The second battle: brain cancer sounded like the most terrifying of them all. It was the moment I started to realize that our lives would never be the same again. I was still in high school at the time. Every event from those years became linked or even compared to whatever was happening with my mom’s illness.

New Year’s Eve? Mom had brain surgery. It went well, but recovery was slow. Her body struggled to come back.

Prom? She was still in the hospital. She couldn’t help me choose a dress or get ready. I didn’t even look for a date. I went with my brother — there were more important things on my mind.

My 18th birthday? It came just after her surgery. So before and after the party, our conversations were mostly about test results and checkups.

Graduation exams? She was getting scans, and the whole household waited for what the doctors would say.

All those moments, big or small, carried the shadow of illness. And still, I was grateful to be part of it. I never hesitated between visiting her in the hospital or going to a party. The choice was clear. But there was this silent anger in the back of my mind — that I even had to make such choices, while others around me could just live freely.

That kind of injustice is human. We can’t expect ourselves to be at peace with it from the very beginning. It’s a process — another one — that takes time and maturity.

I had friends who would just reply, “Oh, okay” when I said I wouldn’t come or do something. I didn’t blame them — I didn’t expect them to understand — but I felt incredibly alone.

I may have come off as cynical, even harsh sometimes. But that was my armor. Inside, I was shattered into a million pieces that didn’t want to come back together. And maybe they never fully did. I had no self-confidence, constant anxiety. At home, I was dealing with harsh reality. Outside, I just wanted to live like a normal teenager. I had to take on more household responsibilities than most girls my age. And more limitations, too. Sometimes I was angry… angry that my weekends were pre-assigned to cleaning windows or washing rugs before anyone even asked if I had other plans. Of course, my family helped — but the division of tasks was far from equal.

Still… I fought hard not to give up on my own life. And honestly, that was one of the best decisions I ever made. I studied tourism, and I tried to join every trip I could. Travel had always been in my blood. My parents used to take us abroad long before it became “normal” or affordable.

One day, a classmate told me about the AuPair program — and of course, I made up my mind right away. A year in the U.S.? Yes.

At that time, my mom was stable. Recovery wasn’t full, but the outlook was good. There was peace in our oncological world. And my heart beat faster at the thought of traveling.

I left. First, for a year. In the end — two. I went alone. With my parents’ full support. And with hope in my heart that the cancer wouldn’t return.

I want this post to show that even dreams… pure ones… can be met with judgment. I remember people saying, “How can you leave? Your mom has cancer. If she were healthy, fine. But anything can happen…” I don’t know if it was jealousy or concern.

But I know one thing for sure:

If someone truly loves you, they’ll support your choices — even when the whole world doesn’t understand.

That’s one of the most important lessons my mom ever taught me.