I’m a playful mom.
Most days, you’ll find me outside with my boys, soaking up every season—skiing down snowy hills, paddleboarding on sunlit waters, biking through winding trails. A huge part of who I am is wrapped up in an active lifestyle. My ability to keep up with two energetic boys has always been a source of pride, a tangible way I feel present in their lives.
Mom takes a selfie with her son, both in winter gear ready to go skiing.
Then came the breast cancer diagnosis. Everything screeched to a halt.
In December 2020, I underwent a double mastectomy, followed by three grueling months of chemotherapy. The once-energetic, outdoorsy version of me was replaced by a homebound, shuffling shell. I moved slowly, rested often, and a day outside became a memory of something I could no longer do.
Woman battling breast cancer takes a selfie during chemotherapy.
My five-year-old son seemed to sense my limitations. Though I was heartbroken, he adapted effortlessly. Sledding trips and park adventures were swapped for couch cuddle sessions, which, to him, were just as comforting.
Mom battling breast cancer takes a selfie with her five-year-old son while they cuddle on the couch.
One day, he asked, “Let’s play iPad together.” At first, I brushed it off. “Yeah, that’s not really a Mommy thing,” I said, or “That’s why you have a brother.” But then I realized—this was one of the few activities we could share, side by side, cozy on the couch.
So, I downloaded the apps, created our avatars, and prepared for what would soon become our daily ritual, our little “class.” He looked at me and said, “I’m going to teach you, Mom. I’ll teach you how to be strong.”
Class always begins the same way. I watch his iPad as he runs his avatar, and I cheer—“Ooo!” and “Ahh!”—admiring his skill, his level, his strength. Then, he takes my iPad and runs my avatar, showing me what I can do, what I’m capable of.
Finally, our avatars move together. “Follow me, Mom. I’ll protect you.”
Mom battling breast cancer plays Roblox with her son on the couch.
Recently, I had a realization: this isn’t just an iPad game. This isn’t mere screen time. This is play therapy.
In our real world, cancer looms large. I endure surgeries and chemotherapy. I feel weak, sick, and uncertain. And he, my little boy, feels powerless.
But in the Roblox world, he holds the power. He knows the rules, he excels, and he can protect me. As we navigate the virtual world together, he declares, “I’ll heal you,” and “You’re back at full health!”
I watch my avatar’s health bar slowly fill. I watch his face light up with pride and accomplishment. And strangely, I feel a sense of calm, a fleeting glimpse of ease.
Mom snaps a photo of hers and her son’s avatars on an iPad game.
Cancer is enormous and terrifying. The unknowns are relentless, the guarantees few. But in this virtual world, everything is contained, safe, predictable. Rules exist. Outcomes are clear. And for a short while, I’m not weak or sick. I’m fully healed. I can run, jump, and play again.
So there we sat—on the couch, our iPads in hand, tapping screens and breathing together. In those moments, we both rediscovered our strength: his, mine, and the quiet, powerful bond that carried us through a world that suddenly felt uncertain.
