There’s a line in my life. Everything sits on one side of it or the other.
I think part of me will always divide my life into two pieces: before 2023, and everything that came after it.
In January 2023, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. My daughter was only about 17 months old. I was still in that season of motherhood where life is already measured in diapers, interrupted sleep, little hands reaching for you — and trying to remember who you are somewhere underneath being needed all the time.
Then cancer entered the room.
Suddenly my body became something being scanned, tested, discussed, treated, cut into, medicated, watched. There was chemo. There were surgeries. Eventually there was a bilateral mastectomy and reconstruction. There were medications, hormone suppression, pain, fatigue — a body that seemed to age overnight while the rest of life kept moving.
And I was still Mom. There is no pause button for motherhood while you’re trying to survive. Kids still need breakfast. Somebody still can’t find their shoes. Laundry still exists. School still happens. Someone is still calling your name while you’re trying to process information that can completely alter the direction of your life.
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