The storm after the calm

I had felt pain for awhile but, in true fashion as my mother’s daughter, I endured it. But I don't want to just endure anymore, I want to live.

In admiration, respect, and honor to my auntie, Chaabia, who passed from breast cancer a year ago. I fight this disease because you couldn’t fight yours. Thank you for giving me some of your strength. I will get better and it’s for you.

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I graduated law school at 24 years old. I passed the bar. I started a new job as a public defender in Brooklyn. I moved into a two bed/two bath with a friend. I met a man I fell in love with.

I felt like everything I worked for was coming to fruition. I am my mother’s daughter and that means I am inclined to work myself to the ground and pray for the flowers to grow on top of me. While others my age were exploring the world, finding themselves in new places and people, I was discovering myself with those older than me in a classroom. But I was also in New York City. I loved the freedom I was afforded by hopping on the subway and going wherever I wanted. I loved growing into my body and getting attention from men (which quickly lost its appeal). I fell in love and out of it, had my heart broken, cried too many times to count, laughed even more, hated myself for a period, began to love myself again, went to therapy, and then stopped, then started again.

I felt like I clawed myself out such hard environments, grueling work, and sleepless nights. And there I was, a young Black and Kurdish girl, daughter of a refugee, and I was living a life I worked so hard for. After finding stability in a partner, in my job, and in my community, I was reminded how fragile I am.

I was diagnosed with cancer on February 7, 2025. Not even 6 months into my new job. Stage three Nodular Sclerosis Hodgkin Lymphoma. In a moment, everything crumbled. I had felt pain for awhile but in true fashion as my mother’s daughter, I endured it. I thought it was just my lot in life to experience so much joy with an underlining reminder of my humanity. That I would be sick twice a month and have flexible plans to accommodate my inability to recover.

I told my family a few hours after I found out. But before I told them I sat with it. For even just a few hours, it was only my problem. Nobody else had to deal with it. It was no one else’s burden. It was mine. And in that, I felt a weird sense of comfort.

I told my family on a group facetime. With my parents in California, my sister in Harlem, me in Brooklyn, it was the only way I could get everyone together. My dad got the call before anyone else. And in the intimate moment of my life, I shared my burden. “The big c.” In hearing my dad cry, my mom got on the call. She collapsed. My sister joined shortly after and joined my mother in her wailing. I tried to console them. I was stoic and looking back at the moment, I knew I filled a role my parents had played for me many times. I projected a strength I did not know I had but knew they needed it.

By the end of the call, we exhausted the blames. My mom had recently had a cancer scare and she kept repeating why it was me and not her. She blamed herself for telling others about my accomplishment and their jealousies (evil eye in our culture) causing this to me. My sister sobbed, confused how it could be even possible. All my dad could do was cry. And there was me. Somewhere in between disbelief, numbness, and acceptance. Straight-faced. It was what it was. That seemed my comfort spot by that point.

I slowly told my friends, and while each reactions was unique, there was shared underlining fear, desperation, and sadness. I still feel private about what is happening, praying that the glow-up will be so victorious and it will feel better to share once I am there.

I am still enduring, but in a beautiful reminder of my life, my community has humbled me with their care. I cannot pretend there has not been great loss. My boyfriend and I broke up in what would have shocked me, but pain and I have become close friends. The reality of a man who could not quiet his own pain to hold mine was not a relationship that could sustain in moments like this. In moments that naturally happen, even if that relationship was filled with dreams of the future and our family. My job began to threaten my stability, extending my probation shortly after hearing about my diagnosis. I lost my hair after years of finally loving it and learning to care for it. I had to take space from those who could not allow me to be imperfect.

As trying as everything may have been, I have experienced so much joy in my life. More than most. I have loved to a point my chest would ache at the thought of the other person. I have made art that I still return to for solace. I have friends who make my stomach hurt from laughter. I have a family who would lay down in front of passing traffic to let me pass. I have a God who reveals love to me when I don’t feel it for myself.

I am finishing write this while sitting in the hospital completing my 2nd cycle chemotherapy (4 chemo sessions). I have 4 more cycles to go (8 chemo sessions). I feel nauseous but I am sitting with my friend who came last minute because yesterday there were complications and I got rescheduled. My mom is calling me from California, making sure she shows up when she is not physically here, after spending a month and half in NYC for my first three treatments.

Sometimes all I think about is the future, the thought of healing. And here’s to that healing, more than just physically. The calm I thought I was experiencing was anything but. This storm, it will pass. I’ll never forget its winds and rains. But these rains watered my dirt and I’ll grow stronger. I want to be present in this moment and thank my body for her sacrifice and taking care of me.

So, I’ll try to enjoy what is happening, as unimaginable as that can sound. I’m sharing this journey before the “victorious end” because this part matters too. As much as I don’t want to be strong anymore, I understand the importance of it. Not the strength to endure pain, as I had once done, but the strength to acknowledge it, live through it, find joy in it, to cry about it, and to ask help about it. I do not want to just endure anymore, I want to live.

stages of grief, joy, and getting fly in the process