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Finding Faith After a Cancer Diagnosis

I stopped talking to God during my pregnancy when I found out I had multiple myeloma. The Book of Job helped renew my connection.

by
Tiana Koppel
January 13, 2025

When I decided to become a mother, I approached it as I did most things in my life: with thorough preparation. I scheduled doctor appointments to ensure everything was normal, stopped drinking a year before trying to conceive, and ramped up an already intense workout schedule. I wanted my body to be a temple for my future children.

As a type A professional, I thought I’d have it all under control. I did not appreciate how challenging it would be or where the journey would take me, physically and mentally.

The first surprise was that I was carrying twin boys—a blessing, but also a shock my husband and I hadn’t anticipated. The second surprise during what would become a grueling pregnancy was being diagnosed with multiple myeloma, a type of blood cancer. My medical team recommended termination, but I refused. The connection I felt with my babies growing inside of me superseded anything else, including my health. I couldn’t give up on them.

As the cancer progressed, my doctors wanted me to start treatment, but I insisted only on those that wouldn’t harm the babies. This left limited options, and the cancer spread further. By the second trimester, I needed a cane to walk, and soon I was in a wheelchair. I was given morphine for the pain but stuck mostly to Tylenol, fearing the effects on the babies. Most days, I was home with my husband, and my primary goal: carrying my sons to term.

At 29 weeks, my fight reached a breaking point when a tumor the size of a grapefruit was found on my spine. If I didn’t deliver, my boys wouldn’t have a mother.

I converted to Judaism years ago, approaching the process with deep curiosity and, of course, thorough preparation. Born Catholic but raised without strong religious practice, I had always sought deeper spiritual connections. From the moment I began my conversion process, I immediately appreciated how Judaism not only welcomed my questions but encouraged them. And when I discovered the concept of tikkun olam—repairing the world—I was moved to tears. Judaism’s focus on this world and our role within it is deeply meaningful to me. I completed my conversion, and would eventually meet my future husband. Together, we blended my modern Orthodox approach with his Reconstructionist background, creating our bayit—a home infused with diverse traditions and connections to multiple communities in our neighborhood. Before my pregnancy, I felt not only confident in my relationship with G-d but also safe within it.

During my pregnancy, I had stopped talking to G-d. Twins and cancer? I was angry and felt betrayed. My husband empathized with my feelings and gave me space to process them, while gently reminding me not to lose faith—especially in my own strength to fight. Yet, I found myself searching for something, anything, that could help me make sense of it all. I picked up Life, Faith, and Cancer: Jewish Journeys Through Diagnosis, Treatment, and Recovery. In the book, I read an essay by Rabbi Douglas J. Kohn titled “Why Me?” Using the example from the Book of Job, the essay reminded me of why I had embraced Judaism and helped me realize that I might never know why this had happened to me. Some things simply have no answer.

While at times we can’t control or understand what happens to us, we can choose how to respond. And in that realization, I began to find solace, and a renewed relationship with G-d.

In many ways, my renewed relationship with G-d centers on embracing my humanity and the limitations that come with it. In the human world, things break—sometimes irreparably. My cancer diagnosis is a prime example of this. It defies logic, but it is happening nonetheless, and part of being human is reckoning with these moments of uncertainty—responding to the cards we’re dealt, even when they don’t align with the plans we imagined.

This is where my Jewish faith has guided me. Judaism doesn’t promise answers; instead, it offers a framework for living through the unknown. Accepting this has reshaped my relationship with G-d into something more honest and grounded. It has also taught me to extend that honesty to myself—acknowledging my struggles, my humanity, and the resilience it takes to keep moving forward.

My sons arrived via C-section in July, and have been thriving ever since. After delivery, however, I felt both relief and emptiness. My body was my own again, but the overwhelming “love” I’d anticipated feeling for my sons wasn’t there. I felt disconnected from them and my own life, which I hardly recognized. The cancer had spread aggressively throughout my body. One week after delivery, I began radiation and intensive infusion therapy. I couldn’t breastfeed, which, given my circumstances, didn’t bother me. I spent over a month in the hospital, receiving physical and occupational therapy to relearn basic tasks, including how to walk again.

When my sons came home after their NICU stay, things only got harder. Caring for newborn twins is challenging under any circumstances. Doing so while balancing cancer treatment, including the side effects these treatments caused, made it nearly impossible. Though I had family support, I found myself despondent, wondering why I had gone through all this. My life had imploded, leaving me with no idea of who I was or where I was headed. And somehow, I was still supposed to be a mother.

Amid this chaos, I arranged a bris for my boys, more out of duty than anything else. The rabbi asked my husband and me to prepare something we would read at the ceremony. In a rare moment of solitude, I sat down to write, though my “chemo brain” made finding the right words challenging.

Then, I remembered the Kohn essay. This time, I read the Book of Job on my own. Job is another person who reevaluated his relationship with G-d during hard times. It wasn’t until he accepted his life as it was—despite never being able to comprehend the “Why?”—that he was able to find some measure of peace again. In reading his story, I found the words I needed.

On the day of the bris, I shared my words with my sons. I didn’t hide anything—these boys have entered a world where their mother would likely be fighting cancer for the rest of her life. Multiple myeloma, while treatable, is incurable, although there is hope a cure could be at most 10 years away. In the meantime, there will be more treatments, starting with a stem cell transplant. But, G-d willing, I will be alive and able to watch my sons grow up.

In my blessing to them, I encouraged them to avoid “Why me?” questions—these are unanswerable and only deepen our suffering. Instead, I urged them to ask, “How will I respond because it is me?” At that moment, I finally answered that question for myself, accepting my life as it was. And with that acceptance, my heart opened—and I allowed myself to feel again the love for my sons that I had felt when they were inside me.

Through the ancient tradition of entering the covenant, I pray my sons contribute to tikkun olam—repairing the world—in their own special ways. They have already shown me that love doesn’t have to be immediate or perfect to be powerful, but when it’s there, it reshapes us.

Walking this path together with my sons and husband, I am learning that even amid life’s greatest hardships, we can find our deepest connections. In sharing my faith with them, I hope my sons will come to understand that our strength lies not only in love, but also in our ability to question, embrace, and ultimately, repair.

Tiana Koppel is a marketer, writer, and mother with a B.A. from Harvard, and an MFA from Columbia.