Navigating motherhood during chemo, surgery, and radiation while trying to raise emotionally resilient kids.
Motherhood and breast cancer is a reality I never imagined I would face, especially at 43 with two young kids. Parenting during cancer treatment has been challenging and sometimes almost felt beyond me. Even without cancer, motherhood is already one of the hardest jobs there is. In our modern world, so many of us feel like we are doing it alone. We are constantly measuring ourselves against impossible standards with little societal support and feeling like we are failing in ways that no one else can see. Even without cancer, most mothers carry a quiet sense of inadequacy about all the things we cannot keep up with. We are stressed, overwhelmed, and exhausted, trying to juggle everything while still wanting to be present and loving for our children.
Add into the mix 13 months of breast cancer treatment. There were definitely times over the last year, I was unsure if I would be able to show up for my kids. On this breast cancer journey, I have had many moments where I have had to grieve the mother I could not be. My kids are almost six and almost eight. These are such formative years, and I am dedicated to meeting my children where they are. I want to be there for them when they need me. I want to help them build a strong sense of self and guide them with social and emotional awareness that supports resilience and empathy. I did have some of that modeling in my own childhood, but I also grew up in the 80s where the common style of parenting was more traditional and tended towards authoritarianism. As a parent, I am trying to move away from that style and instead model a calmer, less reactive approach. One that allows my kids to feel safe expressing big emotions while still knowing they are held and supported. I want to model emotional regulation, empathy, and self-compassion not just for them, but for myself as well.
But you cannot pour from an empty cup. Since last September, my body has navigated healing from a mastectomy surgery, chemotherapy, radiation, and targeted HER2+ infusions every three weeks. I find myself feeling depleted, with lower energy than I would like to have, and with a cup that is definitely not full. The week before school started this year, emotions in our house were running high. For my kids, it came out as tears over brushing their teeth and meltdowns about practicing piano. For me, already exhausted and stretched thin, it triggered panic inside my fragile nervous system. I could not hold it together during these emotional release moments. I was definitely triggered. My inner child was screaming for safety and comfort, which were the very things my children were needing from me. I wanted to meet their needs and give them the space to fall apart, but I had a hard time holding space for them that week. At the end of a very long day, I found myself screaming at them to be better listeners.
After we all calmed down, I was able to circle back and repair. I explained how I was feeling and told them that I would try and do better next time. I also reminded them that they could do better at being first-time listeners and helping me out in that way. The conversation definitely helped everyone settle down for the night, but when I closed my daughter’s bedroom door, the voice of self-judgement showed up. I told myself I was failing them, that I was not a good mother, that even that I was not sure if I was fit to be a mother. I am grateful to have my husband as a support, someone who listens to me when I spiral into that place and reminds me that our kids will be fine. The truth is, about seventy-five percent of my interactions with them are calm, loving, and present. I am able to hold space most of the time, even when it is hard. And this year I have been really working on giving myself grace. Kids do not need perfect parents. A parent only needs to be good enough most of the time to foster secure attachment. That reminder gives me some breathing room. It reminds me that even in the messy moments, when I lose patience or cannot show up calm, cool, and collected, my children are still receiving the consistency, safety, and love they need to thrive. And the repair part is important. Talking through what happened and how we can always begin again. Those conversations are not just healing for them, they are healing for me too, because they remind me that I can keep growing as a parent right alongside them.
Part of what this year has taught me is how to change my expectations. This has been a lesson both in my journey as a parent and as a person, but it has come into sharp focus as I have navigated cancer treatment. Giving up expectations means softening. Letting go of controlling the outcome and feeling more spacious during the journey. There have been many days over the last year that I have been too tired to function. Which means I have had to give up some control over what the house looks like, how and when dinner gets on the table, if I am able to cross off everything on my to do list that day. I also have had to work on accepting that I just do not have the internal resources to be the patient parent I want to be. Changing my expectations has been painful because it feels like letting go of an ideal version of myself, but it has also been liberating. It reminds me that motherhood is not about perfection, it is about presence and the willingness to keep trying.
Even with all that knowledge and awareness, I still feel that cancer can rob us of so much. I have felt the loss this year of moments with my kids, of patience, of the energy to play with them, of the resiliency to be the adult in the room when they start to melt down. I have found it is important to name it, to grieve it, and to acknowledge that sometimes in our lives, we cannot be the people we want to be.
Cancer treatment takes from us in every dimension. It takes strength, energy, stamina, hair, hormones, and sometimes even the sense of being at home in our own body. It takes mental clarity, memory, concentration, and the ability to keep up with daily life. It takes patience, emotional resilience, confidence, and often our identity as we knew it before diagnosis. We lose parts of ourselves that are not easily replaced. And yet, alongside the grief, I have been learning to notice what I have gained.
Journaling has been a lifeline for me. Getting all my thoughts and feelings out of my head and onto the page creates space to see beyond the immediate struggle. It allows me to remember what growth has taken place in this challenging year. I have found new friendships and a community of strong, brave women. I have a place to land every Monday night in my support group. I have gained knowledge about my body, my health, and the way healing really works. I have a deeper connection to my intuition and natural healing intelligence. I have a renewed appreciation for the beauty in life’s simplest moments. I have been invited to slow down, to listen to my body, and to honor my limits. In a way, I also have less tolerance for living a life that does not serve my authentic self.
I am still grieving the mother I could not be this year, the one who is not depleted, has patience and the ability to hold space during meltdowns. The mother who shows up with abundant energy for every milestone. But this year has also given me the opportunity to learn that modeling imperfection, vulnerability, and the courage to repair is a gift for my children. Motherhood during cancer treatment is uncharted territory. But if I am being perfectly honest with myself, motherhood in general has felt that way as well. It is messy, exhausting, and sometimes really challenging. But it is also full of moments of connection, compassion, and growth. One of the lessons that I have really worked on embodying this year is that I do not have to be a perfect mother. I only have to trust myself and be present. Sharing my authentic self with my children, allowing the big emotions to exist alongside the love and dedication I have for my family, feels like one of the greatest gifts I can offer them. It hopefully shows them that even when life throws us a curveball and does not unfold the way we had hoped it was going to, there is still so much opportunity for growth, resilience, and reflection.
