We Never Made It to the Beach

I used to think happiness was bullshit. Not the concept—I believed it existed out there somewhere, for other people. I just didn't think it was something you could actually hold onto. In my early twenties, I disappeared into a relationship like it was a full-time job. My family got the voicemail version of me. My friends got rain checks. I was present, technically, but not really there—you know that thing where you're nodding along in a conversation but your brain is doing that staticky TV screen thing? Yeah. That.

When I finally got tired of performing happiness instead of feeling it, I did the bravest thing I'd ever done: I left. Just walked out of a long-term relationship and into the terrifying, liberating unknown. I felt like I could do anything. Like I'd finally figured out the cheat code to my own life.

And then I became a mom.

Look, they warn you that having kids changes everything. What they don't tell you is that "everything" means your entire concept of who you are gets shredded and reassembled while you're running on 90 minutes of sleep and someone else's bodily fluids are on your shirt. But I was still that person who walked away, right? Still strong. Still capable.

Then my son was diagnosed with leukemia. He was two years old.

That's when I learned there's a version of yourself you don't meet until your toddler needs chemotherapy. A version who can hold a vomit bucket with one hand while Googling "port infection symptoms" with the other. Who memorizes which nurses are gentle with the needle sticks. Who develops a sixth sense for when the fever is just a fever and when it's time to drive straight to the ER, do not pass go, do not wait for morning.

We made it through. He went into remission. I thought we'd survived the worst thing that could happen to us.

And then, a few months later, we became "Sick Kids" parents all over again.

My daughter—my oldest—had a tumor. 11 centimeters, lodged in her leg muscle. And here's the fun part: to this day, nobody knows what the fuck it is. Not the origin, not the why. Just that it's there, and we're watching it, and living in this permanent state of medical limbo where every scan could change everything.

The past five years have been a masterclass in drowning. Not dramatically, not all at once—just that slow, steady kind where you keep your head above water but you're so tired your arms are shaking. You learn words like "myositis" and "immunoglobulin" and "undifferentiated soft tissue mass" and which insurance rep to call when you need to get aggressive. You become fluent in medical jargon you never wanted to know. You develop strong opinions on pediatric oncologists. You can recite medication dosages in your sleep—when you actually sleep, which isn't often.

I lost myself again, but this time it felt different. Worse, maybe, because I was supposed to be the strong one. The one who walked away and started over. The one who could handle anything. But how do you handle two kids who've both had the kind of diagnoses that make other parents hug their children a little tighter when they hear about it?

I started canceling plans. Then I stopped making them altogether. It was easier to stay in my bubble of worry than to pretend I was fine when someone asked how the kids were doing. Every cough became a crisis. Every fever, a countdown. Every bruise, a reason to hold my breath. I was pulling away from everyone who loved me because being scared alone felt safer than being scared in front of them.

My husband—who has made it his life's mission to see me happy even when I can't remember what that feels like—started doing these small things. Planning little moments designed to make me smile. And it was working, sort of. Slowly. Until one day he came to me and said, "I booked us a trip. Just us. No kids. Five years, and we haven't done this."

I was terrified. But also? I wanted it. Desperately. I needed a break from being Mom, needed to remember I was also a person, also his wife. So I said yes.

We packed. We made the plan: pick up the kids from school, drop them at my parents', head to the airport. That Friday morning, I was drinking coffee and mentally preparing myself for the guilt of leaving, when my phone rang.

The tumor. They'd finally agreed to do another scan—after I'd fought for it, because of course I had to fight for it—and now they were calling with results. That 11-centimeter mystery that still has no name, no clear explanation, no roadmap.

You know that feeling when you're on a roller coaster and your stomach just… drops? Imagine that, but it doesn't stop. It just keeps dropping.

We unpacked the suitcases. Cancelled the flights. Picked up the kids and told them the trip wasn't happening anymore. My daughter's face when we told her—I can still see it. She didn't ask why. She just said "okay" in that small voice kids use when they know something's really wrong.

I was scared. Obviously. That's the easy emotion—the one that shows up first and loudest when someone says your daughter has a tumor nobody can explain. But underneath that, I was furious. Why did I have to fight so hard just to get them to do this scan in the first place? Why do I have to scream and stamp my feet for someone to listen? Why does advocating for your kids have to feel like going to war?

And then, underneath that: I was just so fucking sad. We were supposed to be on a beach. We were supposed to be eating dinner slowly, having actual conversations that didn't involve medication schedules or doctor's appointments. We were supposed to remember what we were like before we became the crisis-management team.

I let myself feel all of it. I cried ugly tears in my husband's arms. I screamed into a pillow. I covered my kids' faces with kisses until they squirmed away, laughing. And somewhere in that mess of emotions, something shifted.

We were still home. We caught this before we left the country. The appointments got scheduled because we cancelled the trip. We never got on that plane.

I'm not going to say the universe was looking out for us, because honestly? Fuck the universe. The universe let my son get leukemia at two years old and then threw in a mystery tumor for good measure. But I will say this: I was grateful we were there. Present. Together. Not getting a panicked phone call from 30,000 feet up with no way to get back fast enough.

I'm still learning how to do this—how to live with the fear without letting it swallow me whole. How to make plans without waiting for the other shoe to drop. Some days I'm better at it than others. Some days I still want to cancel everything and hide in the safety of my worry.

But here's what I know now: My strength isn't the adrenaline-fueled "I can do anything" energy I had in my twenties. It's not about conquering or being unstoppable. It's quieter than that. It's the ability to take the next breath even when you don't want to. To show up even when showing up feels impossible. To find something beautiful in the wreckage—not because it makes the wreckage disappear, but because both things can be true at once.

I'm tired of being scared all the time. I'm tired of missing out on my own life because I'm too busy bracing for disaster. So I'm trying—some days more successfully than others—to choose something different. Not happiness, necessarily, because that word still feels too big and too simple for what this is. But presence, maybe. Connection. The messy, complicated, terrifying gift of being here.

The strength I have now isn't the strength I thought I'd need. It's better. More real. And I didn't find it by walking away this time.

I found it by staying put.

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