Reflecting on my Son's Graduation as a Previvor

Georgia Hurst is a fierce patient advocate for those with Lynch syndrome. Catch up on all of Georgia's blogs here!

Next week, I’ll sit among a sea of proud families and watch my son, Nicholas, graduate from The University of Illinois with a degree in Physics. That moment will be filled with joy, gratitude, and reflection. This milestone isn’t just about Nicholas’s accomplishments — it represents something more profound. It’s the gift of life, the privilege of being here to witness it, and the chance to celebrate a moment that could have been taken from me. For that, I am eternally grateful.

As a Lynch syndrome previvor, I live with the knowledge that my body carries a genetic mutation that significantly increases my cancer risk. The same mutation took my brother Jimmy far too soon. Jimmy didn’t see his daughter’s first steps or hear her words. He never got to witness her milestones, let alone watch her graduate from college. His life, like so many others, was stolen by colorectal cancer tied to Lynch syndrome.

That loss changed everything. It became the reason I took aggressive steps to protect my future. I underwent a prophylactic hysterectomy and oophorectomy, knowing full well the emotional and physical toll it would take. I faced surgical menopause and grieved what I lost in the name of prevention — but I did it so I could stay. So I could be here in order to witness my son grow and thrive and cross this finish line.

As I sit in the crowd at his graduation, I’ll hold two truths: deep pride for Nicholas and quiet, reverent gratitude that I lived to see this moment — a moment that so many, including my brother, never had.

Nicholas has endured a lot in his young life. He lost his father during his first year of college — a heartbreak that reshaped everything. Then, last year, he lost his beloved aunt Catherine — my best friend of thirty years and a second mother to him in every way. His grandfather faced prostate cancer three years ago and is now in remission. His grandmother is currently recovering from major pancreatic cancer surgery. Neither of them will be able to attend his graduation. It will be a painful absence — another weight on a heart already carrying too much.

And still, Nicholas never wavers. Through all the grief, uncertainty, and loss, he continues to show up. He puts one foot in front of the other and moves forward with quiet strength. He’s grown into a thoughtful, kind, and brilliant young man — and the resilience and grace he carries through it all leaves me deeply humbled.

This graduation isn’t just a personal victory for Nicholas — it’s a reminder of life’s fragility and the quiet strength it takes to keep going. As his mother and as a survivor, this moment means everything. It’s sacred.

Living as a survivor means walking a line between fear and hope, mourning what might have been while daring to dream about what still can be. It’s a constant, mostly invisible struggle. But when the reward comes — when you witness something your loved ones were denied — it’s holy ground.

As Nicholas walks across that stage, I’ll carry Jimmy with me. I think of him often, but especially now. His death was the turning point that propelled me to make difficult, life-preserving choices. I had the chance to act — he didn’t. I chose to remove healthy organs to reduce my cancer risks, all for the hope of being here — for this moment. To witness my son reach milestones my brother Jimmy never lived to see with his own child.

Nicholas’s graduation is more than a celebration of academic success. It’s a testament to love, endurance, and the fierce will to survive. It’s proof that even amid loss, resilience can flourish. Love can carry us through.

Taking preventative action — no matter how painful — made space for this moment — for life, for presence, for witnessing.

Nicholas, you did it!

You did the hard emotional labor of healing while building your future, not just the coursework. Your graduation is a beacon of light for all of us.

For your Father. For Auntie Catherine. For Uncle Jimmy. For me. But most of all, for yourself.

What an honor it is to be your Mother. What a gift.

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