Twenty Years Later: What Cancer Taught Me

Twenty years ago, I was diagnosed with stage 3C breast cancer. My children were 7, 5, and 3. The odds were not in my favor, but I’m still here. Here’s what I’ve learned.

I got what I most hoped for 20 years ago: the chance to raise my kids. This milestone carries enormous emotional weight because it represents the fulfillment of my deepest longing.
Then and now, I’m so thankful for the support of family and friends who got me through. Research shows pain is easier to bear when a loved one holds your hand. That was my reality.
I never felt sick from the cancer itself, only from the treatments. So thankful for that.
My grandparents urged me to hit cancer hard the first time: “Your first shot is your best shot.” That advice shaped my treatment choices. Maybe it saved my life.
The best part of cancer was the outpouring of support. I felt it everywhere: in grocery store conversations, visits, meals from neighbors, a beautiful quilt my family made for me, little thoughtful gifts from friends. I still carry that love.
But the hardest part wasn’t surgery, chemo, radiation, or hormone therapy. It was what came after the cheering stopped: the quiet terror of living with a 50% recurrence risk while trying to raise three young children.
I coped with that fear by focusing on what I could control. I called it Plan A and Plan B. Plan A: live. Plan B: face what came next with grace. I only needed Plan A, but preparing for both helped me live fully.
Cancer taught me courage. I remember standing in the elevator at Huntsman Cancer Institute, staring at the button for the chemo floor. I was terrified, but I pressed it anyway.
People often said, “You’re so brave. I could never do what you’re doing.” But you can be very brave when there’s no other choice.
Some well-meaning people tried to talk me out of chemo, suggesting wheat grass juice, magnets, or detoxes instead. I’m still angry about it. If I’d been more naive or eager to please, I might not be here today.
I feel so fortunate to be the beneficiary of medical science. So many lives have gone into learning how to help people like me survive, and live well while doing so.
But we still have so far to go, especially for women under 40. Despite breast cancer being the 2nd or 3rd leading cause of death in our age group, we have no reliable screening tool.
If you want breast screening under age 40, you need a family history. I didn’t have a family history. Neither do 80% of young women diagnosed with breast cancer.
It’s not that young women getting cancer is new. Susan G. Komen died at age 36, back in 1980. More than four decades later, we still don’t have an early detection method that might have saved her.
Pink ribbon culture infuriates me. Boxing gloves and slogans are not enough when young women are still dying because we lack basic screening tools.
Reconstruction doesn’t replace what’s lost. Even in the best-case scenario, it’s cosmetic and numb. For me, it meant four surgeries, a failed flap, and ongoing asymmetry.
I want women facing reconstruction to have real support: informed consent about risk, realistic expectations, images of typical outcomes, and full information about alternatives like aesthetic flat closure or prosthetics.
Part of survivorship is facing new health scares every few years. A strange pain or symptom can bring the anxiety rushing back. It lessens over time, but it never disappears.
I carry the memory of my Aunt Monica, who died of lymphoma in her 30s. My cousin, still fighting. The women I met on young survivor boards who joined the stage 4 club. The parents who didn’t get to raise their kids. I carry them with me.
I have some survivor’s guilt. I use it to advocate, to write, to speak up where others can’t. Mostly, though, I just feel unspeakable gratitude. For my grown children celebrating this milestone with me. For my parents coming not for a crisis, but a party. For a life I’ve rebuilt more than once in 20 years. For still being here.