By: Claudia Osburn, Breast Cancer

I’m staring at my mom’s casket, and my mind is drowning in questions. How do I move on? Is she really gone? What are we supposed to do without her? How can I possibly fill her shoes and be the best big sister? Does she know how much I love her? Maybe if I scream louder, or cry harder, I’ll feel her comforting touch again.

On March 7, 2023, my world shattered. My best friend—my mom—was gone. For six years, I knew this day would come. She fought cancer with unimaginable strength and courage, but even with all that time, I still felt unprepared. Lost. They don’t teach you in school how to live without your mom. I just clung to the hope that maybe “time heals” like everyone says.

It’s been nearly two years now. One day, I felt a sharp pain in my left breast. I begged my doctor, “I know I’m only 25, but something isn’t right. Please check.” She agreed, and I was scheduled for an ultrasound and mammogram. The doctor resisted at first—“too young for a mammogram”—but when a mass showed up, she ordered it.

The next day, I went in for a biopsy. A different doctor reviewed my scans and decided to take another look. That “extra set of eyes” changed everything. I left not with one, but two biopsies. They said “calcifications,” “pre-cancer,” “probably nothing.” But a week later, it was something—stage 0 breast cancer. And strangely, not in the left breast that had the mass, but in the right breast.

 My mind spiraled. I’m only 25. How do I tell my siblings, who just lost their mom to breast cancer, that their sister now has it too? My hair? My body? My future? A month later, I underwent a double mastectomy. That’s when they found more—this time invasive triple-negative breast cancer. Thankfully, it hadn’t spread to my lymph nodes. But it still meant chemotherapy.

I started chemo on March 6 and finished on June 20. Those months nearly broke me. One terrifying allergic reaction, complete hair loss, double vision, grueling therapy, weight gain, and emotional chaos. Somehow, I survived it. Now, as I wait for what I hope will be my final reconstructive surgery, I pray this chapter of my life is finally closing.

Cancer was one of the loneliest journeys I’ve ever endured. I cried, screamed, and at times wished I could escape it all. But the truth is, my darkest pain wasn’t from the cancer, or the chemo, or even my reflection in the mirror. It was because the one person who would have understood—who would have sat at every appointment, wiped every tear, and hugged me through it all—wasn’t here. Every day felt like losing her all over again.

One night, in agony, I drove to the cemetery. I sat in my car sobbing, apologizing to my mom for the promises I had broken. I begged her, “Mommy, please don’t be angry. Please be proud of me.” Days later, one of her dear friends sent me a message out of the blue: “Your mom is on my heart today, and I felt I needed to send this to you. Hugs, love you.” Attached was a picture with the words: “I’m so proud of you! Love, Luz.”

Time hasn’t healed. It hasn’t gotten better. I’ve just learned to live with grief by my side.

I still don’t know what caused the stabbing pain in my left breast—it disappeared right before my appointment. But I can’t stop wondering: if I hadn’t felt it, where would my cancer be a year from now? Believe what you want—ghosts, God, fate—but as I stand here, cancer-free and in remission, I can’t help but whisper: Thank you God and Thank you Mommy, for the warning. But next time, you don’t have to poke me that hard! Until we meet again, I will be living alongside grief.