I was thirteen when cancer
decided it knew my family better than I did.
One day you were braiding my hair,
the next day the house smelled like hospitals
and everyone whispered like that would save you.
They told me to be “strong.”
**** that.
I didn’t want strength—
I wanted my mom back,
wanted your voice yelling my name from the kitchen
because I forgot my **** backpack again.
I’m seventeen now,
four years older and somehow still that kid
standing in a hallway that feels too long,
watching adults cry like they’ve lost the map
to their own lives.
Cancer took you slow and ugly.
No movie moments.
No peaceful fade-out.
Just pain, machines, and me learning
new words I never wanted to know.
People say, “She’d be so proud of you.”
And maybe that’s true,
but it still ****** me off
that you’re not here to say it yourself.
I hit milestones without you—
first breakup, first real ******
learning how to drive with no one in the passenger seat
telling me to slow down.
Every win feels crooked without you clapping.
Some nights I’m okay.
Other nights I’m furious at the universe,
at God, at cancer,
at every stupid pink ribbon
that doesn’t bring you back.
I’m still growing up without a mom,
still learning how to carry grief
like it’s part of my spine now.
And yeah, I laugh, I live, I keep going—
but there’s a part of me that will always be
that thirteen-year-old kid
thinking, *this is so ******* unfair.*
Jan 9
Jan 9, 2026 at 3:14 PM UTC
I was thirteen when cancer
decided it knew my family better than I did.
One day you were braiding my hair,
the next day the house smelled like hospitals
and everyone whispered like that would save you.
They told me to be “strong.”
**** that.
I didn’t want strength—
I wanted my mom back,
wanted your voice yelling my name from the kitchen
because I forgot my **** backpack again.
I’m seventeen now,
four years older and somehow still that kid
standing in a hallway that feels too long,
watching adults cry like they’ve lost the map
to their own lives.
Cancer took you slow and ugly.
No movie moments.
No peaceful fade-out.
Just pain, machines, and me learning
new words I never wanted to know.
People say, “She’d be so proud of you.”
And maybe that’s true,
but it still ****** me off
that you’re not here to say it yourself.
I hit milestones without you—
first breakup, first real ******
learning how to drive with no one in the passenger seat
telling me to slow down.
Every win feels crooked without you clapping.
Some nights I’m okay.
Other nights I’m furious at the universe,
at God, at cancer,
at every stupid pink ribbon
that doesn’t bring you back.
I’m still growing up without a mom,
still learning how to carry grief
like it’s part of my spine now.
And yeah, I laugh, I live, I keep going—
but there’s a part of me that will always be
that thirteen-year-old kid
thinking, *this is so ******* unfair.*
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