Guest post by Chandler Jo Santiago It’s Friday, so we are dreaming of the beach while she gets a chemo infusion. Allora reminds me regularly that she does not have cancer any longer. “I have chemo, Mama, not cancer.” When I look at her journey from that perspective, my heart
Guest Post by Marissa Henley Has this ever happened to you? Your phone buzzes, and you look down to see a call from a friend who’s expecting biopsy results. The minute you hear her voice, you know: it’s cancer. As you process your shock, sadness, and fear, you wonder how
After my first miscarriage, I scoured the internet to find miscarriage stories. I needed to know my pain was valid, my grief was warranted, and that I wasn’t alone. I often say that I devoured stories like medication in those early days—somehow they helped heal me as I absorbed them
The fact that you’re here means you’ve probably googled for clues on how to help your friend after a heartbreaking miscarriage or other form of pregnancy loss such as stillbirth, ectopic pregnancy, etc. I’m sorry. There’s no other way to say it other than: this is hard. Thank you for putting
Strength and dignity—she is tender, she is fierce One woman every minute dies in childbirth*. I am not her. You’re not either. But every “her” has a name. She’s built with strength and dignity. She’s woven together by the Creative One—all beauty and resiliency, determination and vulnerability. She is tender;
(Originally published on May 10, 2014) To be entirely honest, I miss the “innocence” of Mother’s Day that I used to know. I’m all too aware that not all women fit neatly into the “Mother Box”, and that for some, Mother’s Day is incredibly hard – a time of mourning even.
When I saw with my own eyes a woman giving birth in the mud in Papua New Guinea it changed me. I knew the statistics—that one woman dies in childbirth every moment—but I didn’t know their names. Knowing her name, Bokoro, altered everything for me. Related: Read Bokoro’s story (photos taken
She was at my door trying to sell me one of those dinner box services. Believe me, I would sign up if we could afford such things. Brilliant concept. With a baby on my hip and a polite “no thank you” on my lips, she turned the conversation to
Dear Scarlett, It’s been four years since I was wheeled down the hallway under obnoxious fluorescent lighting by the insensitive surgeon and the nurse with kind eyes. I was thankful to be put under for the procedure, like a child pinching her nose to take a dreaded bite of peas.
