I am currently battling metastatic breast cancer that has spread to my bones. I had my first battle with breast cancer in 2018, which ended with chemo and surgery. I was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer in December 2024. It is a hard battle, but I continue in my faith, knowing God is with me every step of the way. I am thankful for organizations such as yours that do so much to help people like me. You give encouragement and smiles to so many who are facing tough situations. Thank you so much.

My cancer journey started in May 2021. I have to say that the Ductal Carcinoma Triple Negative Breast Cancer diagnosis, being also metastasized, changed my whole life. I was scared of the unknown, sad in the event of dying and leaving my kids without a mom, and had mixed emotions about my husband being able to handle the changes in our lives. After four Red Devil Chemotherapies, 18 "regular" ones, other injectable treatments, blood work, doctor visits, and a double mastectomy, I am still here. I can say that it has been a learning experience. I have met wonderful people during this process. I have more quality time with my kids and family. My husband is still here, supporting me all the way. It was not easy, and it is still not easy. God gave us strength, and I learned to live one day at a time. You learn to be strong when that is the only thing you can do. To all the beautiful warriors, stay positive, be strong, and never lose your faith. This shall pass. Love and hugs to you all.

My advice to anyone going through this horrible time is to know that you will overcome cancer and that you will look back and see how far you've come, even though it is hard to envision this during your diagnosis or treatments/surgeries. You are a million times stronger than cancer, and together with your army of love (God, your community of family, friends, and cancer organizations), you will overcome cancer. So even though it is scary and tough to imagine this, I can assure you that you will be so much stronger and tougher when you punch cancer in the face and reclaim your life and narrative. Don't ever underestimate your sparkle and power. You are unstoppable.

During my cancer journey, I built my community on Instagram. I made new cancer friends. I painted paintings for other cancer patients, illustrating their stories. I shared my stories and offered tips to fellow cancer patients and organizations. I wanted to build awareness for AYA cancer patients and about pinkwashing and other misconceptions. I wanted to show the world that battling cancer sucks, but the beauty of staying steadfast in our mission to overcome was more powerful than cancer. Today, I continue to help new cancer patients connect with organizations, offering my story and sharing what helped/didn't help me, and emphasizing the importance of advocating for yourself. I'm happy to help anyone going through their struggles. I still deal with side effects from my long-term post-cancer treatments, but I know I can't let that take away from my quality of life. I want to be in control and not give cancer anymore satisfaction than what it already had taken from me without my consent (my long hair, my body image, my body parts, my endurance/ energy, my loved ones, my career progression, so much more) leaving me crippled with fatigue, brain fog, chronic back pain, etc. in exchange. So, I refused to give up. Not today, cancer. Not tomorrow. Not ever.

But, on December 13, 2024, I read my own and learned one of my greatest fears had come true: I had breast cancer. In that instant, my role shifted. I was no longer the one providing support. Instead, I became the one needing support.

My clinical knowledge helped me understand the road ahead, but it also deepened my awareness of all that could go wrong. I had to learn how to carry courage and fear at the same time.

Once I began to emerge from the paralyzing shock of my diagnosis, I looked for thrivers who had gone before me. I needed to see women who also had faced a similar diagnosis but were now actively living, succeeding, and embracing life. That was what I focused on. They became a guiding light for me. If they had gotten through it, so would I.

I made a list of these women: a childhood friend, a couple of colleagues, a shop owner, a local news anchor, a favorite actress, a national news reporter, and an internationally known Christian leader. The list grew because what you focus on is easy to find.

Since that December day, I have endured two surgeries, 12 weeks of chemo and targeted therapy, and three weeks of radiation. I've dealt with the presence of a port implanted under my skin, the loss of my hair, skin changes, watery eyes, a frequent bloody nose, a puffy face for 24 hours after each infusion, trouble sleeping, and the disappointment in realizing not everyone in my closest circle had the capacity to support me in ways I needed.

As I write this, I'm approaching the one-year anniversary of my diagnosis. I continue with targeted therapy infusions every three weeks and a daily estrogen antagonist (tamoxifen). I reflect on the past year with gratefulness. It began with overwhelming fear and the facing of my own mortality. But throughout this year, I have grown in many ways. I've proven to myself I am spiritually, emotionally, and physically stronger than I'd ever realized. I've witnessed my body make a remarkable recovery from the physical changes treatment brings. I have been blessed by the goodness of others: family, friends, acquaintances, and strangers. On a deeper level, I've learned the importance of advocating for yourself.

I end this year ready and willing to step into the role of thriver. I'm grateful to now help the women who come after me, and be one who encourages them to stay strong, be patient, and appreciate the many glimpses of goodness they will see on the journey ahead.

At 32 years old, I faced cancer while living and working alone in the United States, far from my family and support system. Navigating treatment on my own was daunting. I was unfamiliar with the medical and insurance systems and often struggled to understand medical terminology. Yet, I chose to face each challenge with courage and determination. I learned to advocate for myself, ask the right questions, and stay proactive in my care, even when everything felt overwhelming. What makes my journey special is the positivity and strength I chose to hold onto through it all. Despite the fear, pain, and uncertainty, I tried to meet every day with a smile and gratitude for life's small blessings. My optimism helped me find light during challenging moments and inspired those around me, including friends, colleagues, and even healthcare providers. To me, thriving means more than surviving cancer; it means growing through it with compassion, strength, and hope. I am proud of the person I've become through this experience, a woman who continues to face life with resilience and joy.

No family history, no warning signs. I was healthy, happy, thriving... a full-time advocate for adults with mental illness, soccer mom, wife, and someone who always showed up for everyone else. Then suddenly, everything changed.

My journey took me through chemo, immunotherapy, and multiple surgeries, including a double mastectomy with reconstruction. I also made the difficult decision to remove my ovaries because of a genetic predisposition that increased my risk for both breast and ovarian cancer. None of it was easy. Some days felt impossible. But I wasn’t alone.

I was held up by a circle of family who never let me fall, support groups full of women who truly understood, and a medical team who guided me every step of the way. Cancer changed my life forever, but it also revealed a strength in me that I didn’t know existed.

To every breast cancer warrior and survivor reading this: you’ve got this. Even on the hardest days, keep going. There are people—myself included—rooting for you every step of the way.

I was on an emotional rollercoaster ride, hopeful one moment, hopeless the next, and feeling every shade of blue in between.

Sixty-nine years old, a caregiver my whole life, and I'd never been sick, let alone hospitalized. After my surgery, I was entirely dependent on friends, fellow caregivers, and neighbors. It was, and still is, a humbling experience, and I am so grateful for all their help.

Cancer knocked the strength and stamina right out of me. My muscles atrophied, and I feel ten years older. After my right breast mastectomy, I couldn't work for two months with Homecare Services. When I returned, I worked 7 hours instead of 17 per week. It's light duty for now, and it's sinking me financially.

It's a 204-mile round-trip to Aberdeen, South Dakota, for services at the Avera Cancer Institute. I've made dozens of trips since August 2024, when I had a suspicious mammogram, and wintertime is the most challenging. It's physically draining and financially taxing, especially when I pay someone to drive and/or stay overnight.

I am a survivor, not a victim. I live one day at a time, and I thank God for every moment.

But it has also taught me to appreciate each day and the small moments that often go unnoticed.

The support I’ve received fuels my desire to stand beside others on their own journeys, whether that means listening, sharing my experience, or helping them feel less alone in their fight. I hope that I inspire others diagnosed with breast cancer to know this is only part of their story and they will come out the other side different, but stronger than they will ever know.

My diagnosis: TNBC on my right breast, metastasized to my armpit, and ductal carcinoma. My life changed completely. I had no work—just days filled with chemo, treatments, and doctor visits—and COVID-19 was still prevalent. My family was my support day and night. In the end, I got a double mastectomy with lymph node removal. I woke up to a body with significant changes. I had emotional days after that, but I never let that define who I am.

I lost my medical insurance in 2023, and things continue to be tough, but I do not stop fighting. I believe every process has an expiration date, and mine will take some time.

Cancer has taught me that being strong is what I have to do, and I have learned to live one day at a time. I have met wonderful people through this journey. My family has never left me alone, and I am blessed and thankful for all of them.

I realize what a major milestone that is, and I am so thankful to be on this side of a cancer diagnosis. It’s a pretty hellacious thing to go through, and I don’t wish it on anyone.

In 2002, I found a lump in my breast. Both of my grandmothers had breast cancer, so I was doing self-checks and found the lump. I was 31, so I thought there was no way it could be cancer, so I waited a few weeks to see if it would go away. It didn’t. So I went to my doctor, who referred me to a fabulous surgeon. What followed next was a barrage of appointments and surgeries.

I began chemo in January and lost all of my hair. That’s devastating at any age! Did I mention devastating?! You don’t realize how much your hair is your identity (and how much it keeps you warm) until you lose it. I got a wig, and it was cute for a wig, but it wasn’t the same. I had chemo every 3 weeks for 6 treatments. I had the most fabulous chemo nurse, Bunny (who would eventually become a friend)! Her kindness and positivity helped me through some rough patches. I finished chemo in May.

Radiation started in the summer after waiting for the body recovery time. I got 7 small tattoos where they mark you so they know where to align the radiation machines each time. I had 35 rounds of radiation – 5 days/week for 7 weeks. The last part of my treatment was taking Tamoxifen (a hormone suppressant) for 5 years.

