Dear Emma,
Just over a year ago, you received the news that you had breast cancer. People often toss around the phrase “life-changing,” and while it may sound cliché, it’s the only phrase that feels appropriate at this moment.
I want to apologize for taking so long to write this. Writing usually helps me process my feelings and make sense of the chaos, but ever since your diagnosis, I’ve struggled to find the right words. This journey is yours, not mine. You are the one navigating this turbulent sea, and I am simply here to support you.
When you first shared the news that it might be cancer, and later confirmed it, everything changed—not just for you, but for everyone who cares about you. We found ourselves in unfamiliar territory, a place none of us had been before. Our friendship has endured many trials over the past 30 years, but nothing has tested us like this.
Understandably, my initial thoughts were filled with medical questions. What stage are you at? What’s the prognosis? When will you begin treatment? But there were also practical considerations: What can I do to help? When can I come visit? And then there were the unspoken questions hovering between us, reminding me that our relationship would now forever be marked by a “before” and an “after.” How will this experience shape our friendship? Will I be able to support you as you need? And the most frightening question of all: Will you be okay? Like, living-into-old-age okay?
The hardest questions were yours to bear. You asked if you should seek a second opinion (I said yes). You wondered about the choice between a double or single mastectomy (I had no clue). You even asked about the etiquette of cancer gifts—should you send a thank-you note right away? (My answer: Nope, take your time.) And perhaps the hardest of all: Is this really happening to me?
I hated the distance between us, even though we texted constantly—sometimes every hour. I shared your anger, tossed back questions, and sent messages filled with “I love you” or “stupid cancer.” When we spoke on the phone, I listened and cried, and when you told me to stop, I did—only to return to our typical banter, now peppered with medical terms and treatment plans.
During your first round of chemotherapy, you asked if I wanted to see your port. “Absolutely!” I replied, and we snuck into your closet for a peek. Your body bore the marks of battle, yet you radiated strength and beauty, a true superhero in the midst of it all. Later, just before your reconstruction surgery, you invited me to see the results. Again, I eagerly agreed, and we giggled like teenagers while discussing size and shape in a restaurant bathroom.
Since your diagnosis, I’ve grappled with the validity of my own concerns. Do I have the right to complain about mundane issues like work stress or parenting? Should I still seek your fashion advice when, in the grand scheme, it seems trivial? I’ve wondered why you clung to your hair, using those cold caps despite the discomfort. But ultimately, those questions weren’t mine to answer. My focus should be on how to support you, to stand with you in your pain, and to make your journey a little easier.
This past year has taught me so much. I’ve learned that a well-timed joke or a shared silence can be more comforting than the often-used phrase “everything happens for a reason.” I now know the difference between a port and a drain, and I realize that a woman’s beauty doesn’t just come from societal standards but from an inner strength.
Most importantly, I’ve learned that I shouldn’t fear questions or the uncertainty they bring. In fact, I’ve come to understand that it’s the questions that allow us to show up for one another with love and support. It’s through questioning that we learn and grow.
So, I now have one final question for you, one that has echoed through the ages: Can this experience—whatever it may be—help us grow and evolve for the better? In other words, how can we create something beautiful from this situation? I believe we already are.
With love and strength,
Mia