05/03/2026
Childhood cancer makes the world feel very small and very big at the same time.
During our journey, I lost a lot of my joy. I was in a dark place, even if I didnât show it. I had to be strong for her. I had to be the calm one. The hopeful one. The one who believed it would all eventually work out.
But behind that strength was fear and grief.
Some of the deepest connections I made were with moms who lived states away. We never shared coffee. We never hugged in person. But we shared late-night texts, lab results, prayer requests, scan days, and the kind of fear only a cancer mom understands.
Distance didnât matter. Our babies were fighting the same monster.
And some of those moms? They lost their children.
Women I cried with through a phone screen. Women I prayed with from hospital rooms miles apart. Now they carry a grief no mother should ever have to carry.
You donât walk away from that unchanged.
Joy becomes complicated. Gratitude feels heavy. Survivorâs guilt is real. You celebrate milestones while mourning milestones someone else will never get.
If youâre in this world right now, still fighting, still praying, still showing up and you feel like youâve lost your joy⊠you are not broken. This is heavy. This is traumatic. This changes you.
For me, finding joy again meant seeking God when I didnât understand His plan. It meant praying through tears. It meant asking Him to restore what cancer tried to steal from my heart. It meant trusting Him even when outcomes didnât look the same for everyone.
And to the moms who lost their babies, near or far, your children matter. They are remembered. They are woven into our story forever.
Childhood cancer awareness isnât just about survival rates. Itâs about the sisterhood formed in hospital rooms. Itâs about the joy we fight to reclaim. Itâs about the kids here and the ones we carry in our hearts.