I met my future husband, Matt, shortly after I finished all my treatments and barely had any hair. We got married on 7/7/07. We have a son, Grayson, who I think is a miracle after I had chemo and radiation!

In the last year, I have had some scares that led to further testing which lead to further testing which led to high anxiety-filled days and lots of sleepless nights waiting for results. The results eventually came back ok (thank God!), but after consideration, family discussion, and doctor consultation, I have decided to have a preventative double mastectomy with reconstruction.

My friends had a pink Happy Hour for me before my mastectomy. Everyone dressed in pink, we had pink cocktails and pink food, and there was lots of pink decor. I felt all the feels and all the love for sure.

On the last day at work before my mastectomy, my 2nd-grade students had a big surprise for me! I was in the hallway at the start of the day, ready to greet them, when I noticed one student wore a pink shirt that said “Mrs. Parks is our hero!” and had a graphic of a redheaded superhero (I’m a redhead). Then I noticed another of my students was wearing the same shirt. And then suddenly, I realized that ALL of my students were wearing this shirt! Some of my former students stopped by that morning and were wearing the shirts, too! Of course, tears were flowing from all the love!

My double mastectomy with reconstruction was on November 30, 2023. The pathology results came back that I had cancer in situ in the breast, which I didn’t originally have cancer in. Since the cancer was encapsulated, it was non-spreading and was so small that it wouldn’t have been found for years. I, fortunately, will not have to have any further cancer treatments. I have been off work for December as I heal and recoup. I have been extremely fortunate to have recovered quickly. No doubt that a lot of my feeling good is due to the support I have received from my family, friends, and students. I have been slowly regaining my stamina so I can return to my regular routines and to work in January 2024.

I saw my primary doctor for my annual visit in June of 2024. My doctor found a mass on the left side of my throat. He immediately referred me for imaging to determine the nature of the mass. In July, I had a CT scan. The results were back in a week. My doctor reviewed them. In August, the CT scan showed I had a mass on my left thyroid of 2.6 cm. The radiologist recommended a fine-needle aspiration biopsy to see if there was anything to be concerned about. It took several weeks for the results to come back. When the results came back, I planned to see an endocrinologist to discuss what I thought were all the results, but it was only part of them, and the rest would take another few weeks to come back. Several weeks later, the last of my biopsy results came back. I was told that I had 70% cancer in my left thyroid nodule. We then began to discuss my options. The good news is that we found it early, and it is treatable.

I then scheduled an appointment with the Winship Cancer Institute for October 9, during which I was given three options. The first option was watching the mass for several months to see if it mutated. The second option was radiation to shrink the mass. The third option was surgery to remove the entire left thyroid nodule. If surgery were an option for me, she had available dates at the end of October. If I wanted to have surgery, it could be sooner rather than later. When I left the cancer center, I was devastated and couldn’t believe it. After processing that I had cancer, I immediately began to pray and refocus. It was hard, and I was confused, angry, and frustrated. I couldn’t understand why God was allowing me to go through this. I just buried my oldest son in February. I began to pray. After praying and hearing from God, I discussed the findings with my family and decided to do the surgery. It was the best option for me. I was very afraid! In my whole 39 years of living, I have never had surgery. I guess there’s a first time for everything.

The next day, I called the cancer center and told them I would like to get a thyroidectomy. I was then scheduled for a thyroidectomy on October 25. I went to pre-op on October 18, and like any procedure, they told me what could happen before, during, and after surgery. They gave me pre-op instructions. Of course, I was nervous, but I was reminded that I was blessed and would be just fine. On October 25, my family and I arrived at the cancer center at 5:00 am for the surgery. I was prepped and put to sleep, and the surgery started at 7:30 am. It lasted about 2-3 hours. When I woke up from the surgery, I was expecting not to be able to talk, but I was able to speak. I spoke with the surgeon and care team. I was given post-op instructions and my follow-up appointment. I was off work for two weeks to recover.

When I went back in two weeks, I was informed that the cancer had been eradicated entirely. The surgeon removed it all. Thank you, God! My experience wasn’t long, but it was a journey and a test of my faith. I thank God, my family, friends, and cancer organizations for their love and support during this journey.

I had been planning my routine annual mammogram, the kind you tend to postpone a few months after your last yearly check-up. To my astonishment, I received a call back informing me that the doctor had “noticed something” but couldn’t be sure due to dense breast tissue. Following an ultrasound and biopsy on June 5-6, a radiologist delivered the shocking news on June 12: I had invasive carcinoma.

Tears streaming, I crumpled to the floor. All I could think of was finding the best doctor as quickly as possible. In just three weeks, I was scheduled to participate in an Ironman 70.3 race, with a full Ironman slated for September. Physically, I felt perfectly fine. This couldn’t be happening to me, and I was not about to let it stop me.

The very next day, I found myself in Dr. Jennifer Reed’s office, blurting out my plans for the Ironman events in three weeks and September. I needed to know how long I would be sidelined. After an MRI, another ultrasound, and a genetic test, my surgery was booked for July 5, just three days after the 70.3 event. Fortunately, I was diagnosed with stage 1 breast cancer, and my genetic tests yielded positive results.

I proudly donned my Ironman finisher t-shirt and medal from the IM 70.3 Happy Valley race on the way to and from my surgery. Although it took a few weeks to recover, I resumed some light training within days, went for a run just a week later, and received clearance to swim again after two weeks. Recognizing that I had missed out on significant training weekends, I decided to switch to Ironman Arizona in November 2023. Just six weeks after my surgery, I completed a three-mile open water swim race!

Cancer has presented its challenges, and radiation has been demanding. Yet, I have been overwhelmed by the outpouring of support from family, friends, and the incredible athlete community in the 757 area. When I cross the finish line at Ironman Arizona on November 19, 2023, I will proudly do so as a cancer survivor!

I want to express my heartfelt thanks for the Smile Kit. As I write this, I’m currently undergoing radiation treatment, and your support means the world to me.

I was diagnosed with stage 3 brain cancer (anaplastic ependymoma) in August 2019 at the age of 18, on the day I was supposed to leave for college (University of North Carolina Greensboro, BFA Musical Theater). I had surgery to remove a tennis ball-sized tumor, had 33 sessions of proton radiation, and months of intensive rehabilitation. I suffered from seizures and migraines as a full-time student, but returned home due to COVID-19 and was declared cancer-free in June 2020. In January 2021, after suffering from nausea and debilitating migraines, I rescheduled a previously cancelled (due to the pandemic) MRI, where the scans showed two new tumors. Since I had radiation less than 18 months prior, my doctors recommended surgery with no post op treatments. The plan was to wait for another recurrence to give time between radiation treatments. We opted for second, third, fourth, and fifth opinions, which landed me at Duke Medical. I was able to have surgery within 17 days of relapse, and thankfully, I did because the tumors grew from the size of a small pea and blueberry to the size of two large grapes in 17 days. After surgery, I had 10 rounds of aggressive stereotactic radiosurgery as well as chemo and immunotherapy. The risky and bold treatment really knocked me out, but I believe it saved my life as well. I got my scans on January 5, 2022, one year from the day of relapse.

I am a musical theater major at UNC Greensboro. I have always been a singer, but now my voice has a purpose: advocating for pediatric cancer families through fundraising, building awareness, and educating other families on how to advocate for themselves in the medical environment. I am very active on social media to bridge the gap with my peers. I feel that the 18-24 age group is severely underrepresented in terms of resources and advocacy; therefore, I use my social media to raise awareness. I also like being a peer-to-peer mentor. I believe the best source of comfort I have found is connecting with other warriors my age, because there is an understanding like no other.

I find purpose in being able to articulate what an adolescent young adult (AYA) feels going through cancer and the treatments, and I am humbled to be a voice for those who do not want or cannot speak. By connecting with AYAs with cancer, I can share their stories, which helps with awareness, which leads to funding, which ultimately leads to a cure. I have been lucky to have a social media platform through my singing, which has given me opportunities to meet action-oriented people. I feel relatable because of my age and my vulnerability when I speak.

I am told that I have a “rare” cancer. It is not “rare” when it happens to you. We have met too many families for brain cancer to be brushed off as rare. I will fight and advocate for brain cancer for as long as I live. I keep educated about brain cancer by reading. I am active on social media, so many people share information with me as well. My mom is active on many Facebook pages for parents and caregivers, and we spend an hour every night discussing different treatment plans, options, resources, scholarships, grants, and fundraising opportunities. We also reach out to families just beginning their journey with a list of resources they should sign up for or explore. We work closely with certain local and national foundations, which share information with us that we can share as well. I am very proud of the relationships we have built, both on the teaching and learning ends. I am asked to serve on panels and boards, so before a public speaking assignment, I research the facts and ask for help where needed. I want to be credible and resourceful, so I am not afraid to ask for help or to confirm facts.

I have been so lucky to be invited to sing at cancer fundraisers across the country to share my story and talk about the lack of funding for pediatric cancer. I have been invited to sing at multiple NHL Hockey Fights Cancer nights and at a variety of fundraising galas from Utah to Washington, DC. I have also participated in many virtual fundraisers, including Hands for Holly, Cancer for College, and My Hometown Heroes. I have also helped with the Duke Children’s telethon, which raised over half a million dollars. I can say I have not done all of this on my own.

