Priyanka rajesh, India
A storm in my life, 2016
It was an ordinary day in 2016, or at least it seemed so. Life in Bilaspur, Chhattisgarh, was as routine as ever—my days were filled with chores, caring for my children, and finding little moments of joy in their laughter. My daughter, just 7, had a curious innocence about her, always asking endless questions, and my son, 14, was beginning to step into his teenage years, a mix of responsibility and rebellion. Life wasn’t perfect, but it was ours.
But that day wasn’t ordinary.
It started with a faint discomfort in my chest—something I had brushed off for weeks. But as I stood in front of the mirror that evening, my fingers grazed a lump. Something felt wrong, terribly wrong. A wave of panic swept over me, but I pushed it aside, convincing myself it was nothing. In a place like Bilaspur, where even basic conversations about breast cancer were rare, the idea of it affecting me felt distant, impossible even.
Still, I knew I couldn’t ignore it. A few days later, I found myself sitting in a doctor’s clinic. His calm demeanor gave me some hope, but when he gently said the words, “It’s early-stage breast cancer,” the ground beneath me gave way.
Cancer.
I couldn’t breathe. My thoughts spiraled to my children. My little girl, so young and full of life—how would she even understand this? My teenage son, just beginning to navigate his own world—how could I burden him with this? And then, the fear. What if I wasn’t there for them anymore?
I walked out of that clinic feeling like a shadow of myself. The days that followed were heavy. Every smile I gave my children felt forced, every moment with them tinged with guilt and fear. My daughter’s endless questions now felt like an avalanche I couldn’t answer. My son’s teenage rebellion only added to the chaos. They needed me, and yet, I was falling apart inside.
The hardest part was the emotional exhaustion. Cancer didn’t just attack my body; it drained my spirit. The treatments, the constant anxiety, the nights spent crying in silence while my husband slept beside me—it all became a battle I didn’t know how to fight.
And my children? They were neglected in ways I will forever regret. I wasn’t there to braid my daughter’s hair before school or help my son with his growing list of teenage problems. I wasn’t the mother they deserved, and that guilt tore at me every day.
But in the midst of the storm, my family became my anchor. My husband, who rarely showed his emotions, stood by me like a rock. My parents and siblings, though equally terrified, rallied around me, cooking meals, looking after the kids, and reminding me I wasn’t alone. My husband took me to every appointment, held my hand during every scan, and listened to every fear I poured out.
It was their unwavering support that helped me endure the darkest days. Slowly, step by step, I fought back. The treatments worked. The cancer, caught early, began to retreat.
Looking back now, I feel nothing but pride. Pride in myself for not giving up. Pride in my family for standing strong by my side. It wasn’t just my fight—it was ours. Together, we faced something unimaginable, and together, we came out stronger. Today, I’m grateful for what life has become, for the bonds we strengthened, and for the love that held me together when I felt like falling apart.