Nursing Hope, Fighting Fear

For much of my life, I have supported women (myself included) through their pregnancies and nursing journeys. I nursed my four children for a combined total of nearly 8 years and even went so far as to get certifications in lactation counseling and as a lactation educator. At some point along the way, it became spiritual too. I began to notice the women nursing in the Torah and the importance of breasts, both literally and metaphorically, and began to use these paradigmatic moments to strengthen myself and others as we struggled in these intimate and precious trials of motherhood.

The Midrash Tanchuma, for example, states that Sarah Imeinu herself was concerned about whether or not she would be able to produce milk for her miraculous baby. And Rashi explains the double use of the word “blessing” in Bereishit 17:16 (וּבֵרַכְתִּ֣י אֹתָ֔הּ וְגַ֨ם נָתַ֧תִּי מִמֶּ֛נָּה לְךָ֖ בֵּ֑ן וּבֵֽרַכְתִּ֙יהָ֙ וְהָֽיְתָ֣ה לְגוֹיִ֔ם מַלְכֵ֥י עַמִּ֖ים מִמֶּ֥נָּה יִהְיֽוּ׃ – I will bless her; indeed, I will give you a son by her. I will bless her so that she shall give rise to nations; rulers of peoples shall issue from her) by stating that Hashem not only gives Sarah the blessing of a son, but doubly blesses her by bestowing upon her milk filled breasts with which to sustain him. Breasts are a blessing.

But what happens when that blessing becomes a curse? 

One evening as I nursed my daughter, my last baby, I felt what no woman wants to feel – a mass in the side of my breast. As the sensation was similar to that of a clogged duct, I began the usual protocols that had previously solved this issue. I knew, however, that this did not feel exactly the same; it was not painful and did not have the familiar, intense burn of milk flowing through swollen ducts. And when I looked in the mirror and saw a new dimple on my skin, I knew that I needed help. 

Women under 40 are often dismissed when they report possible breast cancer symptoms, so I felt blessed that my imaging and biopsies were scheduled immediately. In just one week, my diagnosis went from a simple, clogged milk duct to devastating news: I had cancer.

What followed was a traumatic litany of appointments with oncologists, surgeons, and nurses who formed a plan to save my life. This plan – chemotherapy, surgery, radiation, experimental drugs, and more – would try to take me down with the cancer. The goal, my oncologist told me, was to get me to tolerate the drugs long enough that they would have a real impact on the tumors without doing irreparable damage to the rest of my body. Never before had I felt this line from Devarim so palpably:

הַעִדֹ֨תִי בָכֶ֣ם הַיּוֹם֮ אֶת־הַשָּׁמַ֣יִם וְאֶת־הָאָ֒רֶץ֒ הַחַיִּ֤ים וְהַמָּ֙וֶת֙ נָתַ֣תִּי לְפָנֶ֔יךָ הַבְּרָכָ֖ה וְהַקְּלָלָ֑ה וּבָֽחַרְתָּ֙ בַּחַיִּ֔ים לְמַ֥עַן תִּֽחְיֶ֖ה אַתָּ֥ה וְזַרְעֶֽךָ׃

I call heaven and earth to witness against you this day: I have put before you life and death, blessing and curse. Choose life—in order that you and your offspring would live.

And so I did.

Two weeks after my diagnosis, I was forced to wean my baby. Although I had been reassured by my oncologist that the milk I had lovingly been feeding her, had not actually been poisoning her, the chemotherapy I would soon be on, would. The irony was impossible to ignore: the same drugs that could save my life were also toxic, both a poison and a cure. But what I did not recognize until much later was the double loss hidden in that moment. Choosing treatment meant not only beginning the long, uncertain path toward healing, but also bringing an abrupt and unscripted end to the nursing bond my daughter and I had fought hard to establish.

In Hebrew, the word for weaning, גמילה (gemila), reaches deeper than simply “to stop nursing.” It carries the weight of maturing, of stepping forward into independence. But if I am honest, neither of us was ready for that. The milestone of separation was forced upon us, and with it, we both lost a measure of comfort we weren’t prepared to give up.

For nearly two years, I looked at death and curses in the forms of countless side effects, likely statistical outcomes, and the inevitable isolation that comes with illness…and then purposefully and intentionally chose life. I showed up with the minimal energy I had – for my family, in Torah learning, giving tzedakah, and sharing the medical information that I was learning with friends with even newer diagnoses than mine. A dear friend poignantly asked me how my relationship with G-d changed during my treatment. I responded by laughing and sharing that I only had two words for G-d from my chemo chair, “Do better.”

There is no shortage of authors who write about suffering and how to find G-d in the darkest of times. To be honest though, I did not find G-d in the suffering itself; I did not aim to make meaning from it. That being said, there is a profound echo between the pasuk from (Bereishit 28:16)  “God is in this place and I did not know it” and the experience of facing hardship. We may not always glimpse G‑d in the depths of suffering, and pain does not always yield a hidden meaning. Yet, just as Yaakov opened his eyes to the quiet nearness of the Divine, so too can we awaken to holiness revealed through others. In the gentle touch of kindness, in compassion freely given, in steadfast support; there, the presence of G‑d is revealed, even if we did not know it at first. The Torah teaches that to walk in G-d’s way is to make justice and righteousness the very fabric of our lives. Every act of compassion, every choice of kindness, especially in the face of hardship, is not merely human decency. It is nothing less than a revelation of the Divine in our world.

In the end, survivorship is not about erasing the pain, the loss, or even the lingering shadows of fear. It is about holding them honestly while still stepping forward, one breath, one prayer, one act at a time. I learned that choosing life is not always a grand gesture, but often a series of small, stubborn acts of hope. Hope when I opened a siddur even though my body trembled from chemo. Hope when I let others care for me, despite my pride. Hope when I let myself dream of a future I could not yet see.

As October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, may we remember that awareness is not only about illness, but also about resilience. It is about telling stories that remind us that even when curses appear to loom, blessing still finds a way through. Choosing life means choosing to believe in that blessing, again and again. And in that choice, no matter how fragile or fierce, light breaks through the cracks of suffering, illuminating those who stand as our torchbearers when we can not manage to raise our arms and reminding us that we are never as alone as it may seem.