People always say, “Take it one day at a time.”

But I’ve learned that when your child has cancer, even a day can feel impossibly big.
You can’t take it a day at a time — you can only take it one moment at a time.

Because a day can hold too much — too many emotions, too many unknowns. Fear, hope, exhaustion, heartbreak, relief, and then fear again. A single day can feel like a lifetime.

But a moment — that, I can do.

Sometimes a moment is just reminding myself to breathe.

Sometimes it’s watching the medicine drip into the IV and telling myself, this is helping her.

Sometimes it’s sitting in the quiet of the hospital room, listening to her soft breathing, and choosing not to think ahead. Not to the next scan. Not to the next round. Just to now.

There are moments that break you — when she cries and you can’t fix it, when the nurse says it’ll hurt “just a little,” and you know it’s not true.

And there are moments that heal you — when she laughs, when she eats something for the first time in days, when she smiles up at you with strength far beyond her years.

When you live in a world of uncertainty, moments are all you have. The big picture is too overwhelming. The calendar is too painful. Even tomorrow can feel like too much to imagine.

So now, I try to live right where my feet are — in this one, tiny, fragile moment.

The sound of her voice.

The rise and fall of her chest.

The quiet strength that somehow keeps us standing.

One moment at a time.

It’s all we can do — and somehow, it’s enough.