🎶 Long story short, it was a bad time 🎶

Receiving a cancer diagnosis is a little like getting rear ended. The impact is (usually) sudden, without warning, and forever changes the way you interpret the views both in the rearview mirror and through the windshield.

Grateful I get to make beautiful memories (through insane decisions leading to complete chaos) like this

It’s been more than a year since the notification popped up on my phone. The first business day of 2025 and we got right to business.

I still can’t believe how naïve I was in the months leading up to diagnosis. Maintaining the scans, tests, biopsies, and appointments were all a formality. Blissfully ignorant leading up to reading those words printed in black and white. Like I somehow pulled my SUV onto the Charlotte Motor Speedway in the middle of the Coca-Cola 500 and merged into traffic as though it was a normal day on a normal freeway.

The star of the chaos

The signs were there.

That first month after diagnosis was possibly the hardest phase of the whole battle. The time between learning I had malignant growth and knowing what we would do about it.

I’m in a bit of a similar place right now. I know I don’t have cancer in my body, but I’m not quite sure how to live as a person who has had cancer.

Who doesn’t have cancer. But is taking cancer medicine (oral chemo).

A person who has survived but isn’t free from risk. A person who lives with survivor’s guilt and the weight of needing to demonstrate gratitude just for the opportunity to be stuck in traffic. Who is terrified of recurrence, of making poor choices — choices which anyone else wouldn’t bat an eye at — which could result in more cancer and worse odds. A celebratory glass of wine, a slice of birthday cake — things normally associated with joy and happiness now make me sad or anxious.

A person who is scared of making all the right choices and still having to face this beast again. Of letting moments pass by too quickly, of taking moments for granted.

Of waiting for that inbox ding.

I have checked the last box in the surgery column with a successful reconstruction operation.

It should feel like the end of an era. Closing a chapter.

But yet, the inaction of it — an action not prescribed to fight cancer but rather to clean up the damage — is adding to the feelings I’m having now. Of being stuck. Hands tied. Nothing to do but wait and see what may happen.

The difference now is that the waiting is for an indefinite period of time. I could be cancer free for six months, six years, or forever. There’s no way to know for certain if or when it will come back. Or when.

People rush to congratulate me on being cancer free, on beating the disease. On putting cancer behind me. “Now you can get back to normal,” they say.

There’s no going back to “normal.”

While I appreciate the sentiment, it’s not that easy. It’s far from over.

I’m not sure it will ever be over.

I exist in fear of the unknown. But I am working to live with it.

Chemo, radiation, weekly appointments with doctors, blood draws, hair loss, fatigue — all of that may be behind me, but cancer never will be.

Cancer has altered who I am at my core. It has shaken me.

The impacts of the trauma are only now beginning to show — in me and in the kids. My strong, independent children are asking for “double snuggle time” at bedtime and won’t let me out of their site when we’re out and about.

Last night at bedtime, after the teeth brushing and story reading, I was lying in bed with Lil when she caught me completely off guard. “Mom, you know I’m really proud to have a mom who had cancer and beat it.”

Woah.

I try to demonstrate strength and leadership and general “fuck the patriarchy” values for her (and Alex) each day, but you never really know what they’re picking up on.

I know she’s happy I beat cancer, but to hear her say she’s proud …

Now I’m trying to figure out what to do with all of this. To figure out how to balance fear with caution. To live with purpose while being present. To inspire, lead, and support women going through the same thing, while doing all of those same things within my own home.

The world is dark and depressing right now. It feels silly to worry about whether or not the cancer will come back in a year or five or ever when people who look or sound a little different from me are worried about making it through the day. People who have love in their hearts are being separated from their families, from people who depend on them. Some never to return.

It all feels overwhelming and daunting and, if I’m being honest, I’m still pretty freaking tired from all my body has been through.

I have so much to figure out.

So maybe I can continue to pour my heart out to the 100 or so of you who read my words and inspire you to take action, too. To donate to worthy causes. To write to your representatives. To hold a sign in peaceful demonstration. To offer your time and support to those who need it.

To be a shoulder for someone going through an unimaginable time.

You may not be able to fix it, to solve their problems. But you may be able to make their heart feel a little better. To warm them with a moment of peace. Or love.

To cause a tiny ripple that, with any luck, will grow into a wave. And maybe all the waves we make can grow into a tsunami that can topple hate and selfishness.

All we need is love.