Six months ago, my biggest concern was picking out the right diapers—cloth or disposable. I was decorating a nursery, folding baby clothes, and dreaming about holding my daughter in my arms. I never imagined that within half a year, I’d face more life-altering events than most people experience in a lifetime. In that short span, I became a mother, lost my leg, and fought cancer.
It all started with what seemed like a minor ache in my thigh. I assumed it was just part of the pregnancy—maybe sciatica, or a pinched nerve. I brushed it off, too focused on preparing for my baby’s arrival to pay much attention. After my daughter, Liora, was born, the pain didn’t go away—it got worse. I told myself to push through it. I was soaking up every moment of her newborn life: her tiny fingers wrapped around mine, the soft smell of her skin, the peaceful way she slept. I wanted to be fully present for all of it. But the ache became sharper, more persistent. One morning, I couldn’t even stand to rock her to sleep.
I finally went in for medical scans. The doctor walked into the room with that unmistakable expression—the one that quietly announces that everything is about to change. It was cancer. A rare, aggressive form of soft tissue cancer, spreading fast. I stared at the hospital ceiling, numb. I had just given birth. I was supposed to be celebrating life, not fighting for my own.
Chemotherapy began almost immediately. My body shut down in ways I wasn’t prepared for. My milk dried up, and I could no longer feed Liora. I had to hand her over to my mother at night because the nausea and vomiting were relentless. Then, the tumor grew into my femur. Doctors told me amputation would give me the best shot at survival. I didn’t cry when I signed the consent forms. I couldn’t afford to fall apart.
When I woke up, one leg was gone. In its place was a storm of grief, fear, and guilt. I couldn’t carry my daughter anymore. Couldn’t chase her across the room. Couldn’t wear the dress I bought for her naming ceremony. Every moment was a reminder of what I’d lost. But I was alive. That had to count for something.
Three weeks after the surgery, I began physical therapy. Liora had just started teething. Then, during a routine appointment, I found a scan report tucked into my file—one I wasn’t meant to see. It mentioned a “suspicious lesion” in my right lung. No one had told me about this. My heart thundered in my chest. Was this another battle waiting just around the corner?
I called my oncologist, but the office was closed. My next appointment wasn’t for several days. Those days felt like years. I barely slept. I kept trying to act normal for Liora, but inside, I was unraveling. I clung to her tiny body during feedings, her giggles the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely. My mother kept asking if I was okay. I smiled, said yes, and let her believe it—because I couldn’t bring myself to say otherwise.
When I finally sat down with Dr. Armitage, I didn’t wait for formalities. “Why wasn’t I told?” I asked, my voice trembling. “Is it cancer?”
He looked at me with genuine concern. “We didn’t want to alarm you until we had more information,” he said. “There’s a lesion, yes. But we don’t know if it’s malignant. We’re monitoring it closely and will schedule more tests.”
The word “malignant” echoed in my mind for hours. I returned home, trying to function through the fear. I threw myself into rehab, determined to regain some control. At the rehab center, I met a woman named Saoirse. She had lost her leg in a car crash and was a quiet force of strength. She taught me tricks for balance, how to work with my prosthetic, how to deal with the phantom pain that haunted my nights. She was also a single mother. She’d lost her husband to a stroke and raised her son on her own. Listening to her made me realize I wasn’t alone in my pain. Her strength became my roadmap.
“Keep your heart open,” she told me. “You’ll be amazed at what you’re capable of.”
A week later, I went back for the scan. My mother drove me while Liora stayed with my aunt. We sat in silence, having already run through every possible outcome. In the waiting room, I could barely breathe. The smell of antiseptic was a cruel reminder of all I had been through. I whispered to my mother, “If it’s back… I don’t know if I can do this again.”
She didn’t flinch. She squeezed my hand. “Then we’ll do it together.”
The scan itself was quick, but the waiting wasn’t. When Dr. Armitage returned, his face was unreadable. My heart hammered in my chest.
“Good news,” he said. “The lesion is stable. It appears to be benign. No signs of spread. We’ll keep monitoring, but for now, you can breathe easier.”
I let out a sob—half-laugh, half-cry. My mother hugged me so tightly I thought I might fall apart in her arms. Relief doesn’t come all at once. It washes over you slowly, like a sunrise after a storm.
In the days that followed, I started to feel like myself again—though a new version of myself. One forged in fire and fear and unshakable love. I trained harder with my prosthetic. Each step became a victory. I learned how to massage the stump at night to ease the pain. I figured out how to carry Liora while standing, how to pivot in place without losing balance. Slowly, I reclaimed parts of my life that cancer had tried to take away.
One morning, while walking through our living room with Liora giggling in my arms, she reached up and touched my face with her little hand. She didn’t see a scarred body or a missing leg. She saw her mom. Whole, strong, present. And in that moment, I saw myself through her eyes.
We had a small celebration—a quiet victory party. My mother baked a cake. Friends dropped by with hugs and warm words. Even Saoirse came. We toasted with lemonade and laughter. We celebrated survival, strength, and second chances.
That night, I stood by Liora’s crib, watching her sleep. I looked at the nursery we had decorated months ago, now filled with new memories—some painful, but all meaningful. I had survived childbirth, cancer, and the loss of a limb. But I had also discovered a strength I didn’t know I had.
Life doesn’t wait for us to be ready. It crashes in with chaos and hardship and asks who we’re going to be in the aftermath. I don’t have all the answers. But I know this: I’m still here. I’m still standing. And no matter what comes next, I’ll face it with the same determination that’s carried me this far.
If you’re reading this and struggling—don’t give up. Even in your darkest hour, you are stronger than you think. And somewhere, someone is rooting for you to rise.
