To My Kids: If Tomorrow Happens Without Me, Remember This

Two cancer diagnoses change the way you look at life.

They change the way you think about tomorrow. They change the way you watch your children grow. They change ordinary Tuesday mornings, baseball games, family dinners, vacations, arguments, hugs, and all the little moments you once assumed you would have an endless supply of.

Before cancer, I knew life wasn’t guaranteed.

Of course I knew that.

We all do.

But knowing something and being forced to confront it are two very different things.

Cancer forced me to confront my mortality in a way I never wanted to—especially as a mom.

And after facing cancer twice, there are things I need my kids to know.

Not because I believe something bad is going to happen tomorrow.

Not because I want to live my life waiting for cancer to come back.

But because I no longer want to leave the most important things unsaid.

So, to my kids:

If tomorrow ever happens without me, remember this.

You Were the Best Part of My Life

There are so many things I have been in this life.

A wife. A daughter. A sister. A friend. A writer. A cancer patient. A survivor.

But being your mom will always be my favorite.

You were never simply part of my life.

You were the best part of it.

I hope someday, when you’re older, you understand just how much joy you gave me simply by existing.

Even on the hard days.

Even when the house was loud and messy.

Even during the arguments, the slammed doors, the endless driving, the practices, the homework, the forgotten shoes, the schedules, and the million times I probably told you to pick something up off the floor.

Those were the days of my life.

And I loved them more than I probably stopped to tell you.

I Loved Every Version of You

I loved the babies you were.

I loved the little boys who needed me for everything.

I love the versions of you standing in front of me today.

And I already love the people you haven’t become yet.

The teenagers.

The adults.

The men who will someday build lives completely separate from mine.

You will change a thousand times throughout your lives. You’ll make mistakes. You’ll change your minds. You’ll probably make choices I wouldn’t have made.

That’s okay.

There was never a version of you that had to earn my love.

And there never will be.

You Don’t Have to Be Strong All the Time

Cancer introduced the word strong into our lives in ways I never expected.

“You’re so strong.”

“You’re such a fighter.”

“Keep fighting.”

And while strength can be a beautiful thing, I’ve learned that sometimes being human is more important than being strong.

So if you ever lose someone you love—whether that’s me or someone else—let yourself feel it.

Cry.

Be angry.

Say it isn’t fair.

Miss them.

Talk about them.

And then, when happiness eventually finds its way back into your life, please let yourself feel that too.

Laugh without guilt.

Celebrate.

Love people.

Make new memories.

Grief and happiness can live in the same heart.

One does not erase the other.

Remember the Ordinary Things

If cancer has taught me anything, it’s that the ordinary moments are rarely ordinary when you look back.

Remember the car rides.

The inside jokes.

The baseball games.

The kitchen conversations.

The vacations.

The nights we stayed up too late.

The times we laughed so hard we couldn’t breathe.

Remember me sitting in the stands.

Remember the music playing in the car.

Remember the traditions that probably seemed insignificant at the time.

Because those are the memories I hold onto too.

Cancer didn’t make me want a life filled with constant bucket-list moments.

It made me appreciate the boring ones.

The grocery runs.

The noisy kitchen.

The ordinary mornings.

Because I fought for those days too.

Please, Please Live Your Lives

This might be the thing I want you to remember most.

Live.

Really live.

Take the trip.

Try the thing you’re terrified to try.

Apply for the job you don’t think you’re qualified for.

Tell someone you love them.

Fall ridiculously in love.

Get your heart broken and eventually try again.

Change careers.

Move somewhere new.

Stay somewhere you love.

Make mistakes.

Start over.

Be spontaneous sometimes.

Don’t spend your entire life waiting until everything is perfect, because perfect rarely comes.

And please don’t let fear make your decisions for you.

I know what it’s like to be afraid of losing your life.

I don’t want you to become so afraid of losing yours that you forget to actually live it.

Be Good People

I don’t need you to be the richest people in the room.

I don’t need you to have the fanciest houses, the most impressive careers, or lives that look perfect on social media.

