“Mommy doesn’t love us anymore!”

“Nope, her don’t play with us!”

“Mommy just doesn’t get up for us. She doesn’t love us!”

I sat up gasping for air.

It felt like my heart stopped.

I grabbed my chest as the knot in my throat began to rise. I was grabbing at my chest as if I was trying to catch something.

I wanted to call out for them, but no words left my mouth. It seemed like everything was moving in slow motion, but in my mind it was fast forward.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I caught my breath, yet I was in this mode of disbelief as I could have sworn I watched my heart fall to the floor and shatter.

I was laying in bed very pregnant, groggy, pained from chemo and still on the road to recovery from a bilateral mastectomy. My then five and four year-olds walked past my room and uttered the words, “Mommy doesn’t love us anymore!”

No words a mother wants to hear.

I couldn’t imagine what my sweet children were going through to fathom the thought I didn’t love them anymore. At that moment, breast cancer took my life, my world, and my reason for everything I did!

In an instant, I decided I was okay. I was not allowed to not be okay; it was not okay for me to not be okay. Hearing those words changed the way I viewed my position.

Yes, I was pregnant.

Yes, I was on chemo.

Yes, I was still recovering from a major surgery.

But I was okay?

I had to tell myself that daily — all day long most days. I had to put on this face because I had to show my children who had no idea the intensifying, life-changing road their mother was on. They were only five and four years old. How could they fully grasp what was going on?

The next day, I got out of bed and I made them breakfast for the first time in awhile (my mother and sister had taken over a lot during my journey). I distinctly remember standing at the stove sweating, holding my pregnant belly with one hand and flipping pancakes with the other. I closed my eyes desperately wanting to lay down. I had to keep telling myself I was okay and I forced down a gulp of water.

I could hear my boys rushing down the stairs “Where is mommy?!?”

I turned to them and their little smiles beamed across their faces like lightning bolts when they saw their mommy was up. As they hugged me, I knew I had to be okay. I had to put aside my struggle and be okay.

I truly felt I was not allowed to not be okay.

I was thrilled and my heart warmed because my babies saw their mommy. So I was okay!

Daily, I would gather whatever strength I could. Some days, I don’t know how I did it. I began to do small tasks in the house and be “mommy.” Sometimes, we would just hangout in bed with board games, movies and lots of paper and crayons. We laughed. We smiled. More importantly, my babies knew and felt mommy loved them.

Day would turn to night and my kids would be snoozing away in their beds.

That’s when it would happen — all the pain, exhaustion, frustration, fear, depression, anger, sadness, jealousy and pure rage would want to pour out, but I kept it in because I had to be okay.

I emotionally distanced myself from everyone but my children. I was purely at bliss being their mother, enduring the pain breast cancer had horrifically laid upon me. Somehow it would go away in those moments of laughter, cuddles and smiles with my children.

But with everyone else I was like an actress on Broadway. The sunrise was like a stage light. Once it reached its highest, it was time for “action.” And well, I couldn’t make any mistake because just as in a Broadway show it was live and the people would know.

Day in and day out, putting on this facade with my family and friends was wearing me thin.

I finally gave birth to my third child, a healthy baby. Thank, God! I was given a third life to care for so I HAD to be okay. I HAD to get through this and be whole! Putting on this mask to get through the day started to become a struggle, I couldn’t hide it anymore.

One day, I snapped.

Hot flash. Panic. Terror. An internal rage that ran so deep, it burned my very soul.

My inner self couldn’t believe what was going on because this was not me. This was not who I was.

I remember trying to peel my skin off. Grabbing my head, the room spun around me. My mother looked at me confused, worried and shocked.

I shouted, “I can’t do this anymore!” and I ran upstairs to my room.

I slammed the door, locking it, dropping to the floor tearing at my clothes, yanking them off.

I laid there, down to my panties and bra which held two prosthetic breasts.

I tilted my head just enough to see these mounds laying on my chest and snatched my bra off.

I began to cry, laying on my bedroom floor in my panties. Just as quickly as that all happened, I was putting my clothes back on and shaking off what just happened because I WAS NOT ALLOWED TO NOT BE OKAY!

Besides I had no one to relate to.

No one told me otherwise, that what I was feeling was normal. I was 27 years old, a single mom of three and a woman of color.

Everywhere I looked for an answer, I saw middle-aged Caucasian women, which forced me to believe this particular battle with breast cancer was a me thing — a punishment for something I did at some point in time.

Being a mom and a woman of color diagnosed with breast cancer changed my life and the way I behaved. I thought I had to not only fight this beast, but fight with myself internally and alone. I told myself for years that it was not okay to not be okay and that I had to mask it away.

I thought this was what I had to be to be — an actress in a Broadway show “It Doesn’t Hurt: Suffering in Silence” starring me!