My older sister is a child life specialist at Riley Children’s in Indianapolis. My younger sister is a biomedical illustrator. I believe a prepared speaker not only knows what to say but also knows when they need help preparing. I have the full support of my sisters, my mom, and doctors and nurses. My superpower that I gained by having cancer is knowing when I cannot do something myself. I am so lucky to have my sisters in my corner. We have found how difficult it is to be a sibling of someone who has a chronic illness like cancer. When the spotlight is on the patient, a dark shadow can be cast on the siblings, and it's hard to balance.

We hope to shine a light on the need for resources and care for siblings by sharing our story. I am a dreamer. I know it takes more than a dream to find a cure. This is important enough for me to listen to others and what they have to offer. My doctors and nurses at Duke taught me that. If they hadn’t challenged what my other doctors had said, I wouldn’t be here today.

I feel that sharing my story can sometimes make people uncomfortable, and that’s okay. That’s why my family and I have started a fund called TMI, the Molly Impact, to help cancer warriors aged 18-24. We have found that this is a very underrepresented age group, too old for wishes, too young to be independent. This find is found at Stewarts Caring Place, a local cancer resource center in my hometown of Akron, Ohio. For more information, visit www.mollyoldham.com

More recently, I have been working with www.Stachestrong.Org. Colin Gerner and I met when we were both on ABC's The View. He lost his older brother, GJ, to brain cancer. He raises money and gives it directly to doctors for promising, innovative brain cancer research projects. My mom and I help with #brewstachestrong, and our efforts will benefit the researchers at Duke Medical, where my life was saved. Just this week, a $150k grant was awarded to Duke, and we are thrilled to have been part of it.

I am honored to be the BSCF Thriver of the Year. It means so much to me to be recognized as a survivor, but to be recognized as a thriver is really awe-inspiring in itself. I am also humbled that my sister nominated me. That means the world to me. We have been through this together, and I love that we can share in this honor.

Thank you so much for this opportunity to serve alongside other cancer warriors, survivors, and thrivers.

On February 16, 2018, I was diagnosed with a high-grade serous Ovarian Cancer, stage III C. Prior to my diagnosis, I had symptoms for about two years that things were not quite right, chief of which was an  irregular and heavy menstrual cycle that I kept brushing aside as “nothing.” The dialogue I kept repeating to myself was that I didn’t have time to go to the doctor for such a silly reason. I had a history of irregular periods in the past, and life is so incredibly busy—at 39, I was young and healthy with an active lifestyle—what could possibly be wrong? When I finally did make an appointment with my gynecologist, I had an ultrasound done where they discovered a mass, but I was reassured not to worry; that it could be anything—cyst, fibroids, etc. My doctor suggested that if I was done having children, a partial hysterectomy may be a good idea, and during the procedure, they would biopsy the mass, not because it looked suspicious, but because that was protocol.

I considered the doctor’s suggestion, but he didn’t seem worried, so I wasn’t worried either. Truthfully, I felt no urgency to have a hysterectomy. Because my bleeding was becoming worse and I became anemic, every loved one around me was insisting and demanding that I have the surgery. Of course, in all my stubborn glory, I still refused until one day I was quite literally brought to my knees in tears from agonizing pain. In that moment, I knew it was no longer my choice and that a higher hand was compelling me to act.

I made my appointment to have a partial hysterectomy, and the entire procedure was to take no more than a few hours, start to finish. Over eight hours later, I woke up in a recovery room where I was informed that the surgeon was forced to do a full radical hysterectomy, and the medical team called in a gynecological oncologist to remove a mass along with lymph nodes because the biopsy showed cancer. Not only was the mass cancerous, but the cancer cells had spread to other parts of my reproductive system. The words that will forever be engraved in me were those of the oncologist who removed my cancer: she explained how lucky I was and that if I had waited any longer to remove the mass, I likely “wouldn’t have made it and that this story would have a very different ending.”

It was a severe and shocking wake-up call. How could I have been so careless and irresponsible? Cancer doesn’t discriminate against age, race, culture … Of course, in hindsight, I realized how serious my symptoms actually were, and it is a miracle that I was given this second chance. Nothing in this world is more important than health, or can compensate for poor health, and I can’t emphasize enough how important it is to listen to your body, even if you think it’s nothing: make the appointment, see your doctor, and verify that it is truly nothing.

I am in my third year of remission. I am completely healthy, and I am grateful, beyond measure, for the extra time I’ve been gifted to be with my family, to watch my two young girls grow, and to savor every wonderful and incredible moment that this life has to offer.

God put people on my path everywhere I went on this journey, to show me that He had His hands and eyes on me. Because I was visibly ill, random people would approach me ALL the time—grocery stores, malls, restaurants, the nurses and doctors themselves—and they would ask to pray with me and over me. It was a constant reminder that God’s grace was everywhere and that He was present in every detail of this journey. Because of that gentle reminder, I knew I would be just fine, and it gave me the strength to bear the burden.

My diagnosis came as a shock. I was 37, overall healthy, and active. I am a busy mom with 7 children, working full-time, and cancer was nowhere on my radar. I have no family history, and I am too young… right?!

One morning, like normal, I was taking a shower, and something felt off. My doctor was able to get me in the same day, and I was able to go from finding a lump to a diagnosis in just a week. Talk about a whirlwind, I was diagnosed on February 25, 2020, with triple-negative breast cancer. This type of cancer is rare and aggressive, so the treatment would have to be aggressive, too.

In March, I started with 16 rounds of chemotherapy using four different medications. That was a grueling twenty weeks. I had a partial mastectomy in September, which removed the remainder of the tumor. Once I was healed enough, I started six weeks of daily radiation. I was so thankful to be done with this treatment just in time for Thanksgiving.

I was supposed to start my next treatment in December, but I got COVID-19 during Chanukkah. I had to undergo five COVID-19 tests over twenty days to get my two negative tests, which my Oncologist requested, prior to getting the green light to start oral chemo. After a month’s delay, I was able to start my first cycle of Xeloda, an oral chemotherapy, which is used in some triple-negative patients who still have residual tumor after surgery, per the pathology.

This regimen is eight cycles total; the medication is in pill form, and I take it two times a day for 14 days, then I have seven days to recover. I will be on this treatment until July. My hope is that after the eight cycles are completed, so will be my active treatment, and I will be able to be in maintenance mode for life.

Nothing truly prepares you for the effects that cancer has on you, your body, caregivers, friends, and even co-workers. After much research, googling, and chatting with survivors, which I did the month before treatment started, I still was not prepared.

Let me share with you what helped me cope and deal with the repercussions cancer has on your entire world. From one cancer patient to another – control your control-ables. We cannot control whether we have cancer, what medications or chemotherapy we may need, or even the side effects they may cause. However, we can control our reactions. We can control our mindsets, what we eat, and our motivations. We cannot control the sunshine or the rain, but we can control the weather of our mind.

What does this mean to me? This means that I choose not to dwell in the anger, sadness, or fear that comes with this diagnosis. Sure, I’ve had all those emotions (and more), especially with the initial shock. I process them, though, and do not suppress them. I ask myself questions, like “Why am I feeling this way?” I try to get to the root of it. With this activity, I start to feel more clarity about my feelings. With clarity comes relief. Your feelings, whatever they may be, are valid. You have every right to feel whatever you want or need. I tell my friends who may be experiencing a hard trial in their life to feel free to visit the dark place. It’s easy for depressive thoughts to creep in, but you cannot live there. Adulting is hard!

Treat each day as a new gift. It is called the present after all. Embrace the everyday moments. Before cancer, cooking dinner for my large family felt like a chore. Now, the days I feel well enough to do it, I rejoice. I do not have to cook dinner. My husband does a fine job of that, but I get to cook dinner! Take-out is great, but I find joy in feeding my family’s belly while feeding their minds at the table.

Friend, whatever you are going through right now is temporary. Grab hold of your mindset and know that you are the keeper of your joy, no one else. The choice to keep it is yours.

In August, a complete hysterectomy was performed, after which I began the long road of recovery. Both my ob/gyn and my oncologist made recovery sound like it would be a “piece of cake.” However, in my experience, the physical recovery was, and still is, anything but a “piece of cake.” And perhaps worse, has been the mental/emotional trauma that occurred, to which no one even alluded.

Realizing I needed to talk to someone, I searched the internet for support groups in my area. The only ones I found were for women receiving radiation and chemotherapy. I was blessed not to have radiation or chemotherapy, but that fact only heaped guilt upon my already fragile emotional state. Even television programs were upsetting because of the frequent cancer commercials.

My next step was to contact people I knew who had battled cancer and ask to speak to them, but that didn’t work out very well. I couldn’t even talk to my husband about what I was experiencing because nothing seemed to make any sense. I began a downward spiral that caused my oncologist to suggest antidepressant medication, which I refused.

I’m an extrovert who was already feeling the negative effects of pandemic isolation when cancer reared its ugly head and feelings I didn’t understand seemed to take over. I felt like I had been abandoned on an island with no life-lines. I had shut down mentally and emotionally. I used every bit of strength I could muster just to get through each day. I felt as though I was barely existing.

