This Wasn’t the Plan: I Lost My Hair, Not My Fire

In part 3 of “This Wasn’t the Plan,” a young woman reflects on her father’s strength during his illness and how, after her own diagnosis, their bond became her greatest source of courage.

That day, my hair began falling out in bunches.

I looked into the mirror and said to Mumma, “Mumma, I think I’m going bald.”

She smiled gently and said, “It’s okay, we’ll shave it off.”

But I wasn’t ready. “No,” I replied, “not yet. I’ll go bald when I decide to.”

Mumma and Papa didn’t say anything. They just looked at me with quiet understanding.

The next day, I noticed strands of hair scattered across the bed. I showed Mumma again. “See, it’s falling even more now.”

“Yes,” she said softly, “this will keep happening. We’ll shave it soon.”

“Not yet,” I whispered again.

Later, I walked into the washroom, wet my hair, and began applying shampoo. As I rinsed, clumps of hair slid off my scalp and stuck to my hands.

I stepped out and looked at myself in the mirror.
The left side of my head was almost bald.
A lump formed in my throat.

“Mumma,” I called out, trying to hold back tears, “look...”

My legs gave way, and I sat down heavily.
Maybe hair really does carry some strength, I thought. Maybe it holds a part of us we don’t even notice until it's gone.

When you go bald at just 19 years old, something inside you cracks a little. And this time… I let myself cry.

Sometimes, when I sat under the Sunday sun, my exposed scalp would sting a little.
It felt like even the sunlight could now see my pain—see that my hair was gone.

One day, I passed by the mirror and stopped.
It was the first time I truly saw myself — bald, bare, real.
I stared, trying to recognize this version of me.
I wondered; If I can’t see myself the same way anymore, will others ever look at me the same again?

Then one day, one of the nurses passed by and gently smiled.
With so much love, she said,
“Hi, Sunshine! How are you?”

And in that moment… a tiny spark lit up inside me again.

That day, a little boy called me his “Superhero.”
He had no hair either.

That’s when I realized something:
Yes, I had lost my hair,
But I had gained the courage to look in the mirror again — this time, for real.

Tears welled up in my eyes, but this time, they weren’t from pain. I wasn’t scared anymore.

I wasn’t hiding behind silence or pretending everything was okay.

The bald head that once made me shrink from mirrors… now, somehow, it looked different. It wasn’t a sign of what I’d lost. It was proof of what I’d faced.

Proof that I had walked through the fire — and survived.

Maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t about hair or looks or being “normal.”

Maybe this was about something stronger — courage.

Yes, I had lost my hair. But not my fire. And I will never.

I closed my journal and took a deep breath. The hospital room was quiet except for the soft beeping of machines and the muffled voices outside. For once, that silence didn’t scare me. It felt like peace.

From the window, I could see the sun finally rising.

A new day. A new me.

My Father, My Backbone

It was about a year ago when our world quietly cracked apart. That was the day we found out both of Papa’s kidneys had failed. I remember how everything seemed to pause—our hearts, our smiles, our plans. My brother, my mother, and I, we held on to each other, and most importantly, we promised to take care of Papa, no matter what.

Back then, I was healthy. I used to go with Papa to the hospital, holding his hand, making small jokes to make him smile. We were each other’s quiet strength. But time has its own strange ways. A year later, life played a cruel joke on me. The doctors told me I had cancer. And this time, it was Papa who fell apart.

Now, things have changed. We no longer go to the hospital together. Instead, we say goodbye at the door, going our separate ways—both patients now, but in different ways.

Papa had grown weaker, more tired, but he never showed it. Even while hooked up to the dialysis machine, not once did he let the pain show on his face. But I knew. I always knew. Deep inside, he was hurting.

Yet, every single time he left for dialysis, he never forgot to gently kiss my forehead. That small gesture held more love than a thousand words ever could.

And sometimes, when I wanted to give up, I thought of him. Papa wasn’t just my father anymore—he had become my reason to fight. Because I could see the fear he tried to hide in his eyes. And I wanted to be his courage.

Papa never let me forget who I really was.

Not just a girl. Not just a sister. Not just someone fighting cancer.

To him, I was his daughter — the same little girl who had just come into his world. The one who had only recently learned to walk in front of him, holding his finger for balance. And now, that same daughter was fighting the biggest battle of her life.

But I was not fighting alone.

Papa stood with me. Every single step.

He didn’t teach me how to fear — he taught me how to fight.

Yes, I was fighting cancer. But beside me stood my hero, my guide, my strength — my Papa.

That’s why he’s the best father in the world.

He wasn’t sad because I had cancer. He was heartbroken because his daughter was hurting in front of him — and he couldn’t take that pain away.

But even then, he never let a single tear fall in front of me. Not once. All he said to me was:

“You will fight. And you will win.” That’s the kind of man my father is. That’s why…

He is my superhero. I Love u papa.

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