I had a truly beautiful childhood… And I say that with deep gratitude to my parents and to life itself because I know not everyone was that lucky.

My parents loved each other dearly. They supported each other in everything. We went on vacations together, had ice cream dates, and they always made sure that my brother and I could nurture our passions. I don’t mean fancy classes like pottery or tap dancing — I mean things like my swimming lessons, which will matter later in this story. I’m sharing this because when my mom got sick, our world didn’t collapse like a house of cards. It wasn’t sudden. It was quiet. A slow, steady flicker — like a candle gently burning out.

Another important part of this story is that, sadly, I didn’t have the easiest relationship with my mom. That bond… that famous mother-daughter closeness — we rarely had it. I was the “daddy’s girl,” always rebelling, always in a cold war with her. Of course, we loved each other and had beautiful moments too. But if I’m honest, there was more misunderstanding than connection between us… and sadly, it stayed that way almost until the end.

I don’t remember the exact moment I found out she was sick. But I do have flashes — vivid memories from that time… and more than anything, I remember the emotions. Even now, when I go back to those moments in my mind, I feel them again: utter confusion mixed with disbelief. It didn’t feel like real life… it felt like a melodrama I accidentally stepped into. One I didn’t know the ending to. I didn’t know how to keep it inside. But I also didn’t know who to tell. I remember sitting on a school bench, staring into space, and suddenly blurting out: “My mom has cancer.” No emotion. No hesitation. No reflection. Because at the time… I still didn’t understand what it meant. How to process it. What would happen to us all. The truth was too heavy…

…So I entered a phase of denial.

At home, we didn’t really talk about how we felt with it. There was no space for pity or asking “why us?” I mean… I’m sure those thoughts lived in my parents’ minds — but around us (me and my brother), they were incredibly strong. They filtered what they shared. Looking back, I think that’s why it didn’t feel like our world collapsed, because we were protected, all the time, all our life. We focused on facts…

We’re going to the hospital.

Chemo is starting.

Hair will fall out.

Then radiotherapy.

We were aware of the process. We knew we had to get through it. Life had to go on. I had my final exams coming. We had to keep showing up to school. And at home, we had to be strong, even if the only way to support each other… was to pretend everything was normal. My mom kept saying: “It’s like the flu. Just… a little more serious. And it needs special care.”

But something inside me cracked. Because even if the outside looked “normal,” what was happening in that house… was very, very heavy. When my mom started losing her hair and vomiting from chemo, I handed her tissues and swept up the hair she pulled out in clumps. No words. No tears. Just numbness. Telling myself: “It’s just a phase. It’ll pass.” But I didn’t want to be at home. I started spending more time at my friend’s place. At the park. At my dance or swimming classes. Anywhere but not home.

Still… that time taught me something vital: You have to trust the process. Even though my mom had breast cancer with lymph node metastases, we were given good odds for a full recovery. And somehow, that hope kept us all from breaking down. That’s why the phrase “trust the process” has stayed with me since my teenage years. And every time life gets heavy… it helps me hold on.

But even with the hope we were not ready for the rest that came later on…