The Anniversary We Almost Missed: What One Year of Remission Taught Us About Celebration

You know those moments when life sneaks up on you? Yesterday was one of those days.

My husband and I walked into his oncologist's virtual office thinking it was just another routine check-up. "Congratulations," she said with a warm smile, "it's been one year since remission."

Wait. What?

We honestly didn't even realize. August 27th marked exactly one year since he was considered in remission after his first heavy dose of chemo and those intense five weeks as an inpatient last August. The four more rounds of treatment that followed until March somehow made the whole timeline feel blurry in our minds.

But here's what happened next that I definitely didn't see coming.

The Gift Drop That Became Something Bigger

I had some time in the city yesterday between work meetings, so I decided to swing by the 12th floor of MSK – the leukemia unit where he spent those five weeks last August. I'd been thinking about those nurses, doctors, and staff, wanting to bring them something as a small thank you. Nothing elaborate, just some yummy treats and a note.

The moment I walked up to the nurses' station and told them why I was there, I started crying. Completely unexpected.

Standing in that hallway again – with its familiar sounds, that particular hospital smell, the memory of so many anxious conversations – was both triggering and healing in ways I didn't anticipate.

Turns out, gratitude is one way we embrace joy on purpose, even when it comes with tears you weren't planning on.

When Kids Lead the Way to Joy

This morning brought another lesson in celebration, this time from our kids.

We've been doing these morning scoot/walk adventures to town and the waterfront all week. Each day, they'd talk about all the trash they noticed around the water. Today, they decided we should do something about it.

"Let's do a cleanup!" they announced.

So we did. All of us, scooting and walking to the waterfront with bags, picking up bottle caps and wrappers and random debris. Watching them turn concern into action, seeing how good it felt to do something meaningful together – that's another way joy shows up when you're paying attention.

Learning About Celebration in the Most Ordinary Places

365 days of figuring out that hope and treatment can coexist. That celebration doesn't wait for perfect timing or clear results to show up in your life. That sometimes the most meaningful lessons come through the most random moments.

Take our kitchen adventures this past month. We've had some memorable nights that taught us more about honoring milestones than any formal celebration could.

There was the evening our kids were bummed about missing Halloween-themed day at summer camp, so we decided to bring it home in August. Spider decorations on the dining table, "blood soup" (tomato sauce), pasta "worms," everyone eating in full costume. Magical in that way that only happens when you stop taking yourself too seriously. We laughed until our stomachs hurt, and for the first time in months, celebration felt effortless.

Then there was the Wednesday night we tried something simpler: pancakes for dinner. 

These seemingly ordinary nights reminded me of something important: we don't have to wait for perfect moments to celebrate. Sometimes we create the celebration on purpose.

The Permission We Keep Having to Give Ourselves

Here's what I've learned about milestones: cancer doesn't just steal your sense of normal – it teaches you that good news can come with fine print. Waiting for life to feel "back to normal" before celebrating is like waiting for permission that never comes.

Small, intentional moments of joy aren't frivolous. They're how we hold onto hope with both hands.

What Actually Helps: Small Ways to Create Joy on Purpose

Instead of grand gestures or formal celebrations, here's what's been working for us - and what might help you too:

Say yes before you overthink it. When someone suggests something fun, try saying yes first, figure out logistics later. I'm still working on this one, but life feels lighter when we don't bog down every spontaneous idea with planning.

Turn ordinary moments into mini-celebrations. Random Wednesday pancakes-for-dinner. Your favorite mug for morning coffee. A morning walk that becomes a town clean-up.

Move your body like you're glad to be in it. Put on one song while folding laundry. Let the kids join if they want. Three minutes of dancing counts more than you'd think.

Take purposeless walks. Five-minute gratitude walks where you notice stuff you couldn't during the hard days - how the light hits your garden, how good it feels to walk without anywhere urgent to be.

Let gratitude turn into action. Show up with treats for people who helped you, even if it makes you cry. Send texts about happy memories. Let thankfulness spill over into doing something nice for someone else.

Why Small Celebrations Actually Matter

Here's what I've figured out: choosing to celebrate the small stuff isn't about being positive all the time. It's about recognizing that we're here, we made it through something hard, and we get to feel good about that.

Every costume dinner, every kitchen dance party, every purposeless walk, every bag of treats delivered with unexpected tears, every family beach cleanup led by determined kids - it's all us saying: We're here. We're alive. And that feels pretty amazing.

Your Turn: Questions to Consider

What milestone in your life is worth celebrating, even if you almost missed recognizing it?

Who walked through your hardest season and deserves to know they made a difference?

How can you turn today into a small celebration, just because you can?

After everything we've been through – hearing "remission" while still in treatment, finishing chemo in March, and now discovering we almost missed our own anniversary – we're learning to embrace joy as a practice, not an accident. 

Yesterday marked one year of remission that we almost didn't notice. Tomorrow marks another day we get to choose small celebrations on purpose.

And honestly? That feels worth dancing about.