life," Tatumn said. "No matter where life takes me, I want to spend my life helping others and reaching people who may feel unseen or unheard."

For mom Charity, philanthropy meant leveraging her construction and design industry connections to transform a small, colorless playroom into something magical. The vision first took shape while Tatumn underwent chemotherapy, spending long days in the hospital's seventh-floor playroom.

"At first, I remember thinking, 'How could someone like me ever do something that big?'" Charity recalled. But working for Hunt Construction Group and volunteering with Make-A-Wish Foundation had expanded her network and her belief in what was possible. When she pitched the playroom renovation idea to Hunt's leadership in 2014, they encouraged her to lead the project and gather donations.

What began as plans for fresh paint and new toys evolved into a complete transformation. Contractors, subcontractors, and colleagues rallied behind Charity's vision. The team even chose the name "Tatumn's Treehouse" themselves during a brainstorming session—Charity had never suggested naming it after her daughter.

"I always viewed the playroom as a giving-back initiative, not necessarily a legacy project, because recognition has always felt uncomfortable to me," Charity explained. "But legacy doesn't have to mean recognition. It can simply mean creating positive change that continues to impact others long after the moment has passed."

For young Tatumn, absorbing her mother's example while enduring grueling cancer treatments planted seeds that continue growing today. "My mom shows kindness, generosity, and love to everyone around her every single day," Tatumn reflected. "Because of her, I've learned that true generosity is not about recognition, but about genuinely wanting to help others."

Now facing a future with doors wide open, Tatumn is thoughtfully considering how to use her experiences, good health, intelligence, and empathy. She plans to pursue a career in real estate, helping families find their dream homes, while harboring a bigger dream: establishing her own cancer research team focused on underfunded cancers.

Charity, now completing her master’s degree in healthcare innovation at Arizona State University, continues demonstrating that one person's vision can inspire collective action. "Don't let the fact that you can't help everyone stop you from helping someone," she emphasized. "Every single person matters."

Tatumn’s Treehouse stands today as a testament to what's possible when compassion meets determination—and when a mother and daughter choose to transform their hardest moments into hope for others. As Tatumn prepares for graduation, she carries forward a legacy that began not with wealth or status, but with a simple truth her mother taught her: we already have everything inside us to make a difference. We just have to choose to begin.