Motherhood has always been portrayed as this messy, magical, all-consuming love story.
You imagine the baby cuddles, the tired eyes, the giggles, the growth.
You prepare for long nights, teething, tantrums, and heart-melting milestones.
But what I never prepared for was parenting while battling cancer.
I was diagnosed just weeks after giving birth to my second child.
At a time when I was meant to be soaking up the newborn phase, adjusting to life as a mom of two, and holding my toddler’s hand through her own big emotions, I found myself staring down a fight for my life.
Cancer didn’t care that I was a mom, and time didn’t care that I had cancer.
There were no days off. No break from being needed. My baby still cried for milk and comfort.
My toddler still asked for stories and play. And I, stitched up and exhausted, still had to find a way to show up.
Some days, the physical pain was overwhelming.
I was healing from childbirth while also preparing for surgery.
I was hooked up to chemotherapy when I should have been pushing a pram around the park. I felt sick, swollen, and sore.
I told them that mommy’s body was working hard to get better
Other days, the emotional toll was worse. I remember looking at my children and thinking, they deserve so much more than this version of me.
I felt guilty that I couldn’t be the energetic, fun mom I wanted to be. I missed milestone moments. I missed cuddles because I was too sore to hold them. I missed just being present.
But what I learned is that motherhood is not defined by how much you do. It’s defined by how deeply you love.
I could not always run around with them, but I could hold space for them. I could not always play for hours, but I could offer safety in my words. And when I let them into my world, even the hard parts, I realised something beautiful. Children do not need perfect parents. They need honest ones.
So I stopped hiding my pain. I stopped brushing off their questions. I began telling them the truth, wrapped in gentleness.
I told them that mommy’s body was working hard to get better. I told them that sometimes our cells get sick, and the doctors are helping build me strong again. I let them see me cry, and I let them ask questions I didn’t always have the answers to.
In doing that, I saw them grow. Not just in age, but in empathy.
They became more emotionally aware, more nurturing, more connected. I saw in my daughter a strength I didn’t teach her. I saw in my son a sensitivity that made me stop and breathe it in.
Cancer stripped so much away from me. My hair. My health. My energy. But it also gave me something I didn’t expect. It taught me to ‘mother’ with presence over perfection.
It showed me that resilience is built in the quiet moments. That connection doesn’t come from grand gestures, but from looking your children in the eye and letting them see you fully, even when you’re afraid.
Out of this experience came my children’s book, There Is Always Love. It was my way of explaining the unexplainable to my kids. It tells the story of a family going through cancer, from the eyes of two small children. It speaks to hair loss, fatigue, and change, but most importantly, it reminds children that love is constant.
And that was what I clung to the most. Love didn’t leave. Even when I looked different. Even when I felt like a shell of myself. Even when I wasn’t sure I had the strength to keep going.
Writing gave me a way to pass on that message, not only to my children, but to every family walking this path.
And maybe that’s what cancer taught me the most.
That even in the hardest seasons, love is enough.
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