Many years ago, I received an invitation to a Christian women’s conference. One of the speakers, Bunny Wilson, shared a beautiful picture about her life. She imagined herself in heaven, sitting by a calm, peaceful river, weaving a tapestry. At times, God would stop by, and they’d reflect on the tapestry together. Bright threads represented joyful moments, while darker threads symbolized hardships. These threads combined to tell the full story of her life, showing how every experience—good or bad—contributed to her identity.
Recently, someone asked me a question that made me pause: How do you feel about your daughters needing increased cancer screenings because of your health history? It stopped me in my tracks. I had never allowed myself to dwell on that part of my journey, so I didn’t have an answer ready.
I am a 17-year survivor of Inflammatory Breast Cancer (IBC). That question unlocked emotions I hadn’t fully processed. When I was diagnosed, we lived in South Dakota on the Rosebud Indian Reservation. We were three and a half hours from a major medical center. Our doctor recommended we return to North Carolina, where we had friends and family for support. That very evening, we packed up the kids and dogs and left for North Carolina, even though we didn’t have a home there. The girls nor I ever returned to our house in South Dakota. Friends packed up our belongings, and my husband, with help from friends, brought everything back to North Carolina.
During that time, I was laser-focused on keeping things as “normal” as possible for our daughters, who were 17, 12, and 10. In South Dakota, they had horses, cats, and a life that was upended overnight. Suddenly we were back in North Carolina without the things they loved.
I never wanted them to see me as sick. They knew I had cancer, but I worked hard to shield them from the emotional and physical toll that took. I also refused to let those around us focus too much on cancer—I wanted to thrive during cancer, not mourn the life we used to live.
Looking back, I now realize how hard it had to have been on our daughters. They were forced to leave the things they loved, never to return to what they had known in South Dakota. While I was trying to survive, they were grappling with their new reality. I can see now that they could probably have used more help adjusting to our new normal. I can see that I was so focused on trying to keep things normal, there were conversations we should’ve had but didn’t. I realize i was doing the best I could at the time. Thankfully cancer had also brought some unexpected blessings into our lives. Some people who could pour into and pay more attention to the kids. I will be forever thankful for that. I also see that walking closely with me through cancer was hard on them too. Reflecting on those years, I see how deeply my cancer impacted everyone around me—not just during my treatment but in the years that followed and even now, today.
The question about my daughters’ increased cancer screenings opened a door for me to consider their experience and how it continues to affect them. They are diligent about their health, aware of the risks they face because of my history. While I’m grateful for their vigilance, it also saddens me that this burden is one they carry because of what happened to me. The emotional and financial cost of that is something that I wish they did not have to bear.
Bunny Wilson’s tapestry metaphor resonates even more deeply with me now. That dark period in my life added threads to the tapestry of my daughters’ lives as well. Those threads are a mix of pain, resilience, and love. A mix of darkness and light. While I would give anything to spare them the hardships, I also see how those experiences have shaped them into the strong, compassionate women they are today.
Life is like that; sometimes, hardships will come, and they are difficult. Often, we don’t talk about the difficulties because it makes them seem more real. Cancer affects us all differently, and it can make us both bitter and better simultaneously. Each time I share part of my story, it is my hope that another person may be able to add some stronger, brighter strands to the tapestry of their life.