Then my SMILE bag arrived.

The mailman brought it to my door and handed it to me. I didn’t know what it was, but I was hesitant after seeing “cancer” in the return address. Upon opening the package, I was greeted by a bright green fabric bag printed with a big smile. I opened the bag and began pulling out its contents. There was a pack of brand-new colored pencils and a coloring book with a note of encouragement stuck on its cover. “How did the sender know that I like to color?” Next was a pocket-sized package of tissues, encased in a brightly colored handmade cloth cover, with a note tucked inside about how it was okay to cry. “How did the sender know that I always carry a package of tissues in my pocket or purse?” At this point, I took out one of those tissues and used it! The next items to tumble out were several beautiful handmade greeting cards. At first, I admired the outsides, assuming they were blank inside. However, upon opening each one, I found more notes of encouragement. “How did the sender know I cherish cards, especially those that are hand-made?” Another tissue was needed. And so it went. More items. More encouragement. A card telling me about the organization that put the bags together, an invitation to visit their website, an invitation to join their private Facebook group, and a note identifying the person who asked them to send me the bag.

I wish I could adequately explain what happened to me during that half-hour I sat at the table with my SMILE bag, but words fail me. Because of that bag, I no longer felt alone. Reading some of the stories on the BSNCF website and Facebook pages gave me some of the words I needed to communicate my experience. I felt encouraged to get up and start seeking help again. And I’m encouraged to share my story.

Three simple words impossible to say. I deviate a little from my normal parenting blog. I am used to naming a challenge, looking back, and giving the one-liner solution, hopefully helping my readers. This time, no solution. For me, it just happened. In February, I took an amazing anniversary trip to Hawaii. In March, I found a lump in my breast. Two weeks later, it was diagnosed as cancer, and five days ago (in April), I had surgery to remove it and the adjacent lymph nodes. Just like that. So, now I’m taking the time to reflect on what is going on in my mind, right now.

Three simple words and everything changed.

Mostly, the conversations in my head changed. The one thing that has struck me so far is that I cannot say the words out loud and finish; I choke up. And then the next thing out of my mouth is to reassure everyone so they are not upset. What is that all about? So, mostly I write the words. To let my close friends know, I texted, giving them the facts of the situation. I emailed those whom I hadn’t seen in a while. Fortunately, most of my immediate family was with me when I found out.

I first had an aspiration biopsy and actually went by myself, thinking I was just going to talk with the surgeon. I had to pick up my daughter’s friend at the airport right after, so that took my mind off that. I had prior plans for that week, and cancer was not in them. So, when the doctor called me with the results, the girls and I were actually out shopping. Fits, doesn’t it?

Could I shop for a new body?

I went outside to take the call, but when I came back in, only an expression on my face told them. Fortunately, the doctor had said, “We are not going to take your breast off for this, so you are looking at a lumpectomy. Can you come by in the morning and bring someone with you?” So, that was a reassurance I could give the girls. Then, silence. One of the most touching moments of the whole experience was when one of the girls immediately looked at me and said, “I think you need a hug! Let me give you a hug.” Man, that was the truth. Out of the mouth of babes. Well, 27 years old.

And so my story starts. And it is a parenting story because it affects my daughters, my living aunts, and my cousins. We are all connected. Our DNA might be affected. If nothing else, we now have breast cancer in our family. I’m sorry for that. I told my friends, but for some reason, I wanted to keep it private. I don’t know why; maybe I was getting used to the idea myself. My sister-in-law was the perfect person to take to the surgical consult. She typed up four written pages of what the doctor said! I call her my doctor sidekick. My brother and I went over the course of illness and treatment choices for our parents, one who died of lung cancer, the other ovarian cancer. We went over all the reasons that they chose the treatments they did. And, of course, my husband and I went over all the scenarios, good to bad, and I was reassured that he had my back, whatever treatments I chose.

Other than that, I went directly to three women that I knew had recently experienced breast cancer. I wanted to hear their stories firsthand. What stages they had, why they chose the treatments they did, what physically happened with their bodies after each treatment, and what they would do differently. (Nothing—everyone is doing the best they can.) I didn’t want to hear second-hand or third-party information. I learned all I needed to know from those three women and my doctors. I don’t want to hear a million stories, and sadly, there are millions! I don’t want to be a breast cancer expert. I just want to get through it myself.

So, now I am on social media. My surgery is complete, and preliminary results show no lymph node involvement, which is a breather. Whew! I’m recovering. Good thing I am a pro at surgery. I didn’t have any anxiety over that. I was just dreading it. I still have radiation ahead of me and have to see an oncologist.

The things that have impressed me so far are the considerate care everyone has given me. People who don’t even know me. I am new to my area and don’t have many connections. Yet, I feel like I landed in the right place at the right time. I also cannot believe the sheer number of breast cancer cases, and especially heartbreaking are the young girls I’ve met. What a horrible burden to place on a young person. It’s an epidemic. And the one thing I cannot shake is what if the cancer had been worse? What if it had been one of the bad kinds? Having to hear that news and live under that for the rest of your life is something that only they can speak to. I cannot imagine.

For now, I am, of course, very hopeful. I still have decisions to make, and with cancer, everything seems so magnified. I am happy with my progress over the past month. (I know in five years that will sound silly.) I hope beyond hope that we can find what is causing all these cancers and stop it!

Next week, five more women will walk into my surgeon’s office and have to come out saying, if only to themselves, “I have cancer.”

Afterword

After a successful lumpectomy with clear margins and no cancer in lymph nodes, I reluctantly went on to do 30 radiation treatments. I met with an oncologist but decided against taking Arimidex. I just did not feel the need. I was on hormones prior to the lump, and I feel like that was the cause of the excess estrogen. I also have arthritis and did not want to do anything to aggravate my joints.

My affected breast has shrunk so much that I am a candidate for breast reduction of the healthy breast, but to date, I still have not had that surgery.

The one piece of advice I would give to every woman is to check your breasts all the time, and never wait to go to the doctor. Never let the doctor tell you to just “wait and see.” Go to another doctor. I found a lump at age 25 (benign) and one at 40 (also benign, although the doctor thought it was cancer before removing it), and then a cancerous one at 60. It seems to me the worst cases I hear of are the ones where the doctors waited so long before getting the lump out. If you have a lump, get it out!

My dermatologist told me in 2014 that my medical file was way too thick for someone my age, which was a sobering message to hear. I’ve had procedures that have successfully removed basal cell carcinoma, squamous cell carcinomas, and melanoma. Skin cancer is quite treatable when caught early.

I grew up swimming and playing in the water every day in the summer. As a teenager, I was a lifeguard and didn’t always follow my dad’s advice to reapply sunscreen often. I also have blue eyes, freckles, and fair skin, which makes me more prone to burn. Being tan seemed more attractive than taking care of my skin until I had my first skin cancer at age 34. Hindsight is 20-20, they say!

I’m too young to have breast cancer—it must be a mistake. That’s what I told myself through all the scans and procedures, all the doctor’s visits and second opinions, and all the research and reflection. Unfortunately, at 38 years old, I was diagnosed with widespread DCIS in my right breast, and there was no denying it. A lumpectomy was not going to get it all, so I braced myself for a right breast mastectomy. Of course, the surgeon would also remove a few lymph nodes to determine whether the cancer had spread to other parts of my body, which was probably even more concerning. This could not have come at a worse time, either. I was just getting back on my feet after losing my job, moving across the country, and filing for divorce. With all of these issues swirling around in my head, I (being me) chose to distract myself with the most ridiculous of obsessions—the possibility of losing my hair during chemotherapy.

The preliminary trip to the oncologist was no picnic. We talked about chemo and a five-year course of Tamoxifen following treatment, and the side effects were really disappointing. It’s not enough to lose my breast, now I may potentially lose my hair and experience menopausal symptoms too? I was not interested in hearing any of this, and then it also dawned on me that when my hair grew back after chemo, it would probably be dark. “Oh no!”, I thought . . . “The world will realize I’m not a real blond!” Yes, faced with the possibility of cancer that had spread throughout my body, I chose to obsess about my appearance. I was newly divorced and starting to think about dating again. What a nightmare! Not only did I know this should be the least of my concerns, but I felt shame for focusing on something so superficial. Thankfully, I reached out to a local support group, where I spoke with other women who shared similar feelings during their experiences, and it brought me great comfort. This is also how I learned about the “cold cap,” a new technology developed to help women keep their hair after chemo. Armed with this information and the support of survivors, I was ready to face whatever happened during the course of treatment.

I’m pleased to report that the surgery successfully removed my cancer, and my lymph nodes showed no sign of disease. My surgeon was also able to save my nipple, so it was the best of all outcomes. Afterward, I vowed to share my story someday and let other women know it’s okay to be concerned about your appearance during and after treatment. I also want survivors to join me, other women, and use this precious second chance to maintain a healthy lifestyle through diet and exercise. With age 45 approaching, I’m doubling down on exercise to prove I can be better than ever after beating cancer. I am so pleased to support BSNCF, and I appreciate their commitment to patients and survivors.

