I whispered a quiet goodbye in my prayers the day the doctors spoke the word cancer.
I was 57 years old, sitting in a room that suddenly felt smaller than it had just moments before.
My thoughts rushed ahead of me — to my children, my home, and the plans I still believed I had time to live out. I never said it out loud, but deep inside, I feared that everything familiar was about to change, that my world might become smaller and filled with uncertainty.
The months that followed were heavy in ways I hadn’t known before. Hospital rooms became familiar. Waiting areas felt endless. Fear arrived in waves, then slowly retreated, leaving behind a quiet that was hard to carry. Each appointment brought new questions, and each answer seemed to lead to more waiting.
Some days, I surprised myself with strength.
I found moments of calm and courage I didn’t know I had.
Other days, I felt hollow, sitting alone with my thoughts, quietly asking God if hope was still meant for me, or if faith was simply about holding on through the unknown.
Yet even in the uncertainty, something steady kept pulling me forward.
One appointment led to another. One day followed the next. The routine became familiar, even when the outcome remained unclear. Nurses offered gentle smiles and kind words when my energy felt gone. Friends showed up in unexpected ways, reminding me that support often arrives exactly when it’s needed.
Over time, I learned to measure progress differently.
Not by timelines or guarantees, but by small moments — a reassuring update, a shared laugh, a good night’s rest. I learned that courage didn’t always look bold or confident. Sometimes, it simply looked like showing up again.
Then came the day I was walked down the hallway toward the bell.
The hallway felt longer than usual, filled with memories of every step that had led me there. My hands were shaking as I lifted my arms. My chest felt tight, and I paused before ringing it. When I finally did, the sound echoed through the space in a way I’ll never forget.
Tears came quickly — not from fear this time, but from gratitude.
Gratitude for the care I received.
Gratitude for the people who stood beside me.
Gratitude for the strength I discovered along the way.
I am still here.
And now I understand something that took time to learn: through every appointment, every long wait, every quiet prayer, and every uncertain step, I was never walking alone.
