Ainara G.
If you’re reading this, pause and call your mom.
Last year, for spring break, I went to Argentina. Once I came back, I thought my classes would resume, and I’d go back to worrying about exams, projects, and deadlines. But instead, my world stopped. My mom told me she had been diagnosed with breast cancer. I began to think of unimaginable scenarios in my head. I felt uneasy all the time, and my heart permanently pounded in my chest. It didn’t make sense.
In that moment, nothing else mattered. My family lives in Clemson, so it became really hard to focus in a classroom. School, grades, responsibilities—none of it compared to the realization that my mom, the woman who had always been my protector, my constant, my home, was sick. At first, I tried to keep going. But my mind wasn’t on campus—it was at home, where my mom was preparing for surgery. Eventually, I couldn’t hold everything together anymore, and I broke down. I decided to take incompletes in all my classes.
The hardest thing about cancer is that it doesn’t just affect the person diagnosed—it affects everyone who loves them. It shakes the foundation of your world; it makes you question things you never had to think about before. And in my case, it made me realize how fragile time really is.
I knew that medically, she would be completely fine. But with my anxiety, I kept considering a world where she wouldn’t be there for me. A world where I couldn’t pick up the phone and hear her voice. A world where I couldn’t tell her how much I love her. She underwent surgery on April 30th, and two weeks later, with biopsies, tests, and post-op visits completed, she was cancer-free. Throughout her recovery, I spent time at home, and I became her caretaker. I did her hair, made her tea, answered emails; my dad and I did everything that she does for herself and for our entire family.
Since that experience, I know what it’s like to feel like you’re losing something irreplaceable. I know what it’s like to look at someone you love and feel terrified that no matter how strong they are, no matter how they fight, life doesn’t always follow the script we want it to. I will never take that for granted again.
So if you’re reading this, pause, and call your mom.
Not later. Not tomorrow. Not next week when things slow down. Right now.
Tell her you love her. Tell her about your day. Ask her how she’s really doing, not just the quick, casual “how are you?” that we all ask without really meaning. Mean it. Listen to her answer. If you’re lucky enough to hug her, hold on a little longer. If you can visit, show up. Make the time. Because no matter how busy life gets, no moment is ever more important than the people we love.
My mom has given everything to the people around her—her time, her care, her endless love—without ever expecting anything in return. I know what it feels like to be overwhelmed, to have the weight of the world pressing down on you, making it hard to focus, to breathe, to even function. But I also know what it’s like to have people who love you remind you that you’re not alone.
And to every woman reading this—take care of yourself. Know your body. Educate yourself about breast cancer. It doesn’t matter if you’re young, if you’re healthy, if you think it could never happen to you or someone you love. The truth is, it happens every day to women who never expected it. Talk to your doctor. Do your research, and advocate for those doing it.
Most importantly, find community. When life throws something unbearable at you, don’t try to carry it alone. The people around you—the ones who love you—are there for a reason. Let them in. Let them help. Our entire neighborhood created a meal-train, 28 home-cooked meals that we didn’t have to worry about, allowing us to think solely of my mom. Through my mom’s recovery, my dad and I owe everything to our neighbors, the first ones to show up for us, with food, flowers, groceries, and even walking our dog when things got hectic.
I look back on this past year and think about everything I almost lost, and I couldn’t be more grateful for what I still have—my mom, my family, my community. And I know now, more than ever, that none of us gets through this life alone.
So if you’re reading this, please, pause, and call your mom. And if she’s there with you, if she’s just a phone call away, don’t let another moment pass without telling her just how much she means to you.
Ainara G., Clemson University
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