I am Jacky, and I am a mom of two, and I had my left leg amputated due to cancer (sarcoma) in 2001. I was living in the Netherlands at the time, had a fantastic career, and had my whole life ahead of me. I discovered a lump in my lower leg and had it removed. I wasn’t expecting anything from it. I honestly thought my life was over when I was told that I not only had cancer but that I had to have my leg amputated. I was determined not to be defeated, so I worked really hard to get my life back. I was playing squash within six weeks.

I decided to take up running in 2016 to encourage others to do the same. I have run many races over the last two years, including the Chicago Marathon. Currently, I am training for Boston in April, and after that, I will take on my first 40 Mile Race. The plan is to run a 100 Mile race in 2019. I do need to work 200% harder than any able-bodied runner to achieve my goal, but I’m willing to do that! Hopefully, I will inspire others to enjoy the lives they have.

One of my favorite memories as a child was traveling from New York to the Dominican Republic every summer to stay with my Aunt Christina. Aunt Christina took great care of me, and thanks to her, I have many joyful childhood memories. Unfortunately, she passed away due to ovarian cancer. Her final wish was to see me one more time. So at age six, my mother sent me to her. A few days after my arrival, my aunt passed away. That was the hardest day of my life. I hated cancer. I feared cancer. Cancer meant death to me. It took away a very important person in my life. After that, I did my best to stay healthy to try to prevent any disease. I also checked my body regularly to see if anything seemed odd.

In January 2016, I felt a lump in my breast. I quickly made an appointment to get it checked, and an ultrasound was performed. According to the doctor, it was just a cyst. A month later, the cyst felt larger, so I went to get it checked again, and the doctor told me not to worry. I was not pleased with this lump growing in my breast, so I went for a second opinion. It was now the end of May. When I arrived, a doctor felt the lump and quickly ordered an ultrasound, then a biopsy on the lump and on a lymph node under my arm. Finally, a mammogram was performed. All these tests were unexpected since I thought the appointment was only for a consultation.

On June 2, 2016, while my students were in music class, my phone rang. It was the doctor with the results. He told me that I had breast cancer and that it had spread to my lymph node. He gave me an oncologist appointment. I said, “Thank you,” hung up, and sat with a blank stare until it was time to pick up my students from music.

The days after that phone call were filled with tears, wonders, anxiety, and worries. Finally, the day to meet my oncologist arrived. She told me that I had Triple Negative Breast Cancer, one of the most aggressive types of breast cancer. I remember telling the oncologist, “Aggressive, okay, this cancer must not know that I am more aggressive than it.” I was done fearing cancer. The oncologist told me the treatment plan, and I said, “Bring it.”

During treatment, I was on an alkaline diet, and I tried my best to be active. I maintained a positive attitude and had the best support system. My family took turns to help my husband take care of me. My loved ones were my troops, and I was the leader in this battle. I fought the disease, not wanting to pass away like my aunt. I could not leave my young daughters, as my aunt had left me due to this disease. Cancer did not have a chance. This 34-year-old is not done living. I faced my 16 rounds of chemotherapy, double mastectomy, and 30 rounds of radiation with triumph. I’m happy to say I am cancer-free.

To fight, you need to be strong. I got my strength from my great support team. It’s hard to face cancer alone. My supporters were family, friends, and kind strangers. Before cancer, I was a very private person. I did not have any social media. All that changed when I felt I needed to find other survivors. I created an Instagram page. To my surprise, my journey has helped and continues to help many fighters. They have helped me as well. I encourage fighters to share their stories. Finally, I advise them not to let this disease stop them from accomplishing goals, whether it is getting up from bed to make a meal or completing a marathon.

One of my goals during treatment was to complete a marathon. The feeling I got after completion was very beneficial during the fighting journey. It gave me one more motivation to beat cancer. If I could finish a marathon on chemo, imagine what I could do when I recover. I plan to thrive at anything I attempt. As part of my remission workouts, I run with my oldest daughter. I am training her in hopes that she makes the school track team. I also love being around positive people who want to thrive. For this reason, I am very excited to be part of the BSNCF. This foundation has shown me nothing but love and is a great place to go to when you're thinking about thriving.

On January 23, 2014, I had a routine mammogram. I had not scheduled a 3D mammogram prior to my appointment, and frankly, had no idea what they were. When I arrived to check in, the receptionist asked for the usual identification, and then asked the question that would forever alter my life… “Do you want a 3D mammogram today? It is a $50 copay if you do.” I thought about it for a moment, then answered, “Yes.” Little did I know the weight that “yes” would carry. I went on to tell the receptionist that I often get reports of dense breast tissue, so yes, I’d like to go ahead and do it. I learned that the 3D mammogram is more sensitive than the standard machines and is particularly good for those with dense breast tissue. However, the 3D machine is not any gentler on your breasts. So they got squashed against those cold plates while I followed the instructions to hold my breath, breathe, hold my breath again, and whatever you do…don’t move. It only took a few minutes, and I was sent on my way. A few days later, I had my annual exam with my gynecologist. During the visit, she did the routine breast examination (which I am embarrassed to say I never did on myself). After completion, I thought I was in the clear for another year. Little did I know that she had just examined the spot where a tumor was growing, but was not felt by touch at this point.

That night, I received a phone call from the Breast Care Center. “There is something suspicious on the mammogram,” they said. “You need to come back.” I was scheduled for an appointment nine days later. While I waited for that appointment, I asked friends and family if they’d ever been called back. “I’m sure it’s nothing” was the comforting response I received from many.

February 5 arrived, and as I checked into the Breast Care Center that day, things were hopping. Our area had just experienced significant snowfall. If you have ever been in the south for a snowstorm, you know just how inept we are at dealing with it! As I waited for my turn, I overheard the receptionist ask the 3D question again to another patient. This time, she followed up by saying it would be a two-hour wait for the machine. Two hours, I thought, who has two hours to wait for that machine? If that had been the case on January 23, I would have said “no,” and everything would have changed. Finally, it was my turn, and this time they focused the images on the right breast—the suspicious one. They made me wait while they read the results, and then took me for an ultrasound. It was there that I remember the doctor saying they had found an area of concern with starburst edges. Starburst edges…those two words made my heart sink. They sent me to another room to meet with a nurse and find a breast cancer specialist for a biopsy. I looked at the wall of pictures and bios of doctors and picked one at random. An appointment was made for the next day. I left the center with tears in my eyes and my voice barely a whisper, telling my friend who had brought me what they had found.

On February 6, I met with the breast cancer surgeon, who performed the biopsy of the tumor. As I lay on the table, watching the monitor, she told me that I had a 5% chance of this not being cancer. I was sent home again and told to return on February 7 for the results. That night, I knew…I knew that I would be officially diagnosed with breast cancer. And that’s what happened. I was diagnosed with Stage 1 invasive ductal carcinoma at 44 years of age. The next few weeks were a roller coaster of appointments for BRACA testing (which was negative), an MRI, which revealed other suspicious areas on the left breast, more biopsies, which turned out to be negative, and a switch to a new breast cancer surgeon that a friend recommended. Dr. Reed, my new doctor, is a godsend. She answered all my questions and treated me like a friend.

Saying “yes” to 3D that day back in January allowed me to have more choices in my treatment, catching the cancer at a very early stage. Saying “yes” caught the cancer before it spread to my lymph nodes. I chose to have a lumpectomy (three actually, because they could not get clear margins the first two tries), and my tumor tested low in the Oncotype DX testing—the test which dictates whether chemotherapy will be part of treatment. I am so grateful that I was able to miss chemo. I completed my treatment with 33 rounds of radiation (aka baking the brownies).

I am so blessed that we have an incredible cancer center here in town, and that my scheduled appointment was right after my (now) good friend, Joy’s appointment. Every day for six weeks, I sat in the waiting room laughing until I was crying with Joy. A few weeks into treatment, Linda joined us in the cancer center. I actually looked forward to the appointments, as we would joke and laugh each day. The staff says it hasn’t been the same since the three of us finished. “Big Momma” (the name taped to the radiation machine) zapped us over and over, burning our skin, but sharing that experience with those ladies was priceless. At the end of the six weeks, I met my oncologist and started Tamoxifen, the only drug available to me because I am premenopausal.

Tamoxifen has not been my friend, causing joint pain, weight gain, significant bruising, and other side effects. I know all of these things are bearable if it means that my chance of recurrence stays low. That is my main focus now – keeping my recurrence rate as low as possible, and also spreading the word to “Go 3D or go home” to anyone who will listen. I am so thankful that we live in an age where this technology is available. I wouldn’t want to think what my situation would have been had it not been.

I was a 35-year-old wife and mother of a 2-year-old daughter, who had just embarked upon a new career path by beginning Aesthetics school, when my symptoms began.

Six months later, after many diagnostic tests, I was told over the phone that I had cervical cancer. I was at home with my daughter that day, and my husband was at work. It was absolutely devastating news and shook me to the core.

First, I called my husband, then my mom, and finally, I just cried until there were no more tears left. My first thoughts were that my daughter would grow up without a mother, my husband would have to raise our daughter alone, and that I would never be able to have more children.

I was so angry with that first doctor for delivering such life-changing news over the phone. Thankfully, my mom was both a cancer survivor and a radiation oncology nurse. She introduced me to three absolutely incredible doctors who helped me in my journey to beat cancer.

I had radiation and chemotherapy concurrently and then a radical hysterectomy several months later. I devoted six months of my life to fighting cancer so that I could be the wife, mother, and Aesthetician I had dreamed of being.

