In March of 2024, my life took an unexpected turn when I found a lump in my right breast. At first, I didn’t know what it was, and I waited a few weeks, hoping it would go away. When it didn’t, I called my doctor in April but couldn’t get an appointment for another six weeks. When I was finally seen, I was scheduled for a diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound a week later. It was during this appointment that the radiologist informed me he suspected breast cancer. I was shocked, devastated, and, honestly, terrified.
I immediately had a biopsy scheduled, which went smoothly. But two days later, on June 13th, I received the call I never imagined. I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I didn’t know what to do except cry. The tears seemed endless. I was scared, and I was scared to tell my son. My husband was my rock—supportive and encouraging throughout this terrifying time. We were about to leave for an epic road trip, and we decided to wait until we got back to tell our son.
In those two days leading up to our vacation, I did my best to prepare, calling a breast surgeon and trying to figure out what my next steps would be. My mom, an absolute blessing, ran around gathering my medical images and records and dropping them off at the surgeon’s office while we were away. I will never forget her kindness and how much she helped during that time.
Upon returning from vacation, I learned that I needed to see an oncologist. After a whirlwind of emotions and appointments, I was diagnosed with Invasive Ductal Carcinoma, ER/PR negative, HER2+. This form of breast cancer is aggressive and can metastasize quickly. Fear and doubt overwhelmed me. I thought that our vacation would be our last family trip, and I didn’t know if I would even make it to see my son graduate 8th grade. The what-ifs haunted me daily.
A week later, I sat in the oncologist’s office, overwhelmed with information. I was told I would need six rounds of TCHP chemotherapy, followed by surgery and radiation. The weight of the diagnosis and the treatments was devastating. I couldn’t stop crying during the appointment. I was shaken to my core, knowing that my life would never be the same again.
The hardest part of chemotherapy was the side effects. I couldn’t fathom losing my hair. I couldn’t imagine it. But little did I know, this would become a moment of empowerment. In the whirlwind leading up to my first chemo treatment, there were countless tests, an MRI, a port placement, bloodwork—everything happened so fast. But on July 15th, my chemotherapy journey began. Every three weeks, I would receive chemo and antibodies for six rounds. The antibody therapy would continue for a year.
Chemo was the hardest thing I have ever gone through. Within a week of my first treatment, my hair started falling out. I was devastated. I decided to take control and shaved my head just two weeks later. Sitting in my stylist's chair, with tears streaming down my face, I realized that this wasn’t just losing my hair—it was losing a part of myself. While everyone says, “It’s just hair,” it’s easy to say when you still have it. For me, it wasn’t just about vanity—it was about feeling like I was losing more than just my hair, but my identity. I had no choice in the matter.
The physical toll of chemo was exhausting. I threw up constantly, couldn’t eat, and could barely drink water. I spent most of my time in bed, only leaving the house for chemo or fluids. I missed my son’s hockey games, a first in eight years. I couldn’t bear to see him on the ice, and that hurt more than I can explain.
But November 4th marked my last round of chemotherapy. It took a month and a half before I could even begin to feel somewhat like myself again. I was finally able to do simple things like running errands, cooking dinner, and attending hockey games. By this point, I had fully embraced my bald head and was rocking scarves and hats in the cold winter months.
In December, I had a lumpectomy, and the results were a miracle—there was no cancer detected in my lymph nodes, and I had a complete response to chemotherapy. I had beaten cancer. In February 2024, I began radiation, which has been much easier to endure compared to chemo. I’m thankful to one of my customers who recommended a cream to prevent radiation burns—it’s worked wonders. I’ll finish radiation on March 13, 2024, and will continue antibody therapy until June 23, 2025.
Even with all the progress, a part of me still fears the future. I wonder what survivorship will look like, and I worry about a recurrence. But cancer has taught me a valuable lesson: live every day to its fullest. Don’t put things off for tomorrow or for someday. We don’t know how much time we have, and we need to make the most of it.
To remind myself of my strength and resilience, I’ve created a sweatshirt. It’s not just for me—it’s for everyone who has fought, who is fighting, and who will fight. It has “F*ck Cancer” on the sleeve because that’s exactly how I feel. Cancer is a journey no one ever wants to take, but it’s one I’ve walked with courage, strength, and an unwavering belief in myself.
One in eight women will be diagnosed with breast cancer, and the statistics are staggering. The number of young women being diagnosed is heartbreaking. Throughout my journey, I’ve met so many brave women, and I continue to be inspired by their strength and resilience.
Cancer may have taken a lot from me, but it has also given me the gift of knowing just how strong I really am.