A Letter to My Support System

Tamron Little was diagnosed with peritoneal mesothelioma in 2007 as a 21-year-old new mother. Catch up on Tamron's blogs here!

To my family, friends, prayer warriors, and the strangers who became part of my story.

There’s no easy way to say thank you for helping save someone’s life. But I’m going to try.

When I was diagnosed with peritoneal mesothelioma at 21, I didn’t have words. I had a newborn in my arms, fear in my chest, and a prognosis that said I might not live to see my baby walk. The world shifted in an instant, and everything that once felt stable — my health, my future, my peace — suddenly crumbled.

However, you stayed.

You sat with me in the waiting rooms and prayed outside the operating rooms. You held my hand when I couldn’t stop shaking. You made meals. You cleaned. You called, texted, and reminded me that I wasn’t in this fight alone. Some of you didn’t even know what to say, but you showed up anyway. That meant everything.

To my mom, who put me on her job’s prayer list before I even had the strength to ask for prayer myself, thank you. It was your faith that led me to the specialist who would ultimately save my life. A coworker overheard and pointed you in the direction of the only doctor in the area who performed the surgery I needed. That’s not coincidence. That’s community. That’s God.

To my husband, who became a full-time caregiver while learning how to be a new dad, and who married me despite the cancer, thank you. You helped me heal in more ways than medicine ever could.

To my sisters, who tag-teamed day shifts and diaper changes when I couldn’t even lift my baby, thank you. You made sure I could rest without guilt.

To my family and friends, who didn’t disappear when cancer made life unpredictable, thank you. You sent encouraging notes, checked in, and reminded me of who I was outside of this diagnosis.

And to the extended community, the survivor groups, the advocates, the people online who found my story and shared their own, thank you. You helped me turn fear into faith. You helped me realize that telling my story could help someone else feel less alone.

Organizations like The Mesothelioma Center at Asbestos.com, CURE, Survivorship Today, the Cactus Cancer Society, and the Elephants and Tea community have become part of my support system, too. They have given me space to share my story, find connections, and use my voice to advocate for others. Through writing, speaking, and simply showing up, I have found a second family of survivors who just got it.

Sometimes the support isn’t loud. It doesn’t always come with big gestures or the perfect words. Sometimes, it’s the quiet presence that wraps around you like a blanket on your coldest night. It’s the check-ins that come when you’ve run out of strength to reach out. It’s the prayers whispered when no one else sees you breaking. It’s the love that stays when everything else feels like it’s falling apart.

Support is often found in the smallest moments. Someone showing up when they didn’t have to. Someone believing in your healing when you couldn’t see it for yourself. People who refuse to let you disappear under the weight of your diagnosis. People who remind you, repeatedly, that you are not forgotten and that your life still matters.

Eighteen years have passed since the day I was diagnosed with cancer. Eighteen years since I was told I might not live to see my baby grow up. And yet, I’m still here. Still thriving. Still holding on to every word of encouragement, every act of kindness, every prayer lifted on my behalf.

I’ve lived through moments I was never supposed to see. I’ve watched my children grow. I’ve shared my story with others who felt just as lost as I once did. And I will carry each of you with me. Every friend, every family member, every advocate, every organization who stepped in and said, “You’re not alone.”

This letter could never capture it all. But I hope you know this: your love was part of the miracle. Your support helped me survive. And because of you, I get to tell the story.

Love you mean it,
Tamron

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