I want you to be good humans.

Be kind when nobody is watching.

Stand up for someone who needs it.

Sit next to the person sitting alone.

Listen before you judge.

Apologize when you’re wrong.

Forgive when you can.

Walk away when you need to.

Treat people like their stories matter, because everyone is carrying something you cannot see.

If you can leave this world a little kinder than you found it, I’ll consider that a life well lived.

Become Whoever You Are Supposed to Become

You don’t owe the world a particular version of yourself.

You don’t have to become who I imagined you would be.

You don’t have to follow someone else’s timeline.

Be loud.

Be quiet.

Be weird.

Be curious.

Be sensitive.

Be ambitious.

Be creative.

Change your mind.

Figure yourself out.

Then figure yourself out all over again.

I don’t want you to become people who make me proud.

I want you to become people who make you proud.

When the Big Moments Come, Know I’m Already Proud

There are certain milestones parents imagine from the moment their children are born.

Graduations.

Careers.

Weddings, maybe.

Families of their own, maybe.

Big adventures.

Big accomplishments.

And after cancer, I’ve had to acknowledge something incredibly painful:

I don’t know which moments I am guaranteed to see.

None of us do.

But if there ever comes a day when something wonderful happens and I’m not physically standing there, I hope a tiny voice inside you says:

“Mom would be so proud.”

Because I am.

Already.

Before the accomplishments.

Before the diplomas.

Before the careers.

Before you become whatever you’re going to become.

I’m proud simply because you’re mine.

Don’t Look for Me Only in What You Lost

If tomorrow ever happens without me, I don’t want you to spend the rest of your lives looking for me only in the empty spaces.

Look for me in what I left behind.

Look for me in your sense of humor.

In the stories you tell about your childhood.

In the traditions you keep.

In the ridiculous things I said that you swore you’d never repeat—and then catch yourself saying someday.

Look for me in the way you love people.

In the courage you find when life gets hard.

In the lessons I tried to teach you.

In the parts of me that became parts of you.

I’ll be there.

Two Cancer Diagnoses Changed My Perspective on Life

I wish I could say cancer gave me some magical ability to appreciate every second.

It didn’t.

I still get annoyed.

I still complain.

I still worry about stupid things.

I still have days when I’m exhausted, frustrated, overwhelmed, or completely over everything.

I’m still human.

But cancer changed my relationship with time.

Before cancer, tomorrow felt automatic.

Next summer.

Next Christmas.

Next birthday.

Someday.

After cancer, “someday” feels different.

Two diagnoses taught me that plans can change with one phone call. They taught me that life can split into before and after without asking permission.

And they’ve made me think about the things I would want my children to know if I weren’t here to tell them myself.

It’s uncomfortable.

It’s heartbreaking.

But it’s also strangely freeing.

Because I don’t have to wait.

I can tell them now.

I can hug them now.

I can show up now.

I can make the memory now.

I can say I love you one more time now.

If Tomorrow Happens Without Me

To my boys:

If tomorrow ever happens without me, I hope you know that being your mom was the greatest privilege of my life.

I hope you remember how fiercely I loved you.

I hope you forgive me for the times I got it wrong.

I hope you remember the laughter more than the hard days.

I hope you know that you never have to stop missing me in order to keep living.

And more than anything, I hope you don’t let my absence become the reason you stop chasing your future.

Go build incredible lives.

Laugh until your stomach hurts.

Travel.

Love people deeply.

Take pictures.

Make mistakes.

Have adventures.

Sit around kitchen tables with people you love.

Celebrate birthdays.

Watch sunsets.

Do boring things.

Do extraordinary things.

Grow old.

Live.

Because two cancer diagnoses have taught me something I wish none of us ever had to learn the hard way:

Tomorrow is a gift, not a promise.

And if tomorrow ever happens without me, there is one thing I hope you never, ever question:

You were loved. You are loved. And there was never a single day of my life when I wasn’t grateful that I got to be your mom.

Love always,

Mom ❤️