Emotional Betsie

When Betsie was diagnosed with cancer, the world as I knew it split in two. There was life before cancer — and life after. But what I didn’t fully understand at the time was that chemotherapy wouldn’t just attack the cancer. It would ripple through every part of her tiny body, and her even tinier emotional world.

And in turn, it would ripple through mine.

Chemotherapy is brutal. We were prepared for the physical side effects — the nausea, the fatigue, the hair loss, the endless appointments. What no one truly prepares you for is the emotional toll it takes on a toddler who doesn’t have the words to explain what’s happening inside her body.

Betsie is only three years old. She doesn’t understand “treatment plans” or “side effects.” She only knows that she doesn’t feel like herself.

Some days she’s clingy beyond measure. She wants to be near me constantly. Other days she’s irritable and explosive. The smallest thing — the wrong cup, a broken biscuits, a burnt bit of toast, a delay in turning on her favourite show — can trigger a full-blown meltdown.

And then there are the mood swings.

One moment she’s giggling. The next, she’s screaming. Not just crying — screaming from somewhere deep, like her body is fighting something invisible.

And I guess it is.

Steroids can intensify emotions. Fatigue can make everything harder. Nausea steals joy from even the simplest pleasures. And pain — whether she can name it or not — lives in her body in ways she just doesn’t understand.

As her mother, I find myself riding every wave with her. I grieve the loss of her carefree toddler days. I grieve the version of motherhood I imagined — playground afternoons, messy crafts, ordinary exhaustion instead of hospital exhaustion. I miss the simplicity of tantrums that were just about being three years old.

Now every meltdown makes me pause.

Is she overtired?

Is she nauseous?

Is this the steroids?

Is she scared?

Is it just normal toddler behavior?

The mental load is constant. I am always scanning, analysing, adjusting. And I’ll be honest — sometimes I don’t handle it well at all.

Sometimes I snap internally, even if I don’t outwardly show it. Sometimes I cry in the bathroom, or in bed next to her , trying to muffle my tears, after she finally falls asleep. Sometimes I feel overwhelmed by the emotional whiplash of loving her so fiercely and feeling so utterly drained at the same time. And I feel so guilty for that too.

But I’m learning something important: two things can be true at once -

Betsie can be incredibly brave and incredibly difficult.

I can be deeply grateful for her life and deeply exhausted. She can be fighting cancer and still be a toddler.

Cancer doesn’t erase toddlerhood. It just really complicates it.

What helps — even just a little — is lowering the bar. Some days survival is the goal. If we make it through with everyone safe and somewhat fed, that’s enough. Structure when possible, flexibility when necessary. Extra snuggles. Fewer expectations. More grace.

I’ve started narrating emotions for her:

“You’re feeling really mad.”

“Your body feels yucky today.”

“It’s okay to be upset.”

Sometimes she still screams. But sometimes she softens. And in those moments, I’m reminded that even in the chaos, we are still connected.

I am learning that coping doesn’t mean being calm all the time. It means showing up anyway. It means apologizing when I lose patience. It means asking for help when I’m drowning. It means letting go of perfection.

Navigating cancer with a toddler is isolating. It is relentless. It is heartbreaking. But it is also filled with fierce love.

Every tantrum, every tear, every hospital bracelet, every steroid-fueled mood swing — they all exist inside a story of survival. A story we didn’t choose, but one we are living through together.

If you’re a parent walking this road too, I see you.

You are not failing because you’re tired.

You are not ungrateful because you’re overwhelmed.

You are not weak because you cry.

You are parenting through trauma.

You are loving through fear.

You are doing something impossibly hard.

And so am I.

Tonight, when Betsie curls into me — exhausted from fighting battles she doesn’t understand — I remind myself: we are both doing the best we can with what we’ve been given.

And for today, that has to be enough.