The in-between life and death cancer

The In-Between Do you feel this way to?

I’m 36. I have two kids and stage 4 triple-negative breast cancer. I live in the in-between—not at the beginning where everything is shock and plans and “we’re going to fight this,” and not at the end where there’s some kind of closure. Just… here. In the middle. Knowing, deep down, that I probably won’t make it out.

People ask how I’m doing and I never know what to say. “Fine” is a lie. “Not fine” makes everyone uncomfortable. The truth is: I’m tired in a way sleep doesn’t fix. I’m scared in a way that doesn’t go away when the sun comes up. And I’m grieving a life I haven’t even lost yet—mine.

The nights are the hardest. That’s when the whys come, one after another, like they’re waiting for the house to get quiet. Why me? Why now? Why this kind? Why did my body turn on me? Why do I have to explain cancer to my kids when I can barely explain it to myself? I stare at the ceiling and bargain with a universe that doesn’t bargain back.

Then there are the tears. They don’t ask permission. They show up in the grocery aisle, in the shower, in the car when a song hits a memory. They show up when my son looks at me, eyes big and worried, and asks, “Mom, what’s wrong? Why are you crying? Why are you losing your hair?” How do you answer that in a way a child can carry? I try to be honest without breaking his world. “I’m sick. The medicine makes my hair fall out. I’m sad sometimes, and that’s okay.” He nods, but I see the worry stay in his shoulders.

And the anger. God, the anger. It comes out sideways—snapping at the people I love most, shutting down, being sharp when I mean to be soft. Then I hate myself for it, because at the end of the day, nobody did this to me. There’s no one to blame. Cancer doesn’t care about fairness or plans or how good of a mom you are. So the anger circles back and lands on me, which only makes everything heavier.

My life is a mess. Appointments stack on top of each other. Bills come. The laundry never ends. I forget things I shouldn’t forget. Some days I’m “productive” and feel almost normal; other days I can barely get out of bed and I hate myself for that too. I’m trying to keep routines for my kids so they have something steady to hold onto—dinner, homework, bedtime stories—even when my own insides feel like chaos.

Here’s the part I don’t say out loud often: I am terrified of being forgotten and terrified of being remembered only as “the sick mom.” I want my kids to remember the way I laugh, the way I make their favorite pancakes, the silly voices I use when I read. I want them to know I was a whole person, not just a diagnosis.

If you’re reading this from your own in-between, I see you. I see the way you hold it together for everyone else. I see the questions that loop at 2 a.m. I see the guilt, the grief, the rage, the love that feels so big it could split you open. You are not alone in this, even when it feels like you are the only one awake in the world.

I don’t have a neat ending. I’m still here. Still showing up. Still trying to stay afloat in a life that looks nothing like the one I planned. Some days that’s enough. Some days it has to be.