She was resourceful, reusing dryer sheets and tea bags long before it was popular to go green. Children adored her (she taught Montessori preschool). She loved to read and write stories, her mind brimming with ideas. She was a brilliant teacher and a loving mother and wife. She had an unbreakable spirit.

She found a lump in her right breast, which was diagnosed as malignant.

I was Clara in my dance studio’s production of the Nutcracker that year, and my parents waited until after my performances were over to break the news. I was ten years old. I didn’t understand what cancer was. I don’t think my brother or sister understood either. We didn’t know that our entire world was at stake.

I remember matted black tufts of hair on pillowcases and a beautiful, browless face putting on lipstick in the mirror. I remember wig shopping and how she hated the way they made her head feel itchy (so her signature accessory became a pink turban, which I still have). I think of how her thick, straight hair came back fine and curly, like a child’s, and she was tickled by that. I remember the embodiment of humbled grace, quiet fortitude, and unmarred faith as she slipped in and out of remission. And in the end, I remember crawling into bed with her to read Shel Silverstein.

I don’t know what, if any, symptoms she experienced pre-diagnosis. But chemotherapy wreaked havoc on her body; yet, she didn’t succumb. In fact, just the opposite happened. She battled through four bouts of the relentless disease, sacrificing every bit of herself to stretch time.

In high school, she would let me come to outpatient chemotherapy treatments with her. I’d sit beside her as they fastened the IV bag to her port-a-cath and watch as the fluids emptied into her system. A “chemo” veteran at this point, she would simply read a book, as if she were at a salon. Mom didn’t want the cancer to eat away at the normalcy of our lives. There were still dance lessons and homecoming parades, punctuated by the pangs of adolescence. I realize now what superhuman strength she possessed and what she must have silently endured to maintain this façade. We never saw her crumble. She kept us isolated from her pain, shielded from her suffering. Selflessness was her sadhana, which is Hindi for discipline undertaken in the pursuit of a goal.

Traveling to Sri Lanka to meet my 94-year-old grandma was a lifelong dream realized, fate coming full circle. It was quite possibly the best experience of my life. To connect with my mom’s past helped shape the person I am today.

I take my health seriously. I am a big believer in mind/body balance and holistic practices as overall preventative measures. I do lots of yoga. I run on the trails with my dog. I’m eating more vegetables — even the green ones. Oh, and right now I’m really into Kombucha (cultured Chinese tea).

My mom’s death has heightened my own awareness. Fortunately, we’ve come a long way with research and treatment in the past 20 years since she was diagnosed. Continued awareness and early detection is the best chance of survival. I turned 30 this year and have an appointment (on my Google calendar, where I manage my whole life) for my first mammogram. My sister, who is 26, is also going to have hers. We are starting early since we have a family history and plan on genetic testing as added precaution. Through my twenties, I received annual clinical exams.

I remember the way she’d blow-dry my hair when I was little, putting the nozzle down the neck of my nightgown for a few seconds sending warm shivers down my spine. I think of the cup of tea in the microwave that she had meant to take out and drink, but forgot to in the mad rush of morning. I picture how she’d eat curry and rice with her fingers sitting on the low kitchen stepstool. My Pandora’s box is full of sacred memories.

I think she would be very proud. The three children she fought so vigilantly to stay alive for are living all of the dreams she seeded. “Dream big,” she used to say. And so I do, in giant rainbow sparkles.