By Jodie Kuo

By Jodie Kuo '20

Photograph by Maya Sardar '21

When I was younger, I thought I knew what my future would look like. I was terribly mistaken.

I thought I would be defined by dance and I thought the move from Fairfax City to McLean, a whopping ten miles, would be the most difficult obstacle to overcome before college. Little did I know, the future I had imagined would change in a split second with three simple words.

“I have cancer.”

The words faltered from my mom’s mouth.

At first, I did not understand what this would mean.

Slowly, I watched her lose hair and weight, but she never lost her fire. She continued to be the upbeat, compassionate woman that raised me. Never saying no to Zumba, ice cream, or a long walk with our dog. When she was finally in the clear, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders, and I went back to happily thinking we would live down the street from each other like in Everybody Loves Raymond.

After my sixteenth birthday, my mom sat me down again. There was a hitch in her voice. An overbearing sense of déjà vu. I knew something was wrong.

Crying, she told me her cancer had spread. Stage 4.

I felt my world collapse around me, and I hid. I tried to ignore my mom’s deterioration, yet I could not help but imagine her death. Sometimes it was accompanied by the callous drone of a flatline and a virtually silent bustle of activity. Other times, it was in the peaceful quiet and safety of our home.

I never knew that the sounds I would actually have to face were the emptying of a nearby tissue box, the disjointed sniffling of my own nose, and the abrasive whispers of the nurse telling me to stop holding her hand.

In the moment, I did not realize what it would mean to let go of the very hand that guided my first steps, nurtured me through good and bad, and accompanied me every step of the way. When it sunk in, I felt like I had given up on her. Like I hadn’t done enough.

Days after my mom passed, I was thrown back into the hectic commotion of school and the stress of junior year. I distracted myself with anything from homework to sports, and I refused to take time for myself. I wanted to avoid grief. To ignore the hole in my heart. However, once Thanksgiving came around, I felt the oppressive void expanding. I was surrounded by people, yet still alone, and when I single-handedly tried to make all the things my mom and I used to cook together, all of my repressed feelings erupted and I was finally forced to face what had happened.

That day, I felt like Prometheus, except instead of a liver, my heart was being pecked out.

I had lost my best friend. My rock. I told myself that she was in a better place, but I am not sure if I truly believed it at the time. I was still in shock. It was as if I was living in a dream, yet I knew I had to hold onto that vulnerability.

I sought out help and I was able to embrace my grief and channel it into honoring her legacy and growing into the resilient, diligent, independent woman my mother knew I would be.

Even though she is no longer with me, she is still teaching me how to live in the moment and appreciate things for what they are. Her determined, ambitious spirit lives within me and pushes me to pursue my best self and forge my own path.

I thought I had given up, but now I know that by letting go of the pain, her memory is closer to my heart and will continue to inspire and support me in all that I do.