In six months, I gave birth, lost my leg, and fought canc3r

Six months ago, I was setting up a nursery, weighing the pros and cons of cloth versus disposable diapers. I was expecting my first child, Liora, and like most first-time moms, I thought the biggest changes in my life would come from midnight feedings and endless diaper changes. I had no idea how drastically my world was about to shift—twice.

It started with a dull ache in my thigh. I chalked it up to pregnancy discomfort—a pinched nerve, maybe sciatica. But the pain didn’t go away. It got worse. I tried to push through it because I was determined to soak in every moment with my baby girl once she arrived. I was obsessed with that newborn smell, her tiny fingers wrapped around mine, the quiet magic of our first days together. But as time passed, my body failed me more and more. Some mornings I was so weak I couldn’t even rock her to sleep.

Eventually, I got scanned. I’ll never forget the way the doctor walked into the room—face taut, voice measured. That kind of silence always means something is wrong. It was a rare, aggressive form of soft tissue cancer. Fast-spreading. Dangerous. I remember gripping the sides of the hospital bed and thinking, But I just gave birth. I didn’t have time for cancer.

Treatment started immediately. My milk dried up. The sickness from chemo took over, forcing me to hand Liora off to my mother most nights as I threw up and fought exhaustion. Then the tumor invaded my thigh bone. The doctors told me amputation would give me the best shot at survival. I signed the papers without crying. I didn’t want anyone to pity me.

When I woke up after surgery, my leg was gone. So was the image I had of myself as a mother. I couldn’t carry Liora. I couldn’t chase her once she started to crawl. I had bought a beautiful dress for her naming ceremony—I couldn’t even wear it. I felt hollow. But I was alive.

Three weeks ago, I started physical therapy. I was learning how to move again. Liora had new teeth, and her gummy grin reminded me what I was fighting for. One morning, while reviewing my medical chart, I came across something unexpected—something I hadn’t been told. Buried in the jargon was a phrase that chilled me: “Suspicious lesion in the right lung.”

No one had mentioned my lungs. Everything had been focused on my leg. I panicked. I walked circles around my apartment on crutches, clutching that paper, my heart pounding in my throat. I thought about calling my doctor right away, but fear held me back. Was this just a misunderstanding? Or was the cancer back?

I eventually called my oncologist’s office. They were closed. I had a follow-up appointment the next week, but there was no way I could wait that long without answers. My mind spiraled into dark places. Had the cancer spread?

Those next few days blurred together. I tried to function like normal. Liora kept me grounded—her bright eyes, her bubbly giggle, her need for my presence. When I held her close to feed her, I buried my face in her hair and inhaled, trying to calm the storm in my mind. When I couldn’t take care of myself, my mom quietly stepped in—bringing me food, holding me when I broke down. I kept pretending I was fine. I didn’t want her to worry more than she already did.

The day of the appointment arrived, and my nerves were at their peak. The hospital smelled too clean, the beeping machines too loud, the air too thick. I couldn’t use my crutches that day—my stump was too sore—so I wheeled myself to Dr. Armitage’s office. As soon as he walked in, I cut to the chase.

“I saw the note about the lesion in my lung. Is it cancer? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

He sighed, genuinely remorseful. “I didn’t want to scare you without confirmation. Yes, we found a small spot, but we don’t know if it’s malignant.”

I tried to stay calm, but the word malignant echoed in my skull. Another scan was scheduled. If needed, a biopsy would follow.

I spent the days before the scan preparing for anything. Physical therapy became my escape. I focused on learning how to walk with my prosthetic leg, how to stand without wobbling, how to move through this new life. It was there I met Saoirse—a woman who lost her leg in a car accident years ago. She was everything I wasn’t yet—strong, calm, confident. She taught me how to balance, how to manage phantom pain, how to cope with loss. She also shared her story. A widow and single mom who raised a child alone after unspeakable grief. Her strength gave me hope.

“Keep your heart open,” she told me one afternoon as we walked a mirrored hallway. “Kindness will surprise you. You’ll surprise yourself, too.”

The scan day came. My mom drove me. We didn’t say much on the ride. We had already imagined every possible outcome. In the waiting room, everything felt too loud, too bright, too much. I whispered to her, “I don’t think I can do chemo again.”

She squeezed my hand. “We’ll get through whatever comes—together.”

After the scan, we waited again. Finally, Dr. Armitage entered, holding a folder, his expression unreadable.

“Good news,” he said. I exhaled like I’d been holding my breath for a week. “The lesion appears stable. It’s not cancerous. We’ll monitor it, but for now, there’s no sign of spread.”

Tears streamed down my face as a shaky laugh escaped my lips. My mother wrapped her arms around me, and in that moment, all I felt was warmth, relief, and the quiet hope I hadn’t dared believe in.

The weeks that followed were filled with small victories. I trained harder in therapy, walked longer distances with my prosthetic, learned how to manage the pain. But the biggest win was emotional—I finally stood tall enough to hold Liora in my arms again.

Each step I took felt like reclaiming a piece of myself. My daughter didn’t care that I was missing a leg. She cared that I was there. That I showed up. That I smiled when she patted my face and cooed into my neck.

To celebrate, we hosted a small victory party. My mom baked a vanilla cake with pink frosting, and a few friends came with balloons and flowers. Saoirse and my physical therapist joined too. We raised glasses of lemonade and toasted to life, to resilience, and to love.

That night, after putting Liora to bed, I stood in her nursery—once just a room of baby gear and pastel decorations. Now it felt like a sacred space that held our entire journey. The ache of loss. The joy of survival. The power of hope.

Life doesn’t always give us a choice in the battles we face. But we do get to choose how we respond. I chose to fight. To keep showing up. Even when I was terrified. Even when I felt broken. Because love is stronger than fear.

If you’re struggling right now, I hope this story reminds you that you’re not alone. That your strength runs deeper than you know. That healing isn’t just about the body—it’s about reclaiming your spirit.

Please share this with someone who needs hope. And if it gave you a little strength today, like it. Let someone else find the courage to keep going. Because sometimes, just knowing someone else made it through is all it takes to believe you can too.