Dear Jade,

You’re about to wait for a cancer diagnosis.

The waiting is the hardest part. You’ll run every scenario, and somewhere around 2am you’ll start picking the songs for your funeral, laughing at yourself for being that dramatic. You are that dramatic. It’s part of how you cope. Keep it.

The diagnosis itself will be easier than the waiting. You’ll go practical, fast: okay, what needs to be done. No time for crying. There are kids that need you. Get on with it. That’s how you handle it. That’s how you’ll handle most of what’s coming.

Which is — a lot.

Way before all of this, there's law school with your first baby on your hip. You'll become a lawyer, then a CEO, then a work-from-home mum around your last baby. You'll judge yourself for not being the stay-at-home, cook-clean kind. It'll take time to realise there isn't one right way to be a woman, or a mother.

Three babies. You’ll think your family is done. It won’t be.

Between baby three and baby four, the diagnosis arrives. Double mastectomy. Reconstruction. You won’t know it yet, but this recovery teaches you everything.

Then, baby four. A c-section. A whole new chapter you didn’t think you’d get.

Six years later, you'll have a tummy tuck. You'll tell yourself it's for the muscle repair first. The pregnancies separated the abdominal muscles, and they don't go back on their own. But somewhere along the way you'll also decide. Why not make it look good after four babies and everything else. Both reasons are allowed. You'll figure that out.

Around the same time, two of your closest friends will be diagnosed with breast cancer, about a year apart. Both lawyers. Both mamas. Same practical mindset. You'll know exactly what they're walking into. You've been there. Your heart will sink. And you'll also know, deep down, they're going to come out stronger. It's life-changing. It changed you.

You’ll go looking for something to send them. Something beautiful, something that actually works, something that says I love you, I care about you, I’m here for you. You won’t find it. You’ll buy flowers.

That’s the moment. That’s when you decide.

So here’s what I want you to know:

Give yourself time to discover who you actually are, away from fear and judgment and all the things society tells women they should be. Try to look at yourself — and other people — with love eyes. That’s where joy lives. You’ll get there. It takes longer than you’d like.

Life doesn’t stop because you had surgery. The kids still need school drop-offs. The fridge still empties. Your friends will still want a wine on a Friday. And so will you. Recovery doesn’t happen in a quiet room with the door closed. It happens while you’re driving and cooking and laughing. Healing is never done. It just becomes part of you.

Live each day like it’s your last. You won’t really mean it until later. But you will.

Listen girlfriend, you’ll go from surviving to thriving. The happiest you’ve ever been is still ahead.

You’re going to be okay. Better than okay.

And then — when you’re ready — you’ll build the thing that should already exist. You’ll call it MENDI. It’ll be for women like you, your friends, your friends’ friends. Scar Bar is the first thing.

There’s more coming.

Arohanui,
Jade