Last Friday, as I stood waiting for the elevator at my breast surgeon’s office, I suddenly felt like I couldn’t breathe. A wave of emotion crashed over me as I realized exactly one year ago to the day, I was in a different building, awaiting my mammogram and ultrasound for a suspicious lump. I went alone that day, telling myself it was probably nothing, while in the back of my mind knowing the truth. The images looked suspicious, and they recommended a biopsy - immediately. I remember the fear rising like a tide.
This past year has been a rollercoaster - a journey through shock, denial, fear, sadness, anger, and moments of deep despair. I’m not sure you ever fully come to terms with a cancer diagnosis. It doesn’t just disrupt your life - it reshapes it. Permanently.
The journey has been complex and exhausting. Between the medical appointments, shifting treatment plans, and the physical and emotional toll of the disease and its management, I’ve had to learn how to live in an entirely new way.
My days are different now. The medication that’s meant to keep the cancer from returning comes with its own cost - bone pain, fatigue, weight gain from inflammation and water retention. I’m trying new things to manage it. I’m learning to be okay with my body, even when it feels unfamiliar to me. I’m trying to accept the weight as it is, while still doing what I can to feel strong and healthy.
Fatigue hits hard, usually mid-day. It’s a bone-deep exhaustion that makes me want to curl up wherever I am and just sleep. I’ve had to experiment with the timing of my medication to see if I can shift the worst of it later, anything to make it safer and easier to get through my day.
Mentally, it’s been tough lately. Just this week, Stephen asked me if I was okay. I told him I was, then I had to circle back and admit that I wasn’t. He already knew. When you’ve been with someone as long as we’ve been together, you can sense when something’s off.
It’s hard for me to say out loud that I’m not okay. I’ve always been the one who fixes things, figures things out, handles everything herself. But Stephen has taught me something I didn’t know how to learn on my own: I don’t have to carry it all by myself. He’s there. He always is. And he helps me carry it when I can’t.
Cancer is a strange thing. It creates bonds with complete strangers, women you meet in waiting rooms, support groups, or hospital corridors—who understand more about your experience than people you’ve known for years. At the same time, it can test your existing relationships. Some friends pull closer, some fall away. Some reappear after years, while others simply vanish.
And through it all, my perspective has changed. I am learning to no longer sweat the small stuff. I don’t have the energy or desire to care about judgment or assumptions. Life is too precious for that. What matters now is connection, authenticity, and finding peace in whatever form I can.
A year ago, I walked into a building alone and heard the words that would alter the course of our life together.
Today, I stand in the same place…different building, same fear…but stronger. Still learning. Still healing. Still here.
