Becoming Me Again

“This is hard. This is scary. But you ARE strong enough to get through this.”
A friend recently asked me, “If you had to give your last years self advice, what would you tell yourself?”
That was my answer. And this is my story.

One Year Ago Today… I Was Diagnosed With Cancer

Cancer is something that happens to other people. People outside your circle. A friend of a friend’s parent or grandparent. Not your loved ones—and definitely not you.

That’s how it’s supposed to be… until it isn’t.

The Beginning

In April 2024, I turned 40. Like so many women, I scheduled my routine mammogram—just another item on the to-do list of adulthood. The results came back clear. I felt relieved, reassured. I checked the box and moved on.

But a few months later, while lying in bed one night, I reached across my chest to grab my chapstick and felt something unfamiliar—a small lump that hadn’t been there before. It was slightly painful and didn’t feel right. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

I listened to that inner voice and made an appointment.

That decision led to a whirlwind: another mammogram, an ultrasound, and then a biopsy. I looked up statistics and learned that about 80% of breast biopsies come back benign. Statistically, I had every reason to believe I’d be fine.

Cautiously optimistic, we went on with life while waiting for results. Lily and Grayson were settling into kindergarten and fourth grade. We finally had both kids in the same school and on the same schedule!

Then, on October 2, 2024, I got the call: triple-negative breast cancer (TNBC). An aggressive, fast-growing form of breast cancer that’s harder to treat—and it had been completely invisible on my mammogram. It was the self-exam and follow-up testing that caught it.

From that moment, everything changed. Life accelerated, yet somehow stood still.

Diagnosis and Treatment

The next few weeks were a blur of appointments, consultations, scans, and tests. By the end of October, I learned I had Stage 2 TNBC. It was caught early and hadn’t spread to lymph nodes or metastasized.

I began 16 rounds of chemotherapy and immunotherapy.

The treatments were grueling—physically, mentally, emotionally. The side effects—hair loss, exhaustion—were cruel. I had never realized how much of my identity and femininity I had tied to my hair until it was gone.

We made it through the holiday and birthday season, keeping things special while staying low profile to avoid germs. I was greatly immunocompromised.

After finishing my last chemo in late March 2025, I had a few weeks to regain strength before undergoing a double mastectomy with reconstruction. The surgery and recovery were far more difficult than I expected. Maybe my body was still worn down from months of chemo, but it took a heavy toll.

Holding It Together

Through it all, my mission was clear: keep life as normal as possible for the kids.

Lily had just started kindergarten and was about to turn six. Grayson was nearly ten and in fourth grade. I wanted their world to feel safe and steady—even as mine was unraveling.

I showed up for them, even when I felt like I was falling apart inside.

My husband Adam was my rock. His quiet strength and unwavering support carried me through. Our family and friends became our safety net—bringing meals, helping with the kids, sending messages of love and encouragement. I learned how powerful a community can be when you let people in.

And I cannot forget my 'front row'. These ladies were who I would text for anything and everything. From the gross stuff, scary stuff, stupid stuff and silly stuff. NOTHING was off limits and they were there for it all. Love you ladies! 

Cancer-Free

On May 21, 2025—231 days after being diagnosed—the pathology results came in: no residual carcinoma. I had a great pathological response to chemo. No cancer cells were found in the removed tissue.

I was officially cancer-free.

Survivorship

Cancer changed me.

• It changed how I see time—how precious and fleeting it is.
• It changed how I spend my energy—on what truly matters.
• It changed how I love—more openly, more fiercely, more intentionally.

It taught me that strength doesn’t always look like bravery.
Sometimes it looks like getting out of bed on a hard day.
Sometimes it looks like asking for help.
Sometimes it looks like choosing hope when fear feels easier.

To anyone walking this path—whether newly diagnosed, in treatment, or supporting someone who is—please, listen to your body. Trust your instincts. Advocate for yourself. Do your self-exams.

And know this: no matter how dark it gets, you are stronger than you think. You are not alone.

The Hardest Part

Being on the other side—the survivor side—you’d expect it to feel freeing. But in some ways, it’s harder.

During treatment, you have a guide, a schedule, a black-and-white plan. Weekly check-ins, labs, infusion nurses who know your name and ask about every symptom.

Then suddenly, you’re released. Thrown back into the real world and told to “eat healthy and exercise.”

How is that supposed to prevent recurrence? What if I had done all that before and still got cancer?

So you turn to Google or ChatGPT:
“What do I need to do to prevent cancer recurrence?”

And the results are overwhelming.

Yes, eat healthy and exercise—but also remove all toxins, eat only whole foods, reduce your BMI, minimize stress, prioritize yourself. Even starting with one of those things feels like too much.

Is what I’m doing enough? Is this the right place to start? Should I take more supplements?

There is no guide. No schedule. No black-and-white plan.

You’re just thrown back into a world that kept moving while you were on your treatment journey. People assume you’re “good” now, so you’ll be back to normal.

But what they don’t realize is that pre-diagnosis normal is gone.

You will never be your pre-cancer self exactly. Yes, parts of you will look the same—but you are not the same person anymore.

And the tricky part is… you may not know exactly who you are now.

Making Myself a Priority

It’s so hard to make yourself a priority.

It’s easier to play ostrich—ignore the twinges, the dizzy blips, the “what ifs.”
Is the cancer back?
Was that pain something new?

It’s easier to push all that away and focus on anyone and anything else.

But the real challenge is choosing to focus on me.
To take time for myself.
To prioritize my overall health.
To live in the in-between.

Moving Forward

Survivorship isn’t a finish line. It’s a new chapter—one filled with questions, growth, and rediscovery.

And while I don’t have all the answers yet, I’m showing up—day by day, moment by moment.

Because healing doesn’t mean going back.
It means moving forward, even when the path is uncertain.

And in that forward motion, I’m finding pieces of myself again.