The Colors I Lived to See
There are moments in life that fracture everything into before and after, moments that feel like a sudden crack across a stained‑glass window, altering the way light enters your world. My cancer diagnosis was one of those moments; it arrived with a heaviness that settled into every corner of my life, tinting everything in uncertain hues.
When I first heard the words, my thoughts did not drift toward bucket lists or unfinished dreams. They went straight to the people I loved, to the future I hoped for, and to the quiet fear that I might not be here long enough to meet the grandchildren I already loved in my imagination. I wondered if I would ever hold them, if I would ever hear them say my name, if I would ever see the colors of their lives shine through my own.
That question stayed with me through surgeries and treatments, through nights when the world slept but my heart stayed awake, listening for hope. I carried it like a shard of glass, sharp yet glimmering, a reminder of what I was fighting for.
And now, here I am; not only alive, not only healed, but standing in a chapter I once believed I might never reach.
Today, I am Avó to two beautiful grandbabies, Theodore, my curious nine‑month‑old explorer, and Saylor, my spirited two‑and‑a‑half‑year‑old burst of sunshine. Somehow, in a twist of grace I could never have scripted, I get to be a stay‑at‑home Avó. It is a role that feels like a window crafted just for me, a mosaic of joy, exhaustion, purpose, and gratitude.
The days are painted in color.
Deep teal, like the calm moments when Theodore curls into my shoulder, trusting and warm.
Warm amber, like Saylor’s laughter as it fills the room, bright and unfiltered.
Soft rose, like the tenderness that rises in me when I realize I am living inside a future I once feared I would never see.
And then there is the color they create together, a shade that only cousins of the heart can make. Watching Theo and Saylor love each other is one of the sweetest gifts of this season. They light up when they see one another; they reach for each other; they laugh in a way that feels like music drifting through our home. Their giggles blend into something pure and bright, a sound that softens every edge of the day. They bring our family together in a way only children can, reminding us of what matters, reminding us of joy in its simplest, most honest form.
“Their giggles stitch our family together, coloring my world in ways I never knew I needed.”
Avó
And now, something new glows at the edges of my heart, a color I do not yet have a name for. It is the hue of anticipation, of knowing that more little souls may someday join our family. I feel excitement for the future grandbabies who will one day add their own shades to this stained‑glass journey. I imagine their faces, their personalities, their laughter, their tiny hands reaching for mine. I imagine the way each one will bring a new light, a new story, a new piece of my heart I did not even know was waiting.
Is it tiring, yes. There are days when my body remembers everything it has endured, days when the lifting, chasing, soothing, singing, and snack‑refereeing feel like a marathon. Yet even on the most exhausting days, I feel the blessing of it all settle over me like warm light.
Every giggle, every tiny hand reaching for mine, every sleepy snuggle, every “Avó, look,” reminds me that I made it; I am here; I get to witness this life unfolding in real time. I get to love them with a heart that once wondered if it would have the chance.
Cancer took much from me, but it also sharpened my vision for what matters. It taught me to see the world the way stained glass teaches us to see light, not as something constant, but as something precious, shifting, sacred.
What matters is this, the soft weight of a grandbaby on my shoulder, the sound of little feet running toward me, the privilege of being present for a future I once feared I would miss.
Being their Avó is my miracle; my blessing; my second chance held in tiny arms. And every day, even the tiring ones, I whisper a quiet thank you for life, for healing, for these two luminous souls, and for the future little ones who will someday join them, each one adding a new color to the window I once prayed I would live to see.
The Light That Awaits Us
– by Nelia Maria LeClair
Little hearts and tiny hands,
little feet sprinting toward tomorrow,
you paint my world in hues
I never knew I craved.
Your laughter draws our family near,
giggles weaving us together,
your love a gentle reminder
of why I battled to remain.
And in the stillness,
I sense the promise of what’s ahead,
future little souls ready to arrive,
bringing fresh colors to our lives,
each one a gift I long to embrace.