breast cancer awareness month

Loss is an impossible concept to explain to someone who’s never experienced the devastation of it.

Having to say goodbye to my mother at eight years old changed me forever.

It was almost as if she took a part of me with her the day she passed. That piece of me that I’ve grown to live without is something I’ll never be able to explain. It’s a piece I was never able to experience, a version of me I was never able to become, a life I was never able to live.

I’m not sure who I’d be with that piece still intact, I can only feel its absence. It’s a missing component to the warmth of my being and the fullness of my soul. It’s just not there, and my heart aches when I think of all the people in this world who have to experience that same type of emptiness.

Everyone understands it to some degree. It’s sad, heartbreaking, and typically unimaginable. More often than not, we don’t know how to be there for one another when loss hits close to home. Quite honestly, there are very few people in my life with whom I feel completely comfortable talking about my mom. Sometimes, even they don’t know how to respond. And that’s okay.

Because in order to truly empathize with the pain of loss, you must experience it for yourself, and I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. In a way, it’s good that many people can’t exactly relate to that feeling. I truly hope they never have to.

My mother was diagnosed when she was 35 years old.

At that age, women have a 0.67% chance of developing breast cancer. That’s 1 in 149 women. Shortly after I was born, fate chose my mama for reasons I’ll never understand.

She was a good one. The word “special” in itself could never describe how truly amazing she really was. She was wise, worthy and full of life. She sported a contagiously beautiful smile and never felt ashamed to be her true self. She was confident. The opinions of others never carried any weight with her.

She wasn’t bothered by judgmental faces, she didn’t look twice at those who stared while she danced like a maniac in the middle of CVS, wearing a baggy sweatshirt, leggings and clogs. It simply didn’t faze her. She was goofy, fun, adventurous, passionate and carefree – someone I would have really liked to keep close to me.

I think about her infinitely more than I’m consciously aware.

She’s bigger in my life than I normally recognize, and that’s because her absence is still so blatant. I constantly find myself wondering how she’d respond to a number of situations. Today, I had a really great day at work. On my drive home, I wondered if she’d be proud, if she’d be pleased with who I am and what I’ve accomplished. I wondered what it’d be like to tell her about my day. I even thought up a few different versions of how she’d respond.

She comes to mind when almost anything big in my life happens. On my birthday, I’m struck with the reality of not having her here to watch me grow. It’s an instant reminder that I’m another year older, that my world is still moving without her here. For her, time has stopped, but for me, it’s stuck on fast forward. Accepting that reality year after year hasn’t gotten any easier.

On the anniversary of her death, I always tend to return to that very day, replaying the events of that morning over and over again, wishing what happened wasn’t still so vivid. I can’t remember what shoes I wore yesterday, or even what I ate for breakfast this morning, but everything I saw, heard and felt that Monday morning is engrained in my memory for as long as I live.

It’s terrifying, haunting and heartbreaking…

…no matter how much time passes. It’s something you learn to live with, but nothing you ever get used to. It never stops hurting, and it doesn’t stop being a huge part of who you are. For everyone in the world who’s lost a special someone, my heart, my head, my mind and my soul is with you. Always.

It’s difficult to accept that today, 1 in every 8 women in the United States is diagnosed with breast cancer. It’s the reason why continuing this battle is one I can’t bring myself to surrender. It’s essential I keep fighting – for the women who have the same enriched, youthful spirit as my mama, for those undeserving of the fate that chooses them, and for every individual close to the inevitably impacted women.

For them, we have no choice but to keep going, endure the battle and continue to carry one another. The fight strengthens and progress is made with every person who chooses to make a difference. And with that, we’ll find ourselves one step closer to a cure.

Help me raise $1,000 for Breast cancer research

Throughout the month of October, I’ll be accepting donations via CrowdRise in an effort to help fund breast cancer research. All proceeds will be directly donated to the Breast Cancer Research Foundation after my campaign ends October 31st. Help me reach my goal of $1,000 in donations!

In loving memory of my mama, Jill Sarah Buttrick, who passed away from breast cancer at the age of 43. On March 11, 2002, heaven gained an angel unlike any other. We miss her warmth, beauty and grace every day of our lives.

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