In December 2011, my world came crashing down when I learned my three-year-old daughter, Izzy, had cancer. I remember the moment so clearly. I sat in the rocking chair in her room, holding my breath as the doctor’s words hit me like a blow. It wasn’t just the diagnosis itself—it was the sense of helplessness that took over me in that instant…
The world seemed to stop around me. I stared at the toy kitchen that Izzy loved so much, and I couldn’t help but notice the tiny play clock beside it. The hands of the clock froze in my mind, symbolizing the way everything came to a standstill. Time itself seemed to pause as I absorbed the words no mother should ever have to hear.
The life we had known was gone in that moment, and the life we were about to face was one that neither Izzy nor I could ever have imagined.
Izzy’s battle with cancer was a relentless journey. The chemotherapy, radiation, surgeries, and stem cell transplants became the cycles we lived through. Each treatment was a fragile hope that this would be the one that saved her. Yet, after every remission, the cancer returned, a cruel reminder of how out of control we were.
The pain of watching my daughter go through this over and over again was unbearable, and the exhaustion from constantly being by her side was overwhelming. I found myself stepping away from my career, from everything I once knew, just to be there with her, in the sterile hospital rooms, far from home.
Our home was hours away from the hospital, and with each passing day, I felt the weight of missing my son’s childhood. I had to choose between being there for Izzy and being present for my son. I missed most of his kindergarten year, and large chunks of his elementary school years.
The pain of that loss is something I’ll never fully reconcile. It wasn’t just my son who was suffering, it was our entire family. The constant uncertainty was something we couldn’t escape. It felt as if everything was on hold.
But Izzy, even in her pain, was an extraordinary fighter. Her little body was weak, but her spirit was strong. Every time she relapsed, I could see her heart break just a little more. “Why do I have to have cancer again, Mama? Some people never have it once. Why me?” she would ask. Those words cut deep into me, shattering any illusion that I could protect her from the unfairness of it all. How could I answer her? How could I explain why she had to endure so much pain while others lived untouched by illness?
But Izzy, even through her pain, found a way to comfort me. “I’ve been praying too, Mama. That God would make me better and you happy,” she would say with a smile so pure, so full of love, it made everything seem worth it. In those moments, I realized that while cancer had taken so much from us, it had also given us something valuable—resilience. It had given us the strength to face what no family should ever have to face.
The years passed, and we kept hoping for the miracle that would end this endless cycle. But the longer we fought, the more I realized that this battle wasn’t just about survival. It was about how we chose to live in the face of such uncertainty. Life wasn’t going to be the way I had planned.
In fact, it wasn’t going to be like anything I had expected. But I began to let go of the life I thought I deserved and embraced the one I had. Slowly, I started to see the beauty in the small moments—the moments that, despite everything, still made life worth living.
I had to stop grieving the life we didn’t get and start celebrating the life that was ours, however different it might be. It wasn’t easy. Some days it felt impossible. But Izzy’s courage gave me the strength to keep going. Every small victory—whether it was a successful round of chemotherapy or just another day spent together—became a reminder that life, even in its most difficult moments, still had value.
Izzy, now twelve, continues to battle neuroblastoma. She takes chemotherapy every day, but it’s a low dose that she takes at home. Though the disease may still be in her body and the prognosis may remain grim, she’s stronger than she’s been in years.
It’s been nearly nine years since her diagnosis, and although life feels like it’s still on hold, we’ve learned to live in the spaces in between. We’ve learned to keep moving forward, even when everything around us is uncertain.
Just like the world today, as we navigate the uncertainty of the COVID-19 pandemic, it feels as though everything is on pause. We’re all waiting for the unknown to unfold. We’re waiting to see what comes next. And in some ways, that feeling is so familiar. We spent years in a state of waiting, hoping for something we couldn’t control. But in that waiting, we’ve learned to make the most of the moments we do have.
Our experience with cancer was always about waiting for answers, waiting for a cure, waiting for peace. But now I see that it wasn’t the waiting that defined us—it was how we chose to live while we waited. We found strength in the small things.
We found hope not in some grand resolution, but in the everyday moments we shared together, no matter how fleeting they seemed. It wasn’t always easy, and some days were harder than others, but we learned to celebrate life in a way that we never could have imagined.
One day, I came across a picture of Izzy’s old toy kitchen. I looked for the little play clock, the one I had stared at so many years ago. This time, instead of seeing the frozen moment of Izzy’s diagnosis, I realized that life hadn’t stopped the day I learned of her illness.
It just moved in a different way. I had stopped measuring time by the milestones we missed and started measuring it by the moments of grace we experienced along the way.
Izzy’s journey is far from over, but her strength and perseverance continue to inspire me every day. Our story isn’t a fairy tale. It isn’t about a perfect ending, but it’s a story of survival, love, and resilience. And for those of you facing your own battles, I offer this: find hope in the small moments.
Even when life doesn’t go as planned, there is always something beautiful to hold onto. You are not alone in your journey, and there is always hope, even in the hardest times.