The radiation, chemo, surgery, and, probably most importantly, my positive attitude, helped me beat that nasty cancer!

Born in the mid-60s, I was diagnosed in 2007, and I am still thriving in the mid-2020s! I am the only daughter of a smart, successful Greek mother and a deceased, warm-hearted, and funny USCG veteran Italian-American father; sibling to a bestie older sister and a tough and tender older brother. I am the wife of an imported Scotsman, via romance in the Eternal City of Rome. And, I am mama to two grown daughters who mean the world to me, one studious and witty, and the other creative and bright.

Despite being on a wellness journey most of my life, thanks to my mother’s nutrition revolution away from processed foods and back to her Mediterranean roots when I was 12, I have always struggled with my health—allergies, repeated illnesses, dietary challenges, etc. Shockingly, at the age of 39, I suffered a mild stroke related to a yet-to-be-discovered congenital heart defect. Interestingly, the defect’s risks were most likely exacerbated by a potentially higher level of clotting factor in my blood due to cancer growing unbeknownst to me until two years later, when I was diagnosed with triple-negative breast cancer at the age of 41.

Devastated is the word that comes to mind. Heartbroken for my girls and my husband, for the future we might not have together. However, I’m not one to wring my hands and do nothing in the face of a crisis or a setback, a lesson I learned after facing other health and life challenges. I sought to learn everything I could about breast cancer and my possible options. I would have preferred to follow a natural protocol. Still, back then, studies were vague and expensive. There were too many to determine which would be most likely to work, so I opted not to go bankrupt or displace my family without any guarantee of success. Instead, I followed the standards of care covered by insurance and recommended by multiple doctors: lumpectomy, 16 weeks of dose-dense chemo, and 33 radiation treatments over nine months. As I write this, it’s hard to believe that all this really happened so long ago, at a time when I wasn’t sure I’d live past the two-year survivor re-occurrence mark for TNBC patients. I won’t bore you with all the treatment ups and downs, as each of us has our unique experiences of all the glorious and gory forms of torture we endure in the name of saving our lives.

My desire is to share with you something much more important—HOPE. I realized during my “studies” at the time that more and more patients were LIVING with cancer, THRIVING with cancer, and not just surviving cancer. Thanks to refinements in diagnoses and treatments, cancer, for many, has become more of a managed chronic illness, not a death sentence. Those tragic outcomes still exist, but thankfully, not as many as before. I don’t know why I was spared; maybe God’s not done with me yet, as I am far from perfect. I know I have so much to pay forward through my story and my professional mission to “unleash your (mind & body) potential holistically.”

So, what is life like THRIVING through cancer? Whatever YOU make of it. For me, it was embracing a new normal and, over time, for better or worse, resuming some of the old normal. Some people experience an epiphany; others carry their journey on their sleeve, and still others get on with their lives as if almost nothing happened. There is no right or wrong way; there is only YOUR way to push forward toward the goal of THRIVING. For me, surviving sounds so basic, whereas thriving sounds so bountiful.

Survive Definition: continue to live or exist, especially in spite of danger or hardship.

Thrive Definition: to flourish or grow vigorously, and it can be applied to something like a business, or someone’s actual health. It’s a choice, no matter how many days are ahead; let’s make them abundant, flourishing, vigorous, and filled with HOPE.

In May of 2014, at age 40, I decided to visit my dermatologist to discuss Botox. Not being a fan of needles, I wanted to first meet with him to discuss how the process of getting Botox works and pricing. After doing just that, he then suggested that I get a routine skin check. It was during this check that he found a questionable mole that resulted in a stage 0 melanoma diagnosis on my back.

I was in complete shock, then had to come to terms with changing my life to adopt a healthier approach to being in the sun. Now, I am very strict with myself when applying sunscreen. It’s definitely not always convenient to be the one sitting in the shade when everyone else is enjoying the sun, but my health is my biggest concern, and the sacrifice is well worth it.

I am happy to say that as of six months ago, I am five years cancer-free! I never did get that Botox, maybe someday!

Not surprisingly, being diagnosed with an aggressive breast cancer at age 35 turned my world upside down. What is surprising is that cancer led me to running. I have always been an active person, but running had never been part of it. In fact, I despised running, even a lap around the block. About a year after chemo finished, another survivor who was running half marathons inspired me. My mind said I could not do it. I’d never been a “good” runner; I had two small children, I had been through four surgeries, had mild lymphedema in my arm, and the list went on and on. But if another survivor could do it, could I? I started with “mindfulness” walks, taking in the beauty of the trees, the warm sun, the breeze, and my healthy body. I practiced thinking of my body as capable, as healthy, as strong. When your body has let you down by growing cancer at a young age with no family history, some effort is required to trust it again.

I dusted off my old iPod, downloaded Top 40 music, and set out to run/walk a mile. Each time out, I aimed to run more than I walked. I signed up for my first 5K. Doing that race with other survivors helped me to, again, conquer my fears. If they could do this hard thing, so could I. After a few 5Ks, I needed a goal, a tangible goal that would be a real “F-you” to my body. I almost felt as if I was telling my body, “I told you so!” I signed up for a half-marathon. My mother stared at me with wide eyes when I told her because everyone knew how much I hated running!

The training was hard. Finding the time to dedicate to long runs when I’m usually focused on my kids all day, every day, was challenging. I had to force myself to carve out “me” time and know that I was doing this both for my mind and my body. Race day came, and the conditions were terrible. Blustery, constant winds, 40-degree weather, and hard driving rain. I wanted to cry. This was not the moment I had pictured during my three months of training. My race time was not what I trained for, but (oh, my!) crossing that finish line felt amazing! The race was exactly three years after my bilateral mastectomy. I could not believe how different my life was three years later. I did this hard thing, this thing that I never would have attempted pre-cancer.

A few months later, my mom-friends and I formed a Ragnar team. Ragnar races are relays of 12 runners that occur over 36 hours. They require riding around in a van with six friends and each of you running three legs of the race for a collective total of 200+ miles…on no sleep. Again, pre-cancer Emily would have said that Ragnarians are “true” runners, and I would be crazy to try something like that. My first leg was in the dark at 5:45 am and started with two miles uphill before leveling off for an additional 4.5 miles. As I was trudging up that Maryland mountain in the dark, I felt strong. Not fast, but strong. I pulled out my cell phone to text my team. This is what I sent: “This is exhilarating!” Two more runs, quick naps, and lots of van time later, our team ran together across the finish line in Washington, DC. Another physical accomplishment done! Each new experience has helped me push cancer further and further into my rearview mirror.

Sometimes the fear of recurrence creeps in. The “what ifs.” When this happens, I take it as a sign that I need to really live my life because… “what if.” I encourage my body to overcome my mind. My brain is saying I’m scared. My body is saying it’s hard. I just do it anyway.

It was October, and I was enjoying a girls’ weekend in Virginia Beach. We were staying at the Oceanfront. I forgot that I had signed up my family for the Susan G. Komen 5K that same weekend. I had just finished running my first-ever half-marathon. I fell in love with running and had already signed up for the Disney half-marathon in January, so this 5K was right in line with my training plan. I was going to have to convince the girls to participate, too.

I mentioned it, and they were all for it! Then we heard Kelly crying in the bathroom. Her mom had died of breast cancer. We all hugged. We ran or walked that day in memory of her mother.

We finished the race, said hello to my family, and started running back toward our hotel. It was windy and so cold. My friend Cip hollered out, “Hey! Come feel this boob!” After pretty much every man at the beach whipped their head around. I walked over to Cip and saw there was a breast exam display. The gal showed us how to properly do a breast exam. We were all surprised at how hard you actually had to press to find the lump. Good stuff! It’s Bloody Mary and Mimosa time!

Fast forward to June. In my shower, as I did my breast self-exam with the card reminder I got from the race, I felt it. Hmmm. I thought it must be a pimple.

But I knew it was not.

Two days later, I was driving down the street past the OB and made an appointment for the following week, the day we were leaving for a trip to Baltimore to see my beloved Orioles play baseball. I saw the PA, and she said she felt the same thing on the left side as on the right. I disagreed. I took her hand and placed it on what I felt. She said, “Okay, I will make an appointment for you to follow up after your vacation.” I asked if it was to ease her mind or mine. She said it was to provide me with relief.

I went for an ultrasound the following Monday. They took me right from that test to a mammogram. People who went after me were told they could leave. I was not. I knew.

I was scheduled for my appointment with a surgeon. His words to me were, “On paper, you are a healthy 34-year-old woman who runs and works out. I am sure this is nothing, but let’s just be sure. We could do a biopsy and send for results, but let’s just go ahead and cut out what we see.” I agreed.

Two weeks later, I got up, ran 10 miles, and headed in for the surgery. Before they wheeled me back, he said, “As soon as I complete your surgery, I will bring your family back and update them.” I said I have three questions:

1. How soon can I run after surgery? He laughed and said to give it two days, and you can run.
2. I leave for my girls' trip on Friday, so this won't delay it, right?
3. Do you ever get in there and just know it’s cancer without sending it to a lab? He said, “Yes, rarely, but sometimes.” I said, “Okay, let’s do this.”

