Six months ago, my biggest concern was choosing between cloth and disposable diapers. I was decorating a nursery, folding baby clothes, and daydreaming about the moment I’d finally hold my daughter. I had no idea that within half a year, my world would be turned upside down in ways I couldn’t have imagined. In that short span, I became a mother, lost a leg, and began a battle for my health.

It started with what felt like a minor ache in my thigh—nothing alarming. I chalked it up to pregnancy discomfort and stayed focused on preparing for my daughter’s arrival. After Liora was born, I hoped the pain would go away. But instead, it worsened. I tried to ignore it, determined to be present for every moment: her tiny fingers, her soft coos, the warmth of her asleep on my chest. But the discomfort grew until I couldn’t even rock her to sleep without flinching.

When I finally went in for medical imaging, I wasn’t prepared for the words that followed. I was diagnosed with a rare, fast-growing cancer. I had just welcomed a new life into the world—and now I was fighting to save my own.

Chemotherapy began immediately. The toll it took was intense. I could no longer nurse Liora. I leaned heavily on my mom during those weeks, especially during the worst moments of treatment. Then came even more devastating news: the tumor had reached my femur. Doctors said amputation gave me the best shot at recovery. I signed the consent forms with a steady hand. Not because I wasn’t scared—but because I had to keep going.

After surgery, the emotional recovery began. The grief of losing a limb hit hard. I mourned what I could no longer do—carry my daughter, dance with her, wear the dress I’d picked out for her naming ceremony. But I reminded myself: I was alive, and that mattered most.

Three weeks later, I started physical therapy. Just as I was beginning to find my footing, a new scare emerged. A scan showed a lesion in my lung. No one had mentioned it before—I saw it by accident in my file. My mind spiraled. I spent days fearing the worst, barely sleeping, trying to stay strong for my daughter while battling rising anxiety.

When I met with my doctor, he explained that while the lesion was real, there was no immediate cause for alarm. It needed further monitoring, but there were no signs it was spreading. That news gave me a sense of cautious relief.

Physical therapy continued. That’s where I met Saoirse—a fellow mother and amputee who had been through her own share of hardships. She taught me balance, both physical and emotional. Her support reminded me that healing is not just about recovery—it’s about rediscovery.

A follow-up scan confirmed what I had hoped: the lesion was stable and likely non-threatening. I cried with relief. For the first time in months, I felt like I could truly exhale.

Since then, I’ve focused on reclaiming my life. I’ve learned to walk with a prosthetic. I’ve learned how to carry Liora again. I’ve learned how to adapt and move forward. We even celebrated with a small gathering—friends, cake, and quiet gratitude for how far we’ve come.

That night, watching Liora sleep, I realized something important: she doesn’t see my scars or my challenges. She sees her mother—strong, loving, and present. And that’s what matters.

Life often surprises us. It tests our limits and asks us to become more than we ever thought we could be. I may not have chosen this journey, but I’ve found strength, love, and resilience in the process.

If you’re going through something hard, know this: you’re not alone. There’s power in perseverance, and even on the darkest days, hope can shine through.

You’re stronger than you think. And you are never without reason to keep going.