Happy Birthday, Mom

Happy Birthday, Mom
An ode to showing up while you still can.

My mom’s birthday is coming up. She’ll be 59.
And the truth is… this one feels different.

It might be her last.
It might not be.
But there’s a shadow hanging over the candles this year, and it’s one I can’t ignore.

She has terminal cancer.
Stage 4. Aggressive. Ruthless.
And even on her good days, there’s a weight in the room.
The kind of weight you don’t talk about at first because it’s too heavy.
Too real.

I love her. I love her in that deep, childlike way that never goes away, no matter how grown you are.
And I don’t want her to die.
There. I said it.

I don’t want to lose the sound of her voice.
I don’t want to lose the way she scrunches her nose when something’s too sweet.
I don’t want to lose the smell of her perfume or the way her hugs feel like home.
I don’t want her to be a photo I stare at too long.
I don’t want her to be a memory I can’t touch.

But cancer doesn’t care what I want.
It doesn’t make deals. It doesn’t hit pause just because you’re not ready.
And I’m not ready.

So I’ve stopped pretending I am.
Instead, I’m doing the only thing I can: I’m showing up.

I’m showing up with flowers she might not remember next week but loves today.
I’m showing up with stories, with playlists, with bad jokes that make her laugh harder than the good ones.
I’m showing up to doctor’s appointments, to the quiet moments between medication schedules, to the hard talks when we can’t dance around it anymore.
I’m showing up with tears, and also with strength I didn’t know I had.
Because she deserves that.
Because I need that.
Because showing up is love in motion.

Let me say this loud and clear:
Get yourself checked.
Hug your loved ones.
Get over your shit.

Whatever grudge you’re holding, let it go.
Whatever love you haven’t said out loud, say it now.
Whatever fear is keeping you from picking up the phone, swallow it and dial.

We think we have time. We plan like we do. But time isn’t something we hold—it’s something we spend. And sometimes it’s spent for us, without our permission.

This year, I’ll decorate the cake.
I’ll sing “Happy Birthday” off-key, like I always do.
I’ll wrap presents she might not have the energy to open.
And I’ll sit with her.
And talk with her.
And hold her hand.

Because this year, and every year, is a gift.
Even the hard ones.
Especially the hard ones.

Happy Birthday, Mom.

You’re my first home.
You’re the voice in my head telling me I can do it.
You’re the reason I know how to show up for people.
And I promise I’ll keep showing up for you. Every damn day.

I love you.
Forever.
And even after that.