The sentence that stayed with me during Deborah’s final hours—“I brought my daughter into the world, and I took her out of it”—captured the weight of that moment. Sitting by her bed, holding her hand, time slowed into something quiet and unreal as love and loss met.

There is no guide for walking with your child toward the end of her life. Parents are not meant to outlive their children. I held Deborah with the same strength I once held her at birth, this time guiding her toward peace, whispering reassurances I never imagined saying.

Her hands felt smaller than I remembered, hands that once tied shoes, comforted her children, and fought relentlessly to live. Grief and relief settled together—grief at losing her, relief that her suffering was finally ending.

For five and a half years, Deborah battled stage 4 bowel cancer through surgeries, treatments, hope, and heartbreak. She fought for her children, Hugo and Eloise, for her husband, and for countless others. By sharing her journey publicly, she encouraged people to seek help, start conversations, and listen to their bodies.

Her final days were gentle. She slept more, spoke softly, and focused on her children’s futures. Now, grief comes in waves, but her presence remains. Deborah’s legacy lives on in the lives she touched, the awareness she raised, and the love she gave—proof that a life is measured not by length, but by depth and courage.