6 months ago, I was designing a nursery and deciding whether to use cloth or disposable nappies. I had no idea my entire life was going to turn upside down—twice. 
It began with a dull pain in my thigh. I suspected it was pregnancy-related, maybe a pinched nerve or sciatica. But things grew worse.

After my daughter, Liora, was born, I pushed through it because I wanted to cherish every minute with her. I was enamoured with the fragrance of newborns and their tiny fingers. But the anguish intensified. One morning, I couldn’t bear to rock her.

I eventually went in for a scan. The doctor entered with that expression. The one who says, “This isn’t going to be easy.” It was an uncommon kind of soft tissue cancer, aggressive and spreading quickly. I recall grabbing the side of the hospital bed and thinking, “I just had a baby.” I do not have time for cancer. 

Chemo began immediately. My milk has dried up. I had to give Liora to my mother most nights since I could not stop vomiting. The tumour eventually grew into my femur. They stated amputation would offer me a greater chance. I signed the documents without sobbing; I didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for me. I awoke from surgery with one leg and a weight of shame. I could not bear my daughter. I couldn’t chase her after she learnt to crawl. I couldn’t wear the outfit I purchased for her naming ceremony.

But I am still here.

It was 3 weeks ago. I’ve begun physiotherapy. Liora is teething. And this morning, I discovered something in my medical file that I shouldn’t have seen. Something about a scan that they never informed me about. I’m not sure if they’re suppressing the truth or if I’ll have to fight again.

I walked my little living room, leaning on crutches with the scary scan paper in my palm. My heart felt like it was pulsing in my throat. I wanted to call my doctor straight away, but I was hesitant—what if there was an error? The report was filled of medical jargon, but one phrase stuck out: “suspicious lesion in the right lung.” I didn’t recall anyone mentioning my lungs. My whole emphasis had been on my leg. 
Finally, I called my oncologist’s office. They closed for the day. My next appointment was the following week, but I couldn’t wait that long. My belly churned with the idea that the cancer had spread.

The next days were a whirl of restless nights and attempts at normalcy. Liora’s brilliant eyes and drooly grin were the only things that kept me grounded. I held her close while feeding her and stroked my nose against her soft cheek to calm my rushing thoughts. When I fell from physical and mental weariness, Mum stepped in to provide late-night feeds. I knew she was worried, too. She kept asking whether I was all right, and I pretended I was. I didn’t want to add any more stress to our already crazy lives. 

When my appointment day arrived, I felt as if I were stepping into a courtroom. Every hallway in the hospital reverberated with recollections of chemo, amputation, and the sinking dread I’d felt for months. I could almost smell the antiseptic that had been about me for so long. This time, however, I wheeled my wheelchair to my oncologist’s office since my stump was too uncomfortable after a recent session of physical therapy to use crutches for such a long distance. 

My oncologist, Dr. Armitage, greeted me with the same serious yet compassionate smile. I did not even wait for short conversation. “I discovered a letter describing a worrisome tumour in my right lung. Is it cancerous? “Why didn’t someone tell me?” 
He sighed, appearing really sorry. “I wanted to confirm the results before upsetting you. 

The word “malignant” struck me like an avalanche, but I pushed myself to remain calm. At least I knew the truth now. Another scan was scheduled for the following week, with a biopsy if necessary. 
The next three days seemed strange. I tried to keep up with Liora’s schedule, but every time she grinned or held out her arms, I wondered if I’d be well enough to see her grow. My thoughts spiralled into dark depths. To cope, I immersed myself in physical therapy, trying to master my new prosthetic limb. 

At the rehabilitation centre, I met a woman named Saoirse. She had lost her leg in a vehicle accident years before. She appeared calm and controlled, the complete antithesis of my inner turmoil. She taught me minor methods for improved balance, pivoting without toppling over, and overcoming the phantom aches that kept me up at night. She also recounted her tale, revealing that she was more than simply a trauma survivor; she was a single mother raising her kid after losing her husband to a stroke. Listening to her tale gave me strength. She’d been through more pain than most people could understand, and here she was, inspiring me to fight for my future. 
“Keep your heart open,” she instructed me one afternoon as we practiced walking in a mirrored room. People will surprise you with their kindness. And so will you, once you realise your true strength.” 
I took that counsel to heart. 

