Six months ago, I was choosing between cloth and disposable diapers, decorating a nursery in soft pastels, and imagining lullabies under dim nightlights. Life felt full of new beginnings, warm with expectation. I had no idea everything was about to shatter—twice.
It started with a dull ache in my thigh. I chalked it up to pregnancy discomfort—sciatica, maybe a pinched nerve. But after my daughter Liora was born, the pain sharpened. Still, I ignored it. I was too busy inhaling that newborn scent, counting her perfect little toes, getting lost in her sleepy sighs. I didn’t want to miss a single moment. Until one morning, I couldn’t even stand to rock her.
I went in for scans. When the doctor came in, his face told me everything. He didn’t need to say a word—I knew something was very wrong. It was a rare, aggressive soft tissue cancer. The kind that doesn’t wait. The kind that demands everything.
Chemo started immediately. My body turned against me. My milk dried up. Nausea stole my nights. Most evenings, my mother had to take Liora so I could collapse into sleep or pain, whichever won first. Then the cancer spread to my femur. They said amputation would increase my chances. I signed the forms without tears. I wasn’t going to let cancer take my dignity too.
I woke up with one leg and a thousand invisible wounds. I couldn’t carry my baby. Couldn’t dance with her. Couldn’t wear the dress I bought for her naming ceremony. I didn’t cry then either. I saved my tears for the quiet moments, when no one could see.
But I was still alive.
Three weeks out from surgery, I started physio. Liora was teething. And then, in the most ordinary moment, I found something that shook me again—a note buried in my medical file. Words I wasn’t supposed to see. A “suspicious lesion” in my right lung. No one had told me. No one had even mentioned a scan.
I paced my living room, crutch under one arm, that piece of paper clutched in my hand. My heart was thundering. Was it a mistake? A clerical error? Or another storm on the horizon? My oncologist’s office was already closed. My next appointment wasn’t for a week, but I couldn’t wait that long. I didn’t sleep that night. Or the next.
Liora’s laughter became my lifeline. Every time she reached for me, every giggle, every gummy smile kept me grounded in the present. I held her close and prayed for normalcy. Mum took the night shifts again. She knew something was wrong, even when I pretended it wasn’t.
By the time my appointment arrived, I felt like I was walking toward a verdict. My body was too sore for crutches, so I rolled myself through the hospital halls, familiar smells bringing back too many memories—chemo, surgery, waiting rooms filled with silent dread. When I saw Dr. Armitage, I skipped the pleasantries.
“I found the note. The lung lesion. Is it cancer?”
He looked genuinely regretful. “We were still reviewing it. I didn’t want to worry you until we had more information. There’s a small spot. We don’t know yet if it’s malignant.”
Malignant. That word struck like lightning, again.
We scheduled another scan and a potential biopsy. The days leading up to it were unbearable. I couldn’t stop thinking: would I be healthy enough to watch Liora grow up? Could I do another round of chemo? Would I ever feel whole again?
At physical therapy, I met Saoirse. She’d lost her leg in a car crash. She moved with ease and confidence I didn’t recognize in myself yet. She taught me how to pivot, how to catch my balance, how to live in my body again. More than that, she shared her story—single mother, widow, survivor. Her strength gave me permission to find my own. “Keep your heart open,” she told me one day. “People will surprise you. So will you.”
The day of the scan arrived. Mum drove. We didn’t speak much—we already knew all the fears by heart. Liora stayed with my aunt. I remember the antiseptic stinging my nose, the sterile lights above me, the mechanical whir of the scanner.
Then came the wait.
When Dr. Armitage finally walked in with the results, his face was unreadable. My hands clenched in my lap. My throat burned.
“Good news,” he said. “The lesion appears stable. From what we can see, it’s benign. We’ll monitor it, but for now, no further treatment.”
I broke. Relief flooded me like sunlight. I laughed and cried all at once. Mum wrapped me in a hug, and for a moment, we just breathed. Together.
In the weeks after, I poured everything into healing. My prosthetic leg became less of a foreign object and more a symbol of progress. I learned how to stretch to ease the phantom pain. I figured out how to hold Liora standing up again. That first time—when her little arms hugged my neck and I swayed us gently across the floor—I felt like I had taken back a piece of myself.
Life didn’t go back to how it was. It moved forward into something new. Liora didn’t see my missing limb. She just saw her mama. The one who held her, laughed with her, sang her to sleep.
We had a small celebration—just a few friends, a cake with bright pink frosting, lemonade in mismatched cups, and stories that made us laugh until we cried. Even Saoirse came, smiling like she knew how hard I’d fought for that moment.
That night, as I watched Liora sleep, I realized the nursery walls weren’t just decorated with rainbows and elephants anymore. They were soaked in resilience. Painted with grace.
We don’t get to choose every battle. But we get to choose our response. I had moments where I wanted to give up. Moments I did give up. But every time, I looked at my daughter’s face—and found my way back.
If this story leaves you with anything, let it be this: you are stronger than the worst day of your life. Even when your body breaks, even when fear consumes you, even when you lose pieces of yourself—you can rebuild. Love is still there. So is hope.
And sometimes, the greatest victory isn’t just surviving. It’s choosing joy anyway.
