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My mother’s name is Natalie.

She’s a mountain that has stood behind me my entire life. Natalie has carried me through storms quietly and relentlessly.

The night I came home from my surgery, My mother helped me walk down a very long hallway and the day after, she helped get me up from a very cold restroom floor when my body was too weak to stand.

I didn’t realize it in that very moment but I realize now, she’s been doing that my entire life . . .

Life has often felt like a cold restroom floor and my body has often felt too weak to stand and in all of those moments there’s one thing in common, I’d dial a number that would offer me the sound of strength.

Natalie doesn’t always say words in the softest way and for a long time I think I had some trouble with that but now I’m incredibly grateful for the harshness she gave me when I needed it most.

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My mother lives five hours away, too far where I can’t see her everyday but close enough where I can feel her and when I need her, she has made sure she’s only one small car drive away.

I’ll never forget leaving the Cancer Center in Olathe, Kansas where my cancer was confirmed and getting into the car –– knowing I would have to make a phone call I did not want to make.

How does a daughter tell her mother she is sick.

I sat in my car with Jeff beside me and I put both my sister and my mother on the same Facetime. I was trying to be strong for this call, my sister was her usual strong self, and then I look down at my mother . . .

Her eyebrows curled in worry as tears streamed down her face.

I knew she probably wanted to wait until I hung up the phone before she cried but her heart broke so loud, the tears exploded all over and it’s only now that I see that … I feel that …

I’m sure many . . . many tears followed our phone call and every single day after, but never again did I see her cry and it’s not because she wasn’t saddened –– but because my mother carries my torch.

She saves her tears for the moon and for a God in which she believes.

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Prior to my double-mastectomy surgery, I told her it was time.

I needed her here and my mother was here by my side without any hesitation –– She slept on the sofa, right outside my bedroom but I knew she wasn’t sleeping.

When I fell on the restroom floor, my voice was weak and I could barely make out the words “mom” and yet, my mother heard me.

Because a mother always hears her child and my mother, Natalie has always heard me. Thank you mom.

(I dedicate this post to you. You helped heal me.)

To my readers: mom’s often fight battles we cannot see but ones that should not be ignored, call your mom if you have one, tell her you love her.

With Love,

NZ