For a long time after Taylor’s death I vacillated between being unable to look at her room and unable to leave her room. Everything about that space was Taylor and was life: the pictures, the pillows, her jewelry, the mess on the desk. I could soak it all in my heart one day and feel torn up by it the next.

A few years after Taylor died, we finally made the decision to sell the suburban house we raised the girls in and move to an apartment in New York City. We needed to start living again and wanted the vibrancy of the city and to make new memories. When planning a closing date for the apartment, we focused on Valentine’s Day – a day always filled with love, happiness, and beautiful family memories.

With a new lightness in my step, I went straight to the apartment after the closing. I was determined to feel happy, but as soon as I walked in the door, I felt crushed by the realization that Taylor would never live here. While the symbolism of the move was rich for us, I was kidding myself if I thought Taylor’s absence would feel any less keen in a new zip code.

Our move, made so we could start fresh, brought new pain and a whole new set of emotions to manage. In the house, I could be in her room and feel her presence, but in the apartment, she could not be more gone. Sometimes I wanted to pound our new walls with anguish that Taylor would never live here. Or anywhere.

As painful as these realizations were, the move did slowly help me accept the unavoidable truth. I would never have a home with Taylor physically present again, she would never go to college, never marry, never have any more milestones.

Today, I look at those not-so-new walls and smile. Our family has moved on, we have laughed, we have made new memories. The pain of Taylor’s absence is always with us, but so is the beauty of her smile, the sound of her laughter, and the squeeze of her hugs.

As I look at the glittering lights of New York City and up at the stars in the sky, I know we are still a family of five and our family bond endures. Bob always says that everyone is handed a deck of cards and life is all about how you play them.

Mother’s Day is near universal in its observance with cards, flowers, and family get-togethers. But the day has vastly different meanings for people at different stages of their lives. The joy of the first Mother’s Day with a new baby is unparalleled while just the anticipation of Mother’s Day following the death of a mother or child feels like salt on a wound.

For me, Mother’s Day hits every note on the scale. I miss my mother, I mourn Taylor, I beam with pride seeing the loving, extraordinary women Ryan and Corey have become. I remember every year of our growing family and grieve the year our family shrank. Yes, all these emotions come on a single day. And yes, it’s just another day because all these emotions don’t need Mother’s Day to be felt.

The cycle of holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries takes on poignancy whenever there is a major life event – either happy or sad. It is hard to watch my family celebrate me as a mother when a piece of that role is missing, but Taylor is never out of my heart, my thoughts, or my motherness. While there are no cards or flowers or brunches with her, I am her loving and proud Mom on the second Sunday in May and every day. Motherhood never ends.

When a child is sick, nobody but Mom or Dad will do. And you wouldn’t have it any other way. But when that illness is serious and lengthy, Mom and Dad can get pretty worn out and may need to let others help both their child and them.

When Taylor was first diagnosed, I was paralyzed with sadness and anxiety, but I thought I had all the energy in the world to take care of her. There was nothing I wouldn’t do to make her feel happier or more comfortable. But lengthy hospital stays can really wear you down and I soon learned that I couldn’t keep going on adrenaline alone. My mind and body were simply overwhelmed.

Cancer doesn’t just strike individuals, it strikes the whole family.

With cancer in our lives for the foreseeable future, we needed to figure out a way that Taylor would not be alone, our other daughters would not be abandoned, and Bob could both go to the office and continue his daily cancer research. Once our rotation was in place, we became an effective team, but one that desperately needed both help and sleep. Taking care of ourselves was the last thing on our minds, but it really was a necessary part of doing battle.

While I spent a majority of Taylor’s overnight stays with her, I tried to come home on the weekends to spend time with our other daughters and catch up on some sleep. I always felt terribly torn, but I needed to gear up for the following week and stay on top of things at home. While the rotation was very tough on the whole family, it was the only way we could survive. We were thrilled when friends and family were able to help out and join our team. Time spent with friends nourished Taylor’s heart and enabled her to endure more boredom and pain than anyone should ever have.

During hospitalizations, I tried to take a quick walk each day just to get some air and rejuvenate. I couldn’t leave Taylor for long, but I knew we would both be better off if I could refresh for just a few minutes. Frankly, she was pretty bored hanging out just with me anyway so it worked for both of us.

Cancer is a marathon, not a sprint. So when you’re exhausted, bring in the troops and take a break. It’s better for you and better for your child.