I came out of surgery, and my family came back. I was groggy, but I immediately asked them what the doctor said. They looked at each other and said they hadn't spoken to the doctor. I was confused. I said again, “But he said as soon as he was finished, he was going to come out and talk to you.” For the first time, I was worried.

Dr. Clifford then walked in. Looked at my family and said, “Kim, we need to talk. Do you want them in here?” I said yes. He said, “Okay, well, you have cancer.”

My mind did not wander to the emotional side. I stayed focused on HOW do we get rid of it. I knew how I would get THROUGH it, but how do we get rid of it? The decision was mastectomy.

So … I ran.

I was in the middle of training for my second half-marathon. I was anxious about the surgery date. I had surgeons, reconstructive surgeons, and oncologists. The waiting game was the hardest part. Scheduling TWO surgeons on the same day in the summer was nearly impossible. I was at the reconstructive surgeon’s office for my appointment, and he said, “Oh, I think we have the date for surgery nailed down.” He was briefly called out of the room, so I opened my chart.

August 25, 2005, was the date. My half-marathon was on September 4, 2005. Ten days after the surgery.

Cancer was not going to stop me. So many thought I was crazy. I had a dear friend, Bob, who said, “No one knows you better than you. You will know what is right.” My reconstructive surgeon called me Saturday morning—the race was Sunday. He said, “Do you have all your medicine?” I said, “Yes, why?” He said, “Because I want to make sure you have your pain meds for your big race.” I said, “So you are okay with this.” He said, “Take two pain pills and run.”

I ran that race.

On Labor Day, the general surgeon called the house. I was surprised. He had left a message asking him to call. I did. He said he went in to get the test results. My tumor was small, barely a centimeter. Oddly, though, I had three positive lymph nodes.

Next step … Chemotherapy.

So…I ran.

And I ran.

And I ran.

I got Chemo every other Monday from October to January.

Monday is a run day. Patients are not allowed to drive after chemo, so when I got picked up, I always had my running shoes in the car. I changed into my running shoes, got home, got out of the car….

And I ran.

Sometimes two miles, and on other days, six miles. Cancer was not going to dictate or control me.

I never missed what I dubbed a “chemo run.” I battled on my terms. In my way, I wasn’t running away. I was running the devil away. With every run and every exhale, I felt like I was blowing out the poison.

It’s been 12 years, and I still run. I continue to fight with every step, every run, and every race. I do not consider myself a survivor. I am running toward survival.

….and so I run.

Getting the news that you have breast cancer is upsetting and life-changing, to say the least. I remember the call like it was yesterday. I asked all the appropriate questions, took all the proper notes, and shed only a few immediate tears. I think I needed a while for it all to settle in.

In the following weeks, I made phone calls, set up appointments, met with doctors, asked more questions, and took more notes. It all became a whirlwind of appointments and information. In the midst of all this semi-controlled chaos, I realized one thing: I can and will do this on my own terms.

After numerous biopsies, MRIs, ultrasounds, and office visits, we had all the information we were going to have. I met with my breast surgeon and began discussing what my options were. I had one reasonably small lump, and the lymph nodes that were biopsied came back clear; therefore, he was recommending a lumpectomy followed by 30 daily treatments of radiation. They make you feel good by calling this “breast sparing.” Radiation terrified me, and I had lots more questions for my surgeon before I made my final decision. I needed answers and was going to make my decision on my own terms.

While asking my questions, the surgeon pulled up a couple of views of one of my MRIs. He pointed to the tumor and its size, reinforcing his belief that a lumpectomy was a favorable option. I am sure my eyes widened, and my jaw dropped like a cartoon character! In looking at my pictures, I had no idea how he could tell the tumor from the rest of my, now identified as very dense, breast tissue. I knew immediately there was more cancer hiding, and I began discussing my options for a double mastectomy. These pictures with so many areas for cancer to hide scared me more than the original diagnosis. It was decided, a double mastectomy, doing it on my own terms.

Double mastectomy with lymph node dissection surgery was scheduled, and we were ready to go. The surgery day arrived, and what should have been a celebration for my “cancer-free” day was shattered with the news that they had found cancer in my lymph nodes. Again, this meant more appointments, more questions, more research, and more decisions. I knew chemotherapy was going to be my best bet for reducing the chances of recurrence. This meant losing at least my hair and possibly my eyebrows and eyelashes. But I also knew it meant I would do this on my own terms.

My first step in preparing my hair for chemo was to cut it short and donate my long blonde locks. Then I decided to dye my new pixie cut deep, dark red! I was having fun experimenting with looks I never would have been brave enough to try before. Still on my own terms.

On a Wednesday, ten days after my first AC chemo treatment, the hair began to fall out. I called my brothers and planned a pizza-and-beer head-shaving party for that Saturday. They were all in, and two even agreed to shave their heads with me. That Saturday morning, I ran to pick up all the fixings and waited for my family to arrive. When they arrived, I let them know I had gone a step further and posted on Facebook that I would be doing my shaving “Live.” Part of me knew this was so I wouldn’t chicken out when I had potentially 600 friends waiting to watch! But I also wanted to share the fun and laughs with friends and family who could not be there, laughing and enjoying it on my own terms.

We started recording and started shaving. I knew we were going to shave it into a Mohawk first, just so I could say I had a red Mohawk. Then, with an online poll, it was decided for me to keep the Mohawk! I agreed with the group and would keep the Mohawk until the head hurt too badly. I walked into my second chemo treatment sporting my red Mohawk. Loving life on my own terms.

I am a recipient of a Smile Kit, and thankfully, with God’s help, a one-year thyroid cancer survivor. My cancer was found unintentionally when I was at a local urgent care with a sinus infection. The doctor happened to feel my neck and felt nodules. I was not worried at first and put off the doctor's recommendation to have an ultrasound. This was because my blood work came back as normal. Finally, a couple of months later, after my yearly physical, I had the ultrasound performed. The results showed several nodules on both sides of my thyroid, a part of the human body I really knew nothing about. I was then referred to an ENT to have a fine needle biopsy. The results came back as suspicious.

I went on to have my right lobe removed in January 2018. The second biopsy showed stage 1 papillary cancer. Naturally, I panicked and experienced many emotions. I was so scared that I literally got sick prior to heading into the operating room. I was so anxious and was not looking forward to another surgery. I learned how courageous I truly am after so many hospital visits.

Fast forward to April 2018, and I have completed a radioactive iodine treatment. I was declared cancer-free soon after a body scan!

This journey has changed me in a positive way. My view on life is very different, as I no longer take the little things for granted. I value each day as a gift. I am inspired to help others through my story and bring them strength. Thanks for the nice Smile Kit and the chance to tell my story!

On May 4, 2018, I went in for a mammogram for a lump that I found. I really didn’t think anything of it. That day I went in for the mammogram. I knew the lump was there, but the lady just kept going and going. Does she not see anything? What is going on? Then she said, “I’m going to have the radiologist look at this if that’s okay.” And I said, “Yeah, I’m not sure she will find anything.

The radiologist came back into the room and said, “Richie, you do have something going on. I would like to schedule an ultrasound today.” I said, “Are you going to be able to tell me anything today?” And she said, “Well, let’s just get this done, and we will talk again.” And so she did my ultrasound, and she went and got the doctor. The doctor told me that there was definitely something going on. And the doctor didn’t like what she saw. She said that they needed to perform a biopsy. The doctor helped me sit up, and she told me the lump was rated a category five, with six being the highest. She also told me that I would be getting a call from St John's to schedule the biopsy.

On May 16,2018, I had the biopsy done. The next day after the biopsy, I got the call telling me that I needed to come back to the office. They confirmed that I had breast cancer. That month was a whirlwind of doctors, appointments, tests, and scans. On July 13, 2018, I underwent a double mastectomy. That, of course, is a long recovery.

I came out of surgery with four drain tubes, so it looked like an octopus with all of those drain tubes going everywhere. I had every possible complication that you could imagine. I can tell you from the time I was a little girl, chemotherapy petrified me. It was always one of my biggest fears. I just remember saying, “I never want to go through chemo!” Being nauseous is just something that I absolutely hate, and I don’t think anyone wants to go through that.

I also don’t think anyone wants to lose their hair. So, the oncology appointment for me was the worst. I really dreaded that day, and I was lucky that my friend, Leslie, went with me. That day, my oncologist told me I was going to have to have chemotherapy because the cancer had already spread to my lymph nodes. We had to make sure they got it all, and that was a hard day. That was probably the HARDEST day for me. I just felt really beaten down because I had already lost so much, and now I was going to lose my hair too.

About two weeks before my diagnosis, all my devotions started saying, “I have a plan for you. Do not fear. When you walk through a storm, I am going to be with you.” Every devotion shared this theme. The Sunday before I went in for my biopsy, I was watching a preacher who said a storm was coming. Some people are in a storm, some are coming out of one, and some are going into one. I just sat there because I knew he was preaching to me. I had the feeling that I was fixing to go into a storm. I sat there, and tears just poured. I told God that I had been through so many storms, and I was just now feeling like my life had a little balance. I remember thinking, “Please don’t let this message be for me.” I remember just crying and begging, “Please God, don’t send me another storm.”

But I knew it was coming.

