I got my results back last week—35 tests, with 15 more just added. Most came back in the normal range. The ones where “negative” means “good,” came back negative. It seems, overall, I’m responding to treatment.
But.
My red blood cell count is still low. So is my mean platelet volume. I’m still very anemic. And yes—I still have cancer in my bone marrow. That’s the short version. I started with 40% of my marrow affected, and now, post-transplant, it’s down to 10%. Progress, yes. But not the miracle I was quietly praying for.
I check in for my second stem cell transplant on October 15. I’ve got mixed feelings. After my biopsy, I clung to hope. Maybe, by some miracle, the doctor would call and say I was in remission. That there would be no need for another transplant. That we could finally move forward—me and my girls—without treatment dictating every plan, every dream.
But here we are.
The last three months, I pushed aside all negativity from the failed four rounds of chemo before. I focused on healing—mentally, spiritually—trying to realign myself, to stay balanced. As a mother of daughters, the pressure is unrelenting. I’m constantly asking myself: What do I need to do to make things better for them? And just as often, I realize… this is bigger than me.
I live in “Everything Happens for a Reason” Land. I see connections everywhere. But even with that faith, the questions remain: Why me? What happened? How do I change this?
People tell me I should be grateful. That I’m lucky to be in a country with shelters and friends who’ve shared their homes. And I am grateful. Deeply. The fact that we’ve survived the last 18 months under these circumstances is nothing short of a miracle. Divine interventions, kind-hearted people, unexplainable timing—it’s all evidence that I’m not forgotten. That I have a Heavenly Father looking out for us.
Still, some nights the weight of uncertainty feels too heavy to bear. If I focus too long on what’s missing, it feels like I might drown in it. Because this journey isn’t just mine. My girls are on it with me. They want answers. Comfort. Reassurance. And they look to me for all of it.
Yes, others love them. Others want to help. But I’m their mom. They want to hear me say it’ll all be okay.
What breaks me isn’t the house we lost or the fence we never had. If that were all it was, I would’ve stayed in that picture-perfect home in Florida. What breaks me is the inability to give them what I know is their right—and mine: safety. Peace. The freedom to grow and heal and be who they’re meant to be.
I shouldn’t have to compromise my parenting style to survive. I shouldn’t have to choose between my health and their well-being. But the world doesn’t always give us ideal choices. It assumes we’ll figure it out. That the state will help. That the other parent will contribute. That a mother can just walk away from an abusive situation and land on solid ground.
That’s not how it works.
Being a single parent is hard. Add chronic illness? It becomes nearly impossible. You’re on display. Open to judgment. Living in community settings where every opinion feels louder than your own instincts. Transparency is second nature to me—I’m not hiding anything—but still, it wears you down. You get tired of defending what you know is right for your kids.
I’ve been told I coddle them. That we spend too much quiet time together. That I’m shielding them too much. But my daughters are doing well—in school, in church, in friendships. They’re involved. Curious. Kind. They like spending time with me—still—and I encourage their independence as they grow.
I don’t hinder them from the world—I give them space to recover from it. When they’re anxious, I draw them close, and we breathe through it together. I show them how to ground their fears. I teach them to lean on each other—not just on me—because one day, I won’t be here.
Faith is a foundation in our house. I point them to Christ, not the approval of people—especially boys, because people fail. Faith brings them comfort, strength, peace. Life won’t be easy, but they don’t have to face it alone. Even after I’m gone.
I know how it feels to seek worth through performance. I grew up busy—trying to earn my place, serve my way into salvation, be accepted through my work. It never fulfilled me. Real peace came from knowing God’s love doesn’t depend on output. And I want my girls to know this now. They should love themselves the way He sees them. They should not define themselves by how the world tries to define them.
I’ve got nine days until Round Two. The last few weeks, I’ve spent holding each of my daughters as they shared their fears. I can’t give them the answers they want, so I offer my presence. I absorb their sadness. I show them the bigger picture—that this is just a blip. It will pass.
We talk about seeing every day as an experience. We view every new moment as an adventure. We perceive every person as a potential teacher. If they can embrace the change, they’ll be stronger for it. They’ll adapt. They’ll overcome.
They want the cancer gone. They want a home. They want a life of their own—a space to breathe, create, and simply be without being misunderstood. And when I hold them through the “what-ifs,” I promise them: Mommy is tougher than she looks.
And I’m going to beat this monster.
Even if I only beat it down far enough to give them time to find their wings.
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