Soft Heart, Hard Road - Three Years Strong

Three years ago today, our family’s world shifted. It wasn’t a dramatic moment in the cinematic sense. No swelling music. No clear resolution. Just an MRI, a phone call that came too early, and the kind of news that instantly divides life into before and after.

That day was heavy. The months that followed were even heavier. It felt like walking a long corridor with no visible exit, moving forward only because backward wasn’t an option. Our home, usually full of laughter and light, took on a muted tone. We still moved through our days, but everything felt quieter, thinner, stretched.

And yet, in the midst of that darkness, a friend showed up with her daughter.
They came into our kitchen and made cookies with us.
It seems small, almost trivial, but on that day it was a glimmer. A single warm light in a house holding its breath. That little gesture became a tradition. Not because we needed a ritual, but because some acts of love echo wider than they appear.

This morning, before the sun was fully up, I brought Mariah a drink from Starbucks. Normally we save those for holidays and birthdays, but today called for something different. I didn’t have words, which is rare for me, but the gesture said what I couldn’t. The Tao that can be named is not the Tao, and some moments shouldn’t be narrated. Her eyes softened and welled up instantly. We hugged. That was the language.

For much of today, I had that strange, slow feeling in my body. Not sadness, not fatigue, not fear; just the emotional equivalent of walking barefoot in the early morning, aware of every step, everything past and present pressing against each other.

Later, when I had our girls and our friends’ kids in the car, they asked, “Why are we celebrating?”
It opened a door for a conversation I didn’t know we needed.

I told them, “You know how I always say nothing is black or white?”
They nodded.
“This day is like that. It’s part celebration, part reflection, part reclaiming a day that once hurt, part honoring Mom for the work she’s done to be here today, part honoring you girls for the strength you’ve shown, and part honoring the people who held us in our darkest hour.”

They understood more than I expected. Kids always do.

Later, when the house was noisy with play and the air smelled like sugar and butter, I found a moment to sit with McKinley alone. She’s old enough now for a little more truth, the gentle kind that doesn’t overwhelm but connects the dots.

I told her how the diagnosis came, not from an oncologist, but from a close friend who is an ER doctor. How we sought answers too quickly because fear was louder than patience. How, for a moment, Mariah thought in terms of months, not years. And how later, sitting across from the oncologist, the world opened back up; two years, five years, twenty. Possibility returned.

I told her, “Look at us now. Three years strong. Mom has been putting in work every day so she can be with us a long time.”
She nodded in that thoughtful way she has, the one that reminds me she feels the world deeply.

Days like this remind me of something I’ve been turning over for a while - this idea that many of us move through life carrying a gift for people, but we don’t always speak the same language as the people around us. We offer love in gestures when others expect words. We offer presence when others want advice. We give quiet when the world is shouting. We hug when the world debates.

Mariah and I speak love differently, but the languages meet. My girls speak another dialect entirely. Our friends, our community - each uses their own vocabulary of care. And yet, somehow, the messages still reach each other. Sometimes imperfectly, sometimes beautifully, but always with intention.

This day; this odd, layered, soft-hearted day - is all of those languages converging.
The drink this morning.
The kids asking questions.
The cookies.
The quiet moments.
The remembering.
The reclaiming.

Three years ago, this date held one meaning.
Tonight, it holds many.

We are three years stronger.
Three years wiser.
Three years more tender.

And if there’s a lesson here, it’s this:
Strength isn’t the absence of fear.
It’s the willingness to keep loving in the presence of it.

So we’ll make cookies tonight.
We’ll sit in the warmth of our kitchen.
We’ll let the day be strange and soft and honest.

A soft heart can walk a hard road.
Ours has.
Ours still does.
And ours is still here.