"My husband and I were always transparent with the kids. They saw me cry; they saw me get scared. We used words like died rather than passed away. Now I see the kids as these amazing, compassionate, clear-eyed people who know how to comfort others and who have made space in their life for death. That is so unusual in our culture. I want my kids to have a relationship with the fluidity of life—with the fact that sometimes people get sick and sometimes bad things happen, and to know that within that there is also grace, there’s also beauty, there’s also comfort. Because if you go down into the depths, there is treasure there. Cancer still sucks, but there’s also profound connection. It’s the privilege of allowing yourself to participate in the full experience of humanity, which includes grief and sickness and death. If you don’t look at [those things], you’re not living...

There’s this assumption that because you got better, you did it courageously. But that’s not my story. I didn’t “warrior” my way into getting better. It was not my achievement; it was science’s. Whenever I hear someone say “I beat cancer,” it just feels so disrespectful to others, such as my friend Debbie. It divides us into winners and losers. I know it’s not deliberate. We want to make meaning. We want to make sense of it. But you see how random [survival] is. I have known people who were healthier than me and younger than me who tried, I think, harder than I did to fight their cancer but who didn’t live…

The story is about losing something—yourself, people you loved, what you thought you knew about the world—yet still being whole. Butterflies are all about transformation. I try to see the beauty in all the damage. I try to see the beauty in all the ruin. And I definitely see the love."