As any cancer parent you find yourself yearning for life after cancer.

It’s this dream I hold onto — a version of our life that feels light again. A life where hospitals aren’t part of our weekly routine. Where scans, ports, and chemo cycles no longer dictate our calendar. A life that feels like before.

But the truth is, we’re stuck somewhere in between — between before and after, between what was and what might be.

There’s the life we had before cancer, where worries were small and days felt ordinary. And there’s the life we have now, where every plan is tentative, every ache raises concern, and hope has to fight through fear just to exist.

I tell myself to stay hopeful — that there will be an after.

But sometimes, I’m scared of what that “after” might look like. Because even when the treatments end and the hospital visits slow down, cancer doesn’t simply disappear. It lingers — in the memories, in the fears, in the way you see the world now.

Still, I can’t help but imagine it.

I picture her hair growing long again, my fingers gently braiding it while she laughs and squirms.

I picture her running across a lacrosse field, the sun on her face, her cheeks flushed with energy — the kind of energy we used to take for granted.

I picture myself on the sidelines, cheering until my voice cracks, tears in my eyes not from fear this time, but from joy.

That’s the life I yearn for.

Not just life after cancer — but life after fear.

A life that’s full and ordinary and wonderfully boring.

Sometimes that hope feels fragile.

Sometimes it’s the only thing that gets me through.

So I keep dreaming of “after.”

Even as I stand in the middle of “during.”

Even as I grieve the “before.”

Because hope — however quiet, however trembling — is still hope.

And maybe, one day, when this season is finally behind us, I’ll be braiding her hair before a game, tying a ribbon just right, and remembering how hard we fought for that simple, beautiful moment.