Striving Towards Excellence

-Karthik Gurumurthy

I once read a story about a seagull named Sammy who believed you can choose how you see the ocean. You can see it as a place of plenty, or as a place where there’s never enough, and whichever you believe is what you’ll find. While other birds were frozen by fear and kept repeating stories about how there was no food, no chance, and no hope, Sammy stayed positive. He trusted there was food out there, kept searching for it, and created his own happy story.

That idea has stayed with me, because I’m facing my own ocean right now. My mom has been diagnosed with cancer. And just like Sammy, I get to choose how I see it. I choose to see it full of possibility for her.

I picture her getting stronger, one day at a time. I see her walking into each appointment with her head held high, chatting with the nurses who’ve come to know her by name, and walking out a little closer to full recovery and healing. I see her doctor looking at her test results and smiling, saying, “This is exactly what we hoped to see.” I see her treatments doing exactly what they’re meant to do, and her body responding and growing stronger each week.

I picture the small wins along the way. I see her asking for seconds of her favorite meal and actually enjoying every bite. I see her waking up rested after a full night’s sleep and saying, “I feel good today.” I see her energy coming back, first enough to sit outside in the sun, then enough to tidy up the house, then enough to do her own thing.

I see her laughing at the kitchen table over coffee, telling stories the way she always has. I see us taking walks together, short ones at first, then longer ones where she’s the one setting the pace. I see her calling friends and family with good news, getting back to the hobbies she loves, and making plans without hesitation: holidays, birthdays, trips she’s been wanting to take, and all the moments still ahead of us.

There will be people who share scary statistics and hard stories, and some days fear will try to creep in. When it does, I’ll remember Sammy and remind myself that those stories aren’t hers. Numbers don’t know my mom. They don’t know her strength, her stubbornness, her faith, or how much she’s loved. Her story is still being written, and I choose to believe it’s one of strength and recovery.

I see the day her doctor tells her she’s cancer free. I see her squeezing my hand, the relief washing over her face, and both of us crying happy tears. I see us celebrating that night, and many nights after, with the people who stood by her.

And I see life after: her checkups turning into routine visits, her worries fading, and her living fully again, stronger and wiser for what she’s been through.

So I’ll keep showing up for her, keep supporting her, and keep looking for the good in every day. Like Sammy searching the ocean, I trust there’s healing to be found, and I’ll keep holding that picture until it becomes our story.