The Gold Lantern

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It was the night of my twenty-ninth birthday when we got the call from the hospital.

It was the call we all knew was coming.

After nine years of fighting multiple myeloma, my father passed away—nine years that were shaped by fear, emotional pain, and uncertainty, but also by hope. Hope that science and new therapies would stretch time just a little longer. Hope that we could outsmart the inevitable. Hope that my dad would have just a few more years with his family.

When I think back to the moment we first heard the words, “You have cancer,” I remember living in denial. Those three words carry a weight that is hard to describe. They arrive all at once, but understanding them takes time. At first, I felt numb—completely numb. It was as if my brain shut down to protect me from the shock. Helplessness followed. I promised myself I never wanted to feel that powerless again.

Over time, I slowly found my way out of that numbness, not because the fear disappeared, but because I chose to move toward it. I leaned into action. I leaned into learning. If I couldn’t control the diagnosis, I decided, I could at least understand it.

So I went to college and pursued a PhD in oncology. I educated myself on everything I could about multiple myeloma. Research papers became my late-night reading. Clinical trials became dinner-table conversations. Medical jargon that once felt foreign became part of my language.

Knowledge became my coping mechanism.

It gave me a sense of control in a situation where so much felt uncontrollable. It allowed me to sit in doctors’ offices not just as a daughter, but as an interpreter. I helped my father and mother understand treatment options, side effects, and emerging research. I translated complex explanations into something tangible. It didn’t erase the fear, but it softened it. It gave us the ability to make informed decisions. It gave my dad a voice in his own care.

But on my twenty-ninth birthday, when we walked into the hospital to say goodbye, knowledge could no longer help me.

And there it was again: the numbness, the helplessness. The hollow feeling in my chest that no textbook could prepare me for. Scientific training does not teach you how to plan a funeral. It does not teach you how to sit in a quiet house that suddenly feels too big. It does not teach you how to move forward when someone who shaped your world is gone.

For a long time after my father passed, I moved through life on autopilot. I continued my career in oncology, but I often wondered why. I have always believed that things happen for a reason, yet I struggled to hold on to that belief. What was the reason for my father to leave us at 64? He never met his first grandchild—my nephew. He didn’t see me get married. So many moments were taken from him, and from us.

During that time, what helped most were small, almost invisible lifelines.

Routine helped. Going to work. Answering emails. Making coffee the same way every morning. Grief is chaotic; routine is steady. When everything inside me felt unpredictable, those small, repeated actions created structure.
Solitude helped too. Those quiet moments alone at home were when I gave myself permission to fall apart. I could cry without explanation. I could sit with memories. I could let out what I had been holding in all day. But even in those quiet spaces, I carried my father’s spirit with me. He was never someone who gave up or stopped choosing life, even in the hardest moments. He would not have wanted me to drift through my days on autopilot. Remembering that gently pushed me to reengage with the world—not all at once, not perfectly, but intentionally. Resting in grief was necessary. Staying there forever was not.

The unexpected turning point came one evening at the Light the Night walk organized by Blood Cancer United.

If you have never experienced it, imagine this: hundreds of people gathered under the night sky, holding illuminated lanterns. Some lanterns are white, representing survivors. Some are red, representing supporters. And some are gold, representing loved ones lost.

That night, I held a gold lantern.

It was not only about who was missing. It was about the memories that remain. The love that still shapes you. The lessons that still guide you. The values that continue to live through your choices.

As I looked around, I realized I was not alone. Every light represented a story. Every story carried pain, but also resilience. The air felt heavy, yet hopeful. And for the first time since my father passed, I felt something I had not expected so soon: purpose.

This sense of purpose did not erase grief, but it gave it direction.

I began volunteering more consistently to support blood cancer patients and their families. I participated in community fairs and blood cancer conferences. I advocated for policy changes for pediatric cancer patients, speaking in front of lawmakers on Capitol Hill. Standing there, sharing my father’s story, I felt my voice shake, but I did it anyway. In those moments, my pain transformed into action.

And action became another lifeline.

Last year, I found a way to merge that purpose with my scientific training and committed to breaking down the firewall around scientific knowledge. The urgency of that mission first became clear when I struggled to learn about cancer for my father, and it only grew more apparent throughout my research career. Breakthroughs happen. Data accumulates. Experts discuss findings in conferences and journals. But patients—the very people these discoveries are meant to serve—often struggle to access or understand that information.

I knew what it felt like to sit in a clinic room and try to absorb overwhelming information. I also knew how empowering it was when someone explained things clearly.

So, together with two friends who shared the same vision, I created WithinOncology, a science communication platform designed to translate complex oncology research into clear, accessible language for patients and caregivers. We discuss how cancer works, and how to prevent it. We explain current and emerging treatment options. We prioritize clarity over complexity.

WithinOncology.com was born from remembrance but built on hope.

It is my way of saying to every family who hears the words “You have cancer”: You deserve to understand what is happening. You deserve to advocate for yourself. You deserve knowledge that empowers rather than intimidates.

If you are reading this while facing your own hardest moments—during treatment, recovery, caregiving, or survivorship—please know that coping does not look the same for everyone. For me, it was knowledge. It was routine. It was solitude. Eventually, it turned into advocacy. I turned my grief into something that could help others.

Moving forward is not about leaving pain behind. It is about learning to live with it.

Knowledge helped me through. Community helped me through. Purpose helped me through.

And if you are still searching for what will get you through, keep going. This is my own unexpected story, but everyone finds their own in time. Sometimes the very thing that saves you is the thing you never expected. For me, it began with carrying the gold lantern, which did not just honor my father’s memory, but also illuminated my personal path forward.