Frances Malinis grew up knowing what cancer looked like, but not how to talk about it. Her father died from the disease — nasopharyngeal cancer, a rare type of head and neck cancer — when he was 32 years old and she was 6. His mother and grandmother had also died from cancer at young ages. “Cancer was a known part of our family’s story, but it was never openly discussed,” Malinis tells SheKnows, “as if saying it out loud might somehow bring it into the present.”
When her father was diagnosed and undergoing treatment, Malinis didn’t understand what was happening because no one had told her. She visited her dad in the hospital only twice, and she learned he’d passed when she came home to find her home being set up for the funeral, her mother inconsolable upstairs. “No one had prepared me. No one had explained what cancer was, what his treatment meant, or that he might not survive,” Malinis recalls. “The silence surrounding my dad’s illness became part of how I understood cancer growing up.”
Over three decades later, Malinis was diagnosed with stage 1B triple-negative breast cancer. At the time, her children were 7, 16, and 17 years old. While she wasn’t sure exactly how to tell her children about her diagnosis, she knew that staying silent wasn’t an option.
“As much as I wanted to protect them from the reality of my diagnosis, I also knew I didn’t want cancer to become another unspoken chapter in our family’s history. I wanted them to hear it from me. I wanted them to ask questions. I wanted them to be scared if they needed to be. Most of all, I wanted them to know that whatever lay ahead, we would face it together,” Malinis says.
So, she talked about it. When her 16-year-old, Alhyza Jayne, asked about the bandages Malinis was wearing after having her port placed, she sat down with her and told her the truth. “I remember trying so hard to maintain eye contact, but it was one of the hardest conversations I’d ever had,” Malinis says. “We both cried. There was no way we couldn’t. And I’m glad she didn’t try to hold it in. As much as I wanted to be strong for her, I also wanted her to know it was okay to be scared, to ask questions, and to feel whatever she was feeling.”
A few days later, Malinis told her 17-year-old son, Paul Ivan. That conversation wasn’t easy, either. “As I told him about my diagnosis, I could almost see the weight of the world settle onto his shoulders,” she remembers.
And although Malinis approached the conversation differently with her youngest, Mariella, who has 22q11.2 duplication, autism, intellectual and developmental disabilities, she stayed true to her instincts toward openness. Malinis wasn’t sure how much Mariella understood about cancer itself, but she saw the physical changes that came with treatment while the family worked together to keep her routines as consistent as possible. Much of Mariella’s language comes from scripting. Now, when she touches her mother’s bald head, she sometimes borrows a line from an episode of Sofia the First: “Oh no! What happened to Mama’s hair?” The two laugh together. “It doesn’t matter to Mariella whether I have hair or not,” Malinis says. “I’m still Mommy. I still get my hugs. I still get my kisses. She reminds me that sometimes children see past the diagnosis and simply see the person they love.”
Just as she’d hoped, her openness allowed her family to move forward together. Malinis went through chemotherapy, a bilateral mastectomy, immunotherapy, and — after learning she carried a BRCA2 mutation — underwent a risk-reducing hysterectomy and bilateral oophorectomy. She worked these procedures around motherhood; the day before her bilateral mastectomy, she was traveling to attend her daughter’s volleyball tournament. “We learned to fit cancer around life whenever we could, instead of letting cancer become our entire life,” she says.
After her initial treatment, she received the news she’d been praying for: No evidence of disease. But in 2025, routine surveillance imaging detected a possible recurrence. Immediately, Malinis shared the early results with her family group text. “That simple act reflected just how much our family had changed,” she says. “In 2023, I had tried to protect my children from every uncertainty. By 2025, they had become part of the journey. They were accustomed to receiving updates after my appointments, asking questions, and walking through the uncertainty alongside me instead of being shielded from it.”
Eventually, a partial lobectomy confirmed a diagnosis of metastatic breast cancer. The night before, her family had celebrated Paul Ivan’s 21st birthday. “Once again, cancer had woven itself into one of my children’s milestones. One day we were celebrating his milestone. The next, we were facing one of the hardest moments of mine,” Malinis says.
That juxtaposition stuck with Malinis and came to define her experience parenting with metastatic cancer. She wished her children could enjoy the freedom of being young adults without taking a role in caretaking or shouldering adult worries. But at the same time, by sharing with them the realities of her cancer diagnosis and treatments, she was able to see them grow in remarkable ways.
“I’ve watched them become more independent, navigate challenges on their own, support one another, and, at times, even support me. Those moments haven’t made me feel like I’ve fallen short as a mother. They’ve reminded me that they’re growing into compassionate, capable young adults,” Malinis says. “As difficult as it has been to let go of some of that control, it has also become one of the unexpected blessings of this journey. I’ve had the privilege of watching my children shine in ways I may never have seen had life unfolded exactly as I had planned.”
For example, when Alhyza Jayne decided to transfer to a college closer to home due to her diagnosis, Malinis struggled with that decision, feeling like she was responsible for her children putting their lives on hold. “Over time, though, I came to see it differently. Her decision wasn’t rooted in obligation. It was rooted in love.”
Malinis has also observed her kids become better advocates for themselves, something she believes is a direct result of her choice to involve them in her own experiences with diagnosis and treatment.
At times when Malinis’s children accompanied her to doctor’s appointments, she was reminded of bringing them to their pediatrician appointments. Back then, she noticed that when a doctor asked them a question, they’d look to her for an answer. If she mentioned a symptom they’d been complaining about all week, they’d brush it off as “no big deal.”
“Those moments taught me something I didn’t fully appreciate until much later. Self-advocacy is learned,” Malinis says. But her cancer diagnosis has given her kids ample learning opportunities. They’ve watched her ask questions, pursue second opinions, and pause before making big decisions rather than following her doctors’ recommendations without hesitation. “Today, I hope my children understand that their symptoms matter. Their questions matter. Their instincts matter.”
More than anything, Malinis hopes her children carry with them a deep and enduring faith. “I don’t want them to believe that God is a genie who grants every wish,” she says. “I want them to know a God who hears every prayer and answers according to His perfect will, trusting that His plans are greater than our own.” Faith was a significant part of Malinis’s childhood, and as an adult she deepened her understanding of God — even after her cancer diagnosis.
Cancer still weaves itself into Malinis’s family’s lives; that’s the nature of a metastatic diagnosis. “One day might be an infusion. The next might be a birthday celebration. One week might bring scan anxiety. The next might bring a family vacation.” The family takes it all day by day. “We don’t wait for life to become free of hardship before we live it,” Malinis says. “We live it even more intentionally because we know how precious it is.”
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