Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us.
– Hebrews 12:1

The nurse who called me back for my procedure yesterday was the kind of nurse one dreams of having. Capable manner, kind eyes. I felt she was silently saying to me, I know this sucks, but we’ll get you through it. I’ve been developing this theory that someone’s degree of compassion is directly correlated to how many warm blankets they offer (hospitals are invariably freezing), and after I changed, she laid me down in a veritable cocoon of warmth: warmed blankets below me, on top of me, and around my shoulders. I confessed my secret doubts about getting the port and she looked me straight in the eyes and said, “even if you’re only getting six chemo infusions, this is worth it.” She took a look at my thin, feathery veins, pointed out all the ones they’d blow through in what order, and said without a doubt this was the right decision. Then a whole group of nurses came over to share their good-things-about-ports stories and cheer me on as I got my “last IV (for a while)!” before the procedure.

The people around you make such a difference. When you go through things that tend to strip you of dignity and agency, the way people see you changes the way you see yourself: their kindness makes you someone worthy of kindness. Their belief becomes your belief. Truth is, I am tired of procedures. I’m tired of looking the other way and pretending needle sticks don’t hurt, tired of the open flap of hospital gowns and post-anesthesia wooziness, tired of the accumulation of scars upon my body. But her gentle eyes made me feel as if I can, and will, go on.

Odds are low I’ll see this particular nurse again, but I wrote her name down in my notebook when I got home. Next to notes from doctor’s visits and articles, I keep a list of people who have shown up in some way: hospital staff, friends who have reached out through a note, a hug, a gift, a meal, a kind gaze. Someone with cancer once told me, “You might be surprised by who doesn’t show up, but you’ll also be surprised by who does.” And she’s right. So many have, each in their own times and ways. As I flip through the pages, the names come to life like a cloud of witnesses, cheering me on.

Last weekend, I watched one of our boys play a basketball game. I’ll be honest: as a naturally competitive person, it’s hard for me to watch my kids lose without feeling bad about them or myself, or questioning some play or call (which is ridiculous as I know nothing about the sport). But I thought to myself that day, your only job is to be there to cheer him on. So I clapped and cheered, even when it became clear his team was never going to win, and I stayed to the end, holding his sweaty, despondent little hand as we left the gym and drove home. Later that night, he crawled into bed beside me and said, “I think the game is finally not bothering me anymore,” and I just hugged him and kissed the top of his head.

We have a letter board on our mantle at home, and its latest quip is one entirely invented by our youngest, when I told her she could put anything on it she wanted: “It’s Okay To Be In: Muggy Mode.” Muggy is the name of my stuffed animal, a Corgi who looks—permanently unwell, due to an unflattering posture and perpetual ptosis. This is, of course, why I like him. And this little message is our daughter’s way of saying, I’ve picked up a bit of what might be coming up, and I want you to remember that you don’t have to be on top of it to be a good mom. We are here to witness each other’s good days and bad days, the one same as the other, today and for all the days ahead. That’s what it means to go through this race of life together.