Redefining Strength: Navigating My Mom’s Cancer Diagnosis
Winter Break
In December 2003, when I came home for winter break during my freshman year of college, I anticipated lots of rest, time with friends, piles of laundry, and a few days on my snowboard.
It’s not exactly what ended up happening. I remember distinctly the conversation that took place in our family’s living room that winter. I remember hearing that something suspicious had shown up on my mom’s recent mammogram, that she’d undergone a biopsy, and that she’d been diagnosed with cancer. I remember the fear that flooded me.
I remember the moment I realized my mom was mortal after all.
And I remember the gratitude—for the way my family rallied around her, committed to showing up, being present, and working together to get her the care she needed. That Christmas felt a little sweeter, like something to be savored.
Post Grad
In 2012, shortly after I graduated with my MSW from Tulane, we found ourselves having a similar conversation in that same living room. My mom’s cancer had returned—this time in the other breast.
What was different in 2012 was how I saw myself. I had a deeper understanding of life and death, and of what it meant to hold too much all at once. I had just graduated, moved into a new apartment where I lived alone, and started my first full-time job as a therapist for kids with significant needs.
I remember receiving the news from my parents about my mom’s cancer returning, and later that afternoon attending a meeting with my clinical supervisor. I remember my blue jacket, the rain, and how hard it was to get any words out. I don’t remember crying. I just remember staring blankly, hoping she might have some advice for how to do everything—and do it well. She didn’t, but she did remind me to breathe. For that, I’m grateful.
My mom survived that diagnosis and continues to be a joyful presence in my life and in my children’s lives. There are no words adequate enough to describe my gratitude for this.
Looking Back Now
As a seasoned therapist now—and someone who has spent a lot of time in her own therapy—I can look back on those moments with compassion and a deeper understanding of my own nervous system. I can imagine placing a hand on the shoulder of my freshman-year self, letting her know this would be a heavy season, that she’d see her mom’s vulnerability, and that she’d be okay in the end.
I can also picture my 2012 self—meeting her gaze, telling her it’s okay to be vulnerable, and that anyone expecting her to carry it all could kindly F off. I’d take her by the hand, lead her to a quiet, comfortable place, and tuck her in for a long nap. She was so tired. I’d remind her that she is strong—and that strength can look like rest.
To every survivor, to everyone suffering, and to every loved one walking alongside someone with a diagnosis: I send you love. I send you peace. I send you a reminder to breathe—and the message that strength can look like rest. You’re not alone.
