In January 2023, I laid down to take an afternoon nap. As I closed my eyes, I put my hands on my chest and felt something small and hard. I called for my husband, Bill, who acknowledged that it was weird but probably not a cause for concern. I wasn't convinced.That moment led me to a series of tests, where I was ultimately diagnosed with an aggressive cancer and told that I would need chemo, followed by optional mastectomy and reconstruction surgeries, and possibly radiation.I opted to try a cold cap (a device that freezes hair follicles to reduce chemo impact), but I was told I would still likely lose my hair.I thought of my kids. My mortality was, of course, the biggest concern, but losing my hair made it hard to conceal that I was sick. My husband and I could control the narrative at home, but the outside world was terrifying.My thick hair fell out easily as I touched it. A brush was immediately filled with hair after each stroke.Bill and my sister tried to convince me to keep what was left, but what was left looked worse to me than the fear of being bald. I grabbed a shaver and a chair and asked my kids if they wanted a turn shaving my head. It was a family affair.I bought a wig, but it was itchy and made my head extremely hot in the Texas summer heat.When I complained about the wig, my kids told me to stop wearing it. Time and time again, I was earnestly told that I looked beautiful without it. I had a hard time believing it and adjusting to my new look.Once, after my son's soccer game, I realized that I was overheated and dizzy. I asked Bill to run and grab the car while I attempted to walk to meet up with him. I made it just inside the car and then blacked out.When I came to, my 10-year-old daughter had the presence of mind to tell me to take off my wig. I did and immediately felt like 10 degrees had been removed. I still marvel at her insight.Again, my kids encouraged me to stop wearing the wig. They felt it was unnatural — that it didn't look like me. I started to realize that my vanity was getting in the way of a beautiful moment that I had been gifted in a dark time. Anyone who has a preteen girl can attest that if your daughter is telling you that you look beautiful, she means it. After chemo, my hair started growing back to my natural salt and pepper. I had been dying my hair for years and had always chickened out from going gray. But now, having any hair was a step up from the alternative, though admittedly hard to reconcile with my old look. Still, it was easier than losing my hair, and I had no interest in revisiting a change to gray at a later date, so I just rolled with it.Again, my children encouraged me. To this day, on occasion, I will remark that I miss my old hair. My son, often unprompted, says he prefers my new super curly gray hair.Living through a significant illness gives you a new perspective. Not all of them are good, but some I wouldn't change for the world. In my case, I expected to be brave and resilient for my children, but their strength and compassion at our darkest hour was a gift that I will forever cherish.