I went home, and again my devotions were more of the same. The very next devotion when I found out that I had cancer was, “ Don’t worry, the end will come soon. I am going to carry you through this storm.” So the devotions automatically switched over to, “Do not worry, I am with you.” Now that I look back, I see that HE led me down the path to get me right here today. I felt at peace the whole time because I knew he told me that I was going to get through it, and at the time, I didn’t know what “it” was. But HE has carried me because some days I couldn’t have carried myself. I know he carried me.

When I was going through the surgery phase. I couldn’t go to church for a long time. I was just so weak. When I started feeling better, I went to church, and a lady told a story about her mom going through breast cancer. She said, “God wants someone here to know that he’s not mad at you.” For about a week and a half, I had really struggled. I kept asking God what I had done, and I just felt like every time my life got a little settled, I got hit with another obstacle. Then the cancer brought more complications. It was one thing after another. I was battling with and asking, “Why are you mad at me? What can I do to show you that I’m sorry so that I can have this stop happening?”

In that moment, it hit me like a ton of bricks that this is where I belong. I’m not done with my chemotherapy yet. I still have nine more treatments left, and then I will have six weeks of radiation. I will be on a chemotherapy pill for five years. I plan on having reconstruction once I’m cancer-free because I wasn’t a candidate for implants at the time of my mastectomy.

Thank you, BSNCF, for all you do to help cancer patients like me.

When children enter fifth grade, they are mostly worried about recess, friends, and being the top dogs at their elementary school. But for me, I was worried about living or dying.

It was Dr. Laura Copaken who found my cancer and saved my life. Dr. Copaken, who has worked as an orthopedic surgeon and bone doctor for over twelve years at MMI (Mid-Maryland Musculoskeletal Institute), had to tell my family that I had Stage 4 Ewing’s Sarcoma in my left arm. I was the first patient that she had diagnosed with a malignancy—and, she says, “The one that affected her the most.” Now, I call her “Aunt Laura.”

Being ten years old and thinking that only adults got cancer was devastating, but finding out that I needed treatment to keep me alive was even more of a nightmare. Before starting chemo, my treatment began with three small surgeries. Two of those surgeries were biopsies, and the last one was to put in a port.

The biopsies were taken from my arm and my lungs to make sure the doctors were treating the cancer with the right weapons. The port was so I wouldn’t have to be pricked every time I needed blood taken and to transfer the chemo into my body.

It was during my first week of chemo that it really hit my family and friends that my cancer was real. It wasn’t just a dream that would be over with in the morning. Living with cancer would be my life. This was the hardest week and round of chemo, mostly because the chemo affected my body, and my hair started to fall out.

Losing your hair is like losing a part of you. Cancer patients use hats or wigs to cover baldness, but they are itchy and annoying and feel like a chore to put on. My best go-to was headbands.

The nurses, white coats, and especially Dr. Duy Tran, were always so kind and caring. They made a black-and-white moment more colorful by listening to what I had to say and spending time with me. We called the interns ‘white coats’ because they would come into my room and explain my diagnosis wearing white coats. We are so close that Dr. Tran and his wife decided to name their baby girl Lily.

Dr. Albert Aboulafia spent six months looking for the right-sized cadaver bone while I was in chemo. My humerus bone was replaced with a cadaver bone from another child of my size. Donating organs and bones is important because it can help save someone like me. To the child who lost a life, but saved my arm, I’d like to say “thank you.”

A self-esteem-shaking problem is having scars. A scar isn’t something that you have for one day, then it goes away. Rather, it’s there for your whole life. Many people see scars as a representation of themselves, while others use them to tell their story. Scars come in all different shapes and sizes, and no one should be ashamed of having one. My arm has a 12-inch scar that will show, no matter how long it is. I will have a scar on my wedding day.

But I’m going to focus on the rainbow after the storm. The rainbow is knowing you beat cancer and knowing that you are now an inspiration to others who are on this cancer journey.

Today, I am officially five years in remission; however, I know that childhood cancer will be part of my adult life. I am an advocate for funding for childhood cancers and a spokesperson for Truth 360. I just tried out and made my school’s tennis team using an arm that once was filled with cancer and that I should have lost. Statistically, I shouldn’t be here. And that’s my point. Without the talent of incredible doctors and the funding to back them, I would be a statistic.

If I could go back in time and be a 10-year-old with a clean bill of health, I wouldn’t. This is my fight. For me, this fight will never be over. We will always be fighting for more funding and fighting for a cure. This fight will be with me forever, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

When my mother was 37, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. She was the first woman in our family to be diagnosed. After chemo, radiation, and a mastectomy, her cancer went into remission. She was a survivor … for a mere five years before she lost her battle at the young age of 42. I was 20.

Though a part of me thought it was just a fluke since no other women in the family had been diagnosed, I was markedly aware that I had suddenly become at risk. So I learned what I could do to control the controllable risk factors. I was a college student at the time, studying Health, Physical Education, Recreation, and Dance, so health and fitness were already an interest, but it became so much more. It became a necessity. It became survival. In addition to controlling my weight through nutrition and exercise, I have been getting mammograms every year since my mother passed…except two… when I was 37 and 42. I suppose some of that was fear, but make no mistake, it was also mixed with a large dose of fearlessness, stubbornness, and super-woman-ness. My way of standing up and shouting, “NO! Not today, cancer!” (To spare you any expletives that I was really thinking).

These days, when I go to get my mammogram and report my family history, there is a distinct look on the tech's face every time. It is a look of shock, sprinkled with sympathy. Since my mother’s passing, both of my grandmothers, three of my mother’s sisters, and one of my father’s sisters have been diagnosed with breast cancer. It was not a fluke after all. Cancer is in our family. But I refuse to sit idly by and let breast cancer come slithering for me. With each diagnosis, I carry on in all of my badassness, doing what I can to control the controllable risk factors. I’ll soon be 50 years old, and my metabolism isn’t what it used to be, so it's getting harder to control my weight. I keep up with Beachbody fitness and nutrition programs, Shakeology, and all of our German Shepherds. March 25, 2017, was my mother’s 26th year in heaven. The following is my post from my Facebook page:

Dear Mom,

Happy 29th Birthday and 26th birthday in heaven! I was talking about you yesterday, and a letter you wrote that was with your things. I have no idea who you were writing to, but you expressed concern about what would happen to your son and daughter after you were gone. As you watch over us, I hope it brings you great joy to see the beautiful grandchildren Ronnie gave you, and that you are resting easy knowing that I am not waiting for breast cancer to come crashing in to start fighting it…because I am a Proactive Breast Cancer Battling Badass! I’m shouting from the rooftops (that’s something called social media these days) to encourage others and help them to live healthier lives; to not wait for a diagnosis to begin the fight; to not have to worry about what will happen to their children when they’re gone too soon. This is my purpose and my passion…your legacy.

Love and miss you every day,
Tammy, Tammy, Tammy’s in love
(I can still hear you singing that to me)

Going through a serious illness, you learn to know what true beauty really is, as well as true love. Who’s truly there for you at this most critical time of your life?

I’ve experienced a lot in my life, many trials and tribulations. One of my trials was having to raise my child alone after a broken marriage, which at times can leave you with such negative self-esteem. But a lot of the time, going through such an ordeal makes you that much stronger, where you pick yourself up and keep going. I had to for my child's sake. Life was rough, and I made it through. But I’m not so sure that I would have, if I hadn’t been for my child. To look and see the joy and smiles she brought to my life each and everyday, I knew I had a purpose. Through our lives together, I gained my strength and began to feel a lot more for myself; my self-esteem came back with full force, and I was loving myself all over again. I had a new beginning all on my own.

But later in life, things turned around yet again, in a negative way unlike any other. I ran into a head-on collision not only with breast cancer, but also with colon cancer, and it changed my entire outlook on life. I thought I had it rough years before, but going through cancer is the tip of the iceberg. There’s nothing like it. Yet through my tragedies and all that I had to endure, it became “an awakening” for me, where I received all the strength and encouragement from and through my daughter and my grandchildren. Just another purpose was thrown at me to fight cancer and live.

Through it all, I found what true beauty really was, because even through all the chemo, radiation, and the pain I endured, I still felt beautiful. I would look in the mirror even more during this time, because I thought that it would change me drastically, but instead I gained even more beauty, because this time the beauty was real. It showed me that, even going through it all, I could still look and feel beautiful, and it shone brighter; each day after yesterday got even brighter because I was able to see it.

Yes, at times, I would look at the surgery areas of my body, where I was transformed, and it bothered me, but I would look past it, because that area, that site could be covered up. True beauty is within, and when you feel beautiful within, it shows clearly on the outside, and I could not have done or felt the way I did, and still do, without my children. I feel within my heart that I survived cancer both times to be able to share my life with and through my children while sharing my story with others.

I share my story with others, hoping to make a positive impact on someone who’s ill or otherwise, so they can live their life in a whole new way and still feel beautiful along the way. I must say, from the beginning, I thought right away that my cancer diagnosis was truly a “death sentence.” I later found out it was truly an awakening, and I realized I was about to face a new beginning, new hope, and a whole new perspective on life. I’m still among the living, and through it all, I’m still beautiful, so who am I to complain?

I truly believe that when you survive a horrific tragedy or a horrible disease such as cancer, it’s for a reason. You have a purpose. And through that purpose, true beauty is born.