There are so many things I wish I could say.

To our friends.
To our family.
To the people who reach out and mean so well.

But when your child has cancer, words start to fail you.

I see the messages — the kind ones that say, “Thinking of you.” “How’s she doing?” “What can we do?”

I see them, I read them, I even whisper the answers in my head. But then my fingers hover over the keyboard, and nothing comes out. Sometimes it’s because I don’t know what to say. Other times it’s because I just can’t. It’s not that I don’t care, or that I don’t appreciate it — I do, more than I can ever explain.

It’s just that some days, even answering a text feels too heavy.

There’s a physical weight to all of this — not just the worry or the sleepless nights, but the emotional exhaustion that lives in your bones. It’s the kind that makes small talk impossible. The kind that turns even kindness into something that hurts a little, because you don’t have the energy to receive it properly.

I wish I could say, “Thank you for checking in.”
I wish I could say, “We’re hanging in there.”
I wish I could say, “Please keep reaching out — even when I don’t respond.”

Because the truth is, I know you’re there. I know you care.

And yet — I’ve never felt so alone.

It’s a strange kind of loneliness — not the absence of people, but the absence of words. The inability to explain what this really feels like. The way it isolates you even when you’re surrounded by love.

There are days I crave company, but the thought of talking to anyone feels impossible. Days I want to scream that this is too much, but instead, I go quiet. Days I want someone to sit beside me, but also want to be left completely alone.

I wish I could say that I’m okay.
I wish I could say that I’m strong.
But the truth is — I’m just doing the best I can, one day, one appointment, one breath at a time.

So if you’ve texted and I haven’t replied — please know I’ve seen it. I’ve held it in my heart, even if I couldn’t muster up a reply.

If you’ve wondered whether to reach out again — please do.
If you’ve felt helpless — know that your care does matter, even in silence.

Because even though I may not have words right now, I feel your love.

And maybe, for now, that’s enough.