A week later, the day for my fresh scan arrived. My mother took me to the hospital, and we both remained silent throughout the journey. We had previously gone over every imaginable situation a dozen times. This was it—the final piece of the jigsaw that would determine whether I needed extra therapy or whether I could continue to mend my body as is.

Liora was with my aunt, who had come to stay for a few days to help. In the waiting area, I felt as if all the walls were closing in. The scent of antiseptic irritated my nose, and the machinery surrounding me seemed louder than normal. I went to my mother and told her, “I am not ready for another round of chemotherapy. “I’m not sure if my body can handle it.” 
She held my hand and said, “Whatever happens, we’ll make it through together.” 
Finally, I received a call. The scan was finished quickly, but the wait for the results felt like an eternity. Dr. Armitage walked in with a folder. His expression was unreadable. I tried to prepare for the worst.

He exclaimed, “Good news,” and I believe my breath seized in my chest. “The lesion looks to be stable, and we believe it is benign. We will continue to examine it, but it does not appear that cancer has spread.” 
I wasn’t sure whether to cry or laugh. I went for a combination of the two—tears flowing down my cheeks, a trembling grin splitting my cheeks. Mum hugged me so tightly that it felt like she would never let go. My whole body trembled, yet relief washed over me like a warm blanket on a chilly night. 

In the weeks that followed, I focused my attention on becoming stronger, both for myself and for Liora.My new prosthetic limb was difficult, but every stride felt like recovering a piece of my life. I got up early for light stretching, which helped with the phantom discomfort. I discovered that rubbing the stump before bed relieved nocturnal agony, and as I improved my manoeuvring skills, I felt secure enough to carry Liora in my arms while standing, something I hadn’t done since before the operation.

The more I practiced, I realised I wasn’t simply becoming better physically. My spirit felt lighter. The heavy veil of continual anxiety began to dissipate. Yes, there was still a chance I’d require more scans and tests. But it was part of my new reality: living with the awareness that cancer may always be lurking in the background but nevertheless choosing to move on. 
One morning, while I was cautiously walking around the living room with Liora in my arms, she gave the nicest laugh. She reached up and caressed my face with her small palm, and I saw she didn’t care about my scars, prosthetics, or the fact that I was exhausted faster than usual. She only wanted me. 

We held a small gathering to commemorate this new chapter—a short “victory” celebration, if you will. My mother cooked a vanilla cake with vivid pink icing. A couple childhood friends stopped over with flowers and balloons, as did my physical therapist and Saoirse. We lifted our glasses (mainly filled with lemonade) in a modest toast to survival, perseverance, and the little things we sometimes take for granted. 

That evening, as I put Liora into her cot, I looked at her tranquil face and reflected on how far we’d come in just half a year. The nursery walls, formerly painted with pink elephants and rainbows, now appeared to represent the entire voyage. Life had thrown me upside down several times, yet I was still standing—literally and figuratively—with my kid in my arms.

Sometimes we don’t get to select the fights we fight. When things spin out of hand, we don’t have the option of hitting pause. But we do get to choose how we respond. Some days, I wanted to hide beneath the blankets and cry till I couldn’t breathe. Yet every time I glanced at Liora’s face, I found a cause to keep going. 

If there is one thing I hope everyone takes away from this narrative, it is that life can change on a dime. Nobody can expect an easy route. Even if you lose a bit of yourself—a limb, your health, even your peace of mind—you can still go on. It might be via the support of family, a stranger who becomes a friend, or the steadfast love in your child’s eyes. 

Never underestimate the power of resolve, and never allow your circumstances to define you. We are all more resilient than we realise. Whether you’re dealing with a health crisis, a loss, or any huge challenge, remember that you have the power to keep going. You might be surprised at what you can overcome.

Thanks for reading my story. If it touched your heart, please share it with someone who might use a little hope. And if it inspired you to believe in your own strength a bit more, please like and share. Life might be unpredictable, but we can remind each other that there is always cause to hope—and that love can overcome any challenge.