If I could slip back into the exact second the doctor’s words detonated in my ears, “You have cancer”, I’d find the me who stood frozen, skin slick from the shower, mind scrambling to rewrite logic: a bruise, a phantom pain, anything but this. I’d kneel beside her, press trembling fingers to her cheek, and murmur, “Hold on. This isn’t your end. It’s the forging of a fiercer you.”

At 39 years old, a breast cancer felt like a nuclear bomb had exploded. I was a runner, fueled by endorphins, and lived with a sense of certainty. My breast cancer diagnosis ripped the illusion of certainty away, and I faced a brutal truth: I couldn’t control the cancer, but I could seize every decision that followed. That moment sparked my crusade for self-advocacy.

In school, I had scraped by in biology classes. My understanding of genetics was limited to a simplistic understanding that I came from a dysfunctional gene pool. I had no idea that a breast cancer gene, PALB2, lurked in my DNA too! When I was told I also had the most aggressive “Luminal B” type, I asked the doctor if I was going to die. Overnight, I was drowning in jargon like mutation, oncogene, metastasis while grappling with my own fear-strangled voice. After a meltdown that shattered me, I chose not to be a casualty but a combatant. I traded despair for determination, devouring studies, demanding second and third opinions, refusing to accept half-answers. I wasn’t just after survival; I wanted care that heard my heartbeat, respected my body, honored my soul.

Self-advocacy became my mantra and encompassed acknowledging the impact on me medically, mentally, physically, and spiritually. When the ISPY2 clinical trial, along with weekly Taxol infusions, left my tumor defiantly unchanged, I cited the carboplatin trials I’d uncovered and asked for it to be added. Finally, my tumor began to respond. After my double mastectomy with direct-to-implant surgery, I refused the tiny radiation tattoos because my skin had too many battle scars already. I learned to draw hard lines around my body and psyche, to rebuff anyone who tried to diminish my agency. Every protocol became a question, while every decision came from making an informed choice.

Through collapsed veins that felt like lava coursing through me on infusion days, frantic ER runs, grueling eight-hour infusions beneath a scalp-cooling helmet that felt like an ice vise, and scans that yanked my hope by its throat, I unearthed unexpected sparks of joy: the electric solidarity in support groups, the comfort of a heated blanket while icicles formed on my head, the nurses’ riotous laughter, the soft hush of hummingbirds crossing my path when I went for runs after every infusion. I chronicled every encounter, every tremor of fear, every glimmer of triumph, so that I could map my own resurrection. Mornings began with a vow and intention to take the day one breath, one heartbeat, one unwavering step at a time.

I discovered that meaning doesn’t hide in perfect outcomes but in grit: the relentless act of showing up even when you ache to vanish. Even as I grieved the loss of my breasts, even as dreams I never named like wanting to be a mother slipped through my fingers, I kept moving forward. Surrender taught me that releasing the need to predict what came next didn’t equate to defeat; it unlocked presence. Cancer schooled me in loving raw reality over flawless illusion, in laughing in the ragged spaces between pain, in forging bonds not in spite of my vulnerability but because of it.

If I could speak to the woman frozen from the call revealing a cancer diagnosis, I’d say: You’re not required to roar with courage every second. Just breathe. Stay open. One fight at a time. Strength isn’t measured by volume; it’s measured by the resolve to rise each time you’re struck down, to choose life when everything in you trembles against it, to keep loving yourself even as you reshape into someone you barely recognize.

Yes, I lost more than I ever imagined. But I gained a depth that anchors me, a purpose that lights my way, connections that swell my heart. When I slammed my hand on that bell at the end of infusion and again at the close of radiation, I didn’t just celebrate remission. I celebrated the birth of a warrior who found her voice and a soul reborn in resilience.

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