A Change in Perspective: Choosing to Believe I Would Survive

Cancer is something that always seems to happen to other people—until it lands on your doorstep. It’s difficult to imagine how it would feel unless it happens to you. I think many of us have, at some point, wondered what we would do if faced with a cancer diagnosis. It’s a dark and painful path to mentally walk down. But if someone you love has fought the disease, chances are you’ve run that scenario in your mind.

For me, I always imagined cancer might come for me later in life. My grandmother and grandfather both battled it in their later years, so I figured that might be my story too. Never did I consider that I’d face it as a young, healthy mom. But that was exactly the path life placed before me.

Cancer—specifically AML (Acute Myelogenous Leukemia)—crashed into my life with a deafening thud. The day I was diagnosed, I was admitted to the hospital immediately, and treatment began without delay. This type of cancer, combined with the fact that I was already in a medical crisis, left no time to process or prepare.

The routine tests and procedures came quickly. A bone marrow biopsy. The placement of a PICC line. Nurses, doctors, and staff buzzed around my bedside. Chemotherapy cocktails were flowing through my body the very next day. So many heartbreaking, agonizing phone calls had to be made. It was dizzying. I had no time to let the reality of my diagnosis sink in. My logical mind tried to grasp the specifics of my illness and the aggressive treatment plan. Meanwhile, my heart went numb. Any emotions that surfaced were quickly set aside—there was too much to handle.

Eventually, the initial storm began to settle. I knew I’d be in the hospital for at least a month, and I began to see the outlines of a daily routine. That’s when the emotions I had put on pause started to return. My thoughts turned constantly to my daughter. She was only two, just shy of turning three. If I didn’t survive, how would she remember me? Would she remember me at all?

The idea of her growing up without a mother was unbearable. That kind of absence would leave a permanent hole in her life. She’d wonder who I was, what kind of mom I would’ve been. I wouldn’t be there to comfort her, to cheer her on, to tell her I loved her. The thought was devastating. I decided I needed to leave something behind—something that might help her understand me if I couldn’t be there in person.

So, I began writing her a letter. My heart spilled out onto the page—raw, emotional, and desperate. I cried as I wrote. My thoughts were tangled, and the words blurred. I only managed a few paragraphs before I had to stop. A part of me felt guilty for not finishing. What if my condition worsened and I didn’t get another chance? I felt like I was already failing her.

The hospital offered a variety of support services to make the stay more bearable—social workers, pastors, massage and reiki therapists, art and music therapy, and more. I made a conscious decision early on to say yes to everything. I figured it couldn’t hurt.

Eventually, a pastor came to visit. I wasn’t especially religious, though I considered myself a Christian. But since arriving in the hospital, I’d found myself praying more than I had in years. Maybe he could help me sort out some of the confusion in my heart.

He was a gentle, unassuming man—slight in frame, with narrow shoulders, wrinkled clothes, and shoulder-length curly hair pulled back. He introduced himself softly and said he was there to listen. That’s all it took. I opened up, pouring out everything I’d been holding inside. My devastation at the idea of my daughter growing up without a mom. My overwhelming sense of failure. The unfinished letter I was writing her.

I shared what I’d written so far:

My Dear Sweet Daughter,

I find it unbelievable that I am writing this letter to you. You are so very young right now as all of this is happening and there is no way for you to understand. So, knowing the odds of what I’m up against and I feel I need to write to you. If, god forbid, I don’t have all the years I had planned to have with you on this earth, I want you to know who I was and exactly how much I love you.

It was a beautiful October day, much like the day you were born, when the doctors told me I had Leukemia. It did not seem real. I couldn’t believe the words the were telling me. How? Why? What will happen to me? This can’t be true. I have a life, a husband and a daughter who needs me. This can not be happening. It was surreal and overwhelming. The magnitude of it all. I just couldn’t get my mind around it. I’m only 37. This sort of thing doesn’t happen to young women my age. The though that this horrible thing could take me away from you and your father terrified me.

At that point, the pastor gently interrupted.

“Have you ever thought about writing to your daughter from a different perspective?” he asked.

I looked at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

“You’re writing to her as though you won’t survive. But you don’t know that. What if you wrote to her as if you were going to live?”

Something shifted in me in that moment. It had never occurred to me that I was writing from the assumption that I wouldn’t make it. The pastor’s simple question pulled me out of that mindset. I had been choosing to believe in an outcome I didn’t want. But I had the power to believe in something different.

That day, I made a choice: I chose to believe I would survive.

I never saw the pastor again during my hospital stay, but I didn’t need to. That single conversation changed everything. I didn’t finish the letter. In fact, I let go of the idea of writing it at all. I realized the gravity of my fear had clouded my perspective. I had unknowingly given up my power to choose how I faced this fight.

The battle ahead was going to be long and hard—but I could still choose how I walked through it. I chose to believe I would survive. And in that belief, I found real power.

With Peace and Love,

Jules