What My Mom Taught Me About Courage While Navigating Cancer and Motherhood

This column is a tribute to my mom in honor of Mother’s Day. And to every mother who has navigated breast cancer or a genetic mutation while in the thick of motherhood, you are my heroes.

Motherhood has a way of peeling back the layers of your own childhood and showing you details you did not fully catch the first time around. Since becoming a mom several years ago, I find myself going back to my own childhood, but this time with a deeper sense of appreciation and awe for my mom.

Because now that I am in it, I see the invisible choreography that keeps a family moving. The groceries that fill the fridge; the meals that appear on the table; the constant decluttering of toys; the doctor appointments scheduled; the backpacks packed; the school holidays, camps, birthday parties, and playdates planned; and the closets sorted through as the kids outgrow their clothes — just to name a few tasks. In many families, moms carry this mental load while also working full-time jobs, managing relationships, and magically transforming a house into a home through her presence.

And then there are the moms who carry all of that and a diagnosis like breast cancer. My mom is one of them.

My Mom, My Hero

She was 33 when she was diagnosed. I was 13. It is hard to believe that it’s been 25 years since that moment. I still remember everything so vividly, the uncertainty I felt even as a young teenager.

One Sunday she sat on the couch combing her hair, and it began to fall out in large handfuls. I ran upstairs and screamed into my pillow. It was so scary, and I didn’t have the words to process what I was feeling. I can only imagine how she felt in that moment.

And yet she kept showing up. She showed up to games and to school events. We even danced the night away at a Bollywood concert together while she was on chemotherapy. At the time, I thought she was just being my mom. Now I understand she was being so much more. She was choosing presence and courage in the middle of fear and uncertainty.

Working in palliative care, I have witnessed up close the extraordinary resilience of the human spirit at the end of life. But there is something uniquely incredible about a young mom living with a serious illness while raising kids. Moms showing up to dance practices, school events, community celebrations — often while also navigating treatment, fear, and relentless symptoms like nausea, insomnia, or fatigue. There is an unshakeable resilience in the way they keep moving forward — not for themselves but for their kids. I saw it in my mom, and I have seen it in the “previvor,” thriver, and survivor community of women I now walk alongside.

My mom has always been special. Everyone who knows her feels it. When her cancer returned 15 years later, in 2017, she threw herself a “Bye Bye Boobies” party before her bilateral mastectomy. The room was filled with family, friends, laughter, dancing, and a kind of joy that didn’t make sense right before major surgery. She should have been celebrating 15 years of being cancer-free. Instead, she chose to celebrate her life anyway.

That is my mom. She finds gratitude and humor in the face of hardship. And she celebrates everything (and I mean everything) with fun decor, friends, good food, and dancing.

And Then It Was My Turn

I honestly didn’t understand her strength, resilience, and courage until 2020, when I had my own risk-reducing surgeries. At the time, my kids were just 18 months and 2.5 years old. And just like when I was giving birth to my daughter, my husband was on one side of me and she was right there on the other. Except this time I was having surgery and she was in my home taking over my mom duties. And while I healed, she was right there cooking me nourishing food, massaging my legs, and caring for my babies.

It was in those moments after surgery that it hit me. I had support. I had resources. I had a community. She had none of that.

She went through cancer in a time when no one talked about chemical menopause, when there were no online communities, and within an Indian culture where cancer was rarely discussed openly. Much of her cancer experience happened behind closed doors. I never even saw her without a wig. Looking back, I can feel the fear and loneliness she must have felt, all while putting on a brave smile for my brother and me.

Before my own surgery, I remember sitting with intense and persistent fear and anxiety. It didn’t help that we were in the middle of a global pandemic, and I had seen more traumatic deaths in a matter of months than anyone should ever have to experience. Like a lot of the patients I was taking care of at the time, I was afraid I’d go into the hospital alone and never leave. I feared something might go wrong and I wouldn’t be here to watch my kids grow up. So I did something that gave me a sense of control: I wrote each of my kids 18 letters, one for every birthday. I poured into those pages everything I wanted them to know. Just in case.

Turning Fear Into Action

Fear of dying is common among parents with a serious illness. But motherhood has an interesting way of turning that fear into purposeful action. My mom showed me that strength and courage can be quiet but present. That love and fear can coexist. And that humor can lighten even the hardest moments. Her lived experience has shaped me into the mom and doctor I am today.

To the mothers going through breast cancer or navigating risk-reducing surgeries while raising kids right now, here are a few things I want you to remember:

• Ask for help. Reach out to family, friends, neighbors, your medical team, or your church community without guilt. Social support is linked to better coping and outcomes.

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   It truly takes a village. You and your kids deserve one.
• Give yourself grace. Your body is healing, and that requires energy. Rest is a crucial part of that process; it is not a luxury.
• Redefine what “doing enough” looks like. It may not look like it did before treatment, and that is okay. Your presence, just as you are, matters more to your kids than anything else.
• Find the magic moments. Sometimes laughing is the only way through. A dance party in the kitchen, a funny movie, or a little moment of joy. These are not small things. They are adversity anchors. They will get you and your kids through the hard days.

I know this chapter feels very overwhelming, but you are still showing up in the most meaningful way possible. Just by being here and being you. And that, more than anything, is what your kids will remember and carry with them. I know because I was one of those kids.