16 years ago, today, I got that call. The one where the doctor says, “I’m sorry, it’s cancer.” That was the moment that turned my life upside down.

Standing outside a coffee shop with the phone pressed against one ear, and my finger plugging the other ear because of traffic noise, I asked her to repeat herself. “It’s cancer.”

I heard her the first time. I knew what she said. It was kind of what I expected anyway, but I had to hear it again, just to make sure. There was that part of me that had been hoping. That part dropped, leaving a vacuum that quickly filled with dread and fear and everything else I’d been holding back with that sliver of hope.

I had an infant at home, not even a year old. My husband and I were both college students, living entirely off student loans. So many questions surged. How are we going to get through this? What’s going to happen to my baby? How will we pay for this? How will we keep a roof over our heads? Am I going to die?

That existential crisis on the street corner in the Seattle drizzle didn’t last nearly as long as it felt.

Eventually, I found my way back home. I curled up with my little family, and we held each other. We spent a lot of time like that, the three of us curled up together and holding each other through the years that followed – full of treatments and surgeries and recovery. We’re still holding on to each other, although the kid is now nearly 17. She’s probably more aware than many kids of the preciousness of life.

I went through a lot during those years. Aside from the physical pain, there was an otherworldly amount of anxiety, and depression, and angst. Then there was chemo brain, which took my then-undiagnosed ADHD and multiplied it into something that made it difficult to function. Figuring out how to stay on top of appointments, care for the baby, track my symptoms, take my meds on time, make serious treatment decisions, and still get my homework done was a monstrous load. I had a lot of difficulty with that. I failed frequently, and I was always in a panic, trying to get somewhere on time, and wondering what it was that I was forgetting.

I learned to write everything down. I mean everything. It wasn’t safe to assume I could remember anything. With ADHD alone I can forget what I’m talking about mid-sentence, so adding chemo brain meant I had to be extra diligent. If I hand’t had a notebook to track everything, I would have completely lost the plot.

That notebook helped me in other ways as well. Over time I learned how to use it to help keep me grounded, to process my feelings, to make plans, to appreciate, and eventually, it helped me find my way back to hope.

Hope, it turns out, isn’t just about living a long life. It’s about those moments along the way. It’s about relationships and perspective. It’s about learning what you need isn’t always what you want. It’s about finding a new way forward, even if you have to carve it out by hand. Hope is the beautiful ugly of holding someone as they slip away, knowing their time on earth is done, but you’ll carry them forward in your heart, forever changed by their presence in your life.

A week ago, I sat in a dive bar with some of my survivor sisters as we toasted the memory of a dear friend who had just passed away. Sometimes grief looks like laughter and beer as we share stories, and “remember when,” and hold each other close knowing that each of us has an expiration date and these gatherings will continue. Hope is also knowing these things. Hope is those little rays of light along the way, the smile, the tear, the snowflake, the hummingbird, the flower growing through the crack in the sidewalk, the rainbow. Hope isn’t permanent, it’s transient, but you can always find it if you look for it.