Today was my first chemotherapy session without Mom sitting beside me. She’s been with me every step of the way—holding my hand, fetching snacks, chatting with nurses, and making sure I’m as comfortable as possible. But this week, she’s taking a well-deserved break to play with all the yarn.

It felt strange walking into the clinic alone. The familiar sights and sounds—the soft hum of machines, the squeak of the nurse’s shoes, the gentle rhythm of the infusion pumps—were the same. But without Mom’s constant quiet presence, everything felt just a little different.

At first, I caught myself glancing at the empty chair next to me, expecting her to appear with her knitting bag and a bottle of water. Then, something shifted. I realized I was okay. I could do this.

I settled in, zipped up my maroon jacket, adjusted my hat, and queued up my playlist. The nurses checked on me like they always do—kind, reassuring, efficient. And in that moment, I felt a flicker of pride. I wasn’t just getting through another treatment; I was proving to myself that I could handle it, even without my safety net right beside me.

Don’t get me wrong—I’ll be happy to have Mom back next time. But today reminded me that strength isn’t always loud or dramatic. Sometimes, it’s just sitting quietly in a chair, connected to an IV, breathing through it, and knowing you’re enough.

One treatment closer. One step at a time.