13 Years Without Her—A Breast Cancer Legacy I Now Understand
- Heather Robinson Roles
- 5 days ago
- 5 min read
Emotional Reflection | Breast Cancer Awareness | Legacy of Love
Today marks 13 years since I lost my mom to Stage 4 breast cancer. I never imagined I’d walk a similar road. Two years ago, I faced my own diagnosis—Stage 2B—and suddenly everything she went through came into sharper focus. This post is a tribute to her, a reflection on my journey, and a love letter to everyone who's ever carried the weight of cancer, grief, or both—a shared breast cancer legacy that continues through each of us.
Grief Never Feels Like It’s Been 13 Years
How has it been 13 years?
Thirteen years since I held her hand. Since I heard her voice. Since she told me to go for a walk and take a break—thinking I'd be back to sit with her again. That was the last full sentence I had from her.
Grief is weird. Some days it’s a whisper. Some days it sucker-punches you in the gut. And then there are days like today, where the ache is sharp and loud and heavy and holy all at once.
She Was So Much More Than Just “Mom”
My mom passed away from Stage 4 breast cancer. She was a force—strong, loving, wildly sarcastic when you least expected it. She made people laugh even when things were falling apart, and she had this way of making you feel safe just by being in the room.
People didn’t just call her Mom—a name my siblings and I were lucky to call her every day. She was also Hun, Grandma, Auntie Rose, Rosemary, and Posy—names given with love by those closest to her. From my grandma and uncle, to lifelong friends, nieces and nephews, and even great-nieces and great-nephews, she was someone everyone felt they could turn to. Everyone should have an Auntie Rose—someone who made you feel seen, loved, and completely at home. Whether it was offering a cookie, cooking up a full dinner for unexpected guests on a random Tuesday, or welcoming someone through our door at any hour of the day, she made space for people. My dad was her teammate in all of that. Together, they created a home where love and acceptance were served right alongside whatever she had simmering on the stove. I try to be that now. I try to be her in all the little ways.
The Kind of Mother I Hope to Be
And I try to be the kind of mom she was. The kind who shows up with love first. Who fixes things. Who makes the hard stuff feel less scary. And I still try to be the daughter she raised me to be—for my dad, especially. Because even though we’ve all had to keep going, a piece of us, went with her.
She Was So Much More Than Just “Mom”
My mom passed away from Stage 4 breast cancer. She was a force—strong, loving, wildly sarcastic when you least expected it. She made people laugh even when things were falling apart, and she had this way of making you feel safe just by being in the room.
People didn’t just call her Mom—a name my siblings and I were lucky to call her every day. She was also Hun, Grandma, Auntie Rose, Rosemary, and Posy—names given with love by those closest to her. From my grandma and uncle, to lifelong friends, nieces and nephews, and even great-nieces and great-nephews, she was someone everyone felt they could turn to. Everyone should have an Auntie Rose—someone who made you feel seen, loved, and completely at home. Whether it was offering a cookie, cooking up a full dinner for unexpected guests on a random Tuesday, or welcoming someone through our door at any hour of the day, she made space for people. My dad was her teammate in all of that. Together, they created a home where love and acceptance were served right alongside whatever she had simmering on the stove. I try to be that now. I try to be her in all the little ways.
Then Came My Diagnosis
I thought I understood what she went through. I thought I got it.
And then two years ago, I got my own diagnosis: Stage 2B breast cancer.
And just like that, I was in it. The scans, the surgeries, the chemo, the radiation. The quiet terror. The waiting. The grief over your own body. The fight to feel like you again. And somewhere in all of that, I finally saw—really saw—what she carried. Not just the physical weight of the disease, but the emotional gravity of it. The strength it took to show up and smile for us when I know now she must have been so dang tired.
Now, I Really Understand
I get it now, Mom.
I get the days you didn’t want to see anyone. I get the quiet fear behind your brave face. I get the aching hope you held onto for us. And I hope you know I’m trying to live with even half the grace and grit you showed me.
These past two years cracked me wide open—but they also built something new. A deeper understanding. A deeper love. And a weird, fierce gratitude for the ways you’re still with me. In my stubbornness. In my softness. In my “throw a little sass at it and hope for the best” attitude.
Her Legacy Lives On
Your influence is still here, Mom. It’s in the way I love people hard. It’s in how I show up, even when it hurts. It’s in how I cry when I need to (which is often) and laugh when I can (which is thankfully also often). It’s in the way I tell my own story now—raw, unfiltered, but always with a flicker of hope.
If you’re looking down today (and knowing you, probably rolling your eyes at all this mush), I hope you’re proud. I hope you see me and think, “That's my Roo.”
Because I miss you like crazy. But I’m still here. Still fighting. Still loving. Still laughing when I can. Still carrying your legacy in every scar, every smile, and every moment I choose to keep going.
To Anyone Walking This Road Too
If you've lost someone you love to breast cancer—or if you're walking through your own diagnosis—I see you. You’re not alone. Feel free to share your story in the comments or send me a message. Let’s keep the conversation going, together.
“Everyone should have an Auntie Rose—someone who makes you feel seen, loved, and completely at home.”
Comments