How the Light Gets In

There’s a photo I took a while back that’s stayed with me—not because it’s technically perfect, but because of what it holds.

It shows my mom and my daughter laughing together. A real laugh. One of those big, open, surprised-by-joy laughs that kids are so good at pulling out of people.

What you can’t see in the photo is how hard it was for me to take. My mom was already sick by then—undergoing chemo, dealing with a condition that had changed everything about how she moved through the world.

I was trying to be careful, respectful, aware of how vulnerable she might feel. There was an obvious elephant in the room. And also… there was this moment.

This bright, beautiful, normal moment between a grandmother and her granddaughter. A child who didn’t see “sick” or “disabled” or “decline”—just her grandma. Someone she loved making laugh.

And it shows.

It reminded me of something Leonard Cohen wrote:

“There is a crack in everything—that’s how the light gets in.”

A few months before this photo was taken, my mom was totally healthy. Active, independent, sharp as ever. The kind of person who never really sat still for long.

And then, out of nowhere, everything changed.

She was diagnosed with something called paraneoplastic syndrome—PNS for short. It’s extremely rare, and in her case, it’s linked to ovarian cancer. Basically, her immune system started attacking her brain, specifically the cerebellum, which controls balance, coordination, and speech.

By the time this photo was taken, she was undergoing chemo and already dealing with some pretty serious symptoms. She needed a walker to get around. Her hands didn’t work the way they used to. She couldn’t talk in a way that was easy to understand, and she struggled to read or do even the most basic things without help.

In just a matter of months, she’d lost her ability to walk, talk, and take care of herself.

And yet… even in the middle of all that, there was this moment. This laugh. This little burst of light that made it through the cracks of a painful situation.

What makes this photo so meaningful to me isn’t just that it shows my mom and daughter together. It’s how they’re together.

There’s no trace of judgment or pity in my daughter’s face. No awareness of what’s been lost or how much has changed. Just pure joy—because in that moment, all she saw was her grandma. Someone she loved making laugh. And that was enough.

And for my mom, who couldn’t easily speak or move or even read a book to her granddaughter anymore… to be seen like that, and to laugh like that—it was everything.

The thing about a good photo is, it doesn’t just show people looking good. It shows them being with each other. It holds the connection, the bond, the energy between them. And somehow, in this one little fraction of a second, that all came through.

That’s the thing about photos like this.

They don’t fix anything.

They don’t erase what’s hard.

But sometimes they can hold something tender and true that might’ve otherwise slipped by.

A moment that says, this is still here.

Even now.

Even like this.

I don’t share this photo because I think everyone needs to rush out and get pictures taken right this second.

I share it because this was a hard, complicated, heartbreaking time—and yet, this moment existed.

And it’s a reminder I needed.

Because sometimes, I catch myself slipping into the habit of seeing my mom as her diagnosis. Of focusing so much of my energy on researching possible treatments, scanning studies, asking AI for alternatives, trying to change the situation… that I forget she’s still here.

She’s not who she was a year ago. She can’t talk the way she used to, or move the way she used to. But she’s still her. And she’s still here.

And while I’m busy trying to fix it, my daughter—who was only two at the time—is somehow wiser than I am. She doesn’t see a diagnosis or limitations. She just sees someone she loves. And she does what kids do—she makes a silly face, or a goofy noise, or says something weird and wonderful that makes her grandma laugh.

She doesn’t overthink it. She just connects.

And maybe that’s the quiet brilliance of children—they meet people where they are. No fixing, no analyzing. Just love, and presence, and laughter in the middle of it all.

It’s a perspective I’m trying to carry with me.

With Love and Gratitude,

Corey