January 2026
Last week | learned I have colorectal cancer. Other than a likely surgery, I don't yet know what else will come.
I am scared. Some days I find myself in a pit of fear and sadness..There are so many unknowns.
What I do know is I am loved here. Within hours of getting the news, friends were reaching out to check on me. My students gave me a pile of handmade cards and stopped their day to pray as a community. I am so thankful for everyone who is praying.
On the day of my diagnosis, a cancer survivor friend told me, “Let today be for grieving.” And I did grieve. Grieving the loss of the old me.
There will always be a before cancer me and after cancer me.
I know I will be a better person when this is over. God is already changing me for his good. Despite my fears, I know that is true.
February 2026
Some days I cry out “Where are you, God? I can’t do this. Where are you?!”
And then I remember:
The friend who sat next to me on my couch that first day while I ugly-cried all over her. Before she left we were somehow laughing. Joy and sorrow can be held in the same hand.
Two other friends who snuck out of work one day to surprise me and just sit with me for an hour.
The high school friends I haven’t seen in years who reached out with a group chat filled with love.
The friend who brought a meal the very night I learned of my diagnosis. Unprompted. She didn’t ask. She just knew what we’d need and showed up.
God is here in his people.That’s where he is.
I don’t know how anyone gets through the hard things without God’s people.
February 2026
"One day at a time" is easier said by people who don't have to carry all the bags up the stairs. The mental load of not knowing what life will look like in six months or even next week is heavy. I have many good days, happy days, even in this trial, but today is not one of them. Today I spiraled.
March 2026
Chemo plus radiation, day one.
I guess anything can be poison in large enough amounts. Right now my body is taking it slowly, dripping in through a little “fanny pack” pump I’ll wear Monday through Friday. It sits against my belly, tubes trailing just waiting for the moment I catch them on a doorknob and rip everything loose.
Even the simplest things feel complicated. Getting in the car. Walking to the bathroom. Nothing is normal with this attached to me.
And still, I know these are the good days. Before the exhaustion hits. Before the radiation burns start. That part is coming.
So for now, I’ll take this awkward, annoying chemo baby—and be grateful it’s only this. I am learning there are actually worse things than cancer.
April 2026
I’m in week four of radiation with chemo. I will do six weeks total. My butt is just about the only thing I think about lately. The internal radiation burns are painful. The bathroom trips are frequent. Taking care of my butt is currently a full-time job, and you do not want to know the job description. I beg you, get your colonoscopy on time. Don’t wait. I promise you, whatever you’re afraid of is not worse than this.
I’m still smiling when I can. Trying to find joy in this trial. I’m thankful for every good moment, and counting down the days until this part of the journey is over!
14 treatments to go!
April 2026
Last week was difficult, marked by the weight of chemo and radiation and their many side effects. I need help, and allowing people to help you requires humility. I am learning to accept this. Still, I am deeply grateful to be so well loved.
I am thankful for every prayer, every card, every call, every text, every visit, and every gesture, big or small. God is using these acts of kindness to break through the darkness of uncertainty to bring moments of light to otherwise gray days.
Even the smallest things matter more than we realize. If you ever feel moved to reach out to someone who is suffering, but wonder if it is enough—do it anyway.
May 2026
I had my first long, sit-in-the-chair chemo a little over a week ago, thinking I’d bounce back in a few days. I had been told the effects build over time, so I assumed the effects of the first round would pass quickly,
But I was wrong.
I was stuck in bed for days, barely eating, only getting up to make it to the bathroom. Everything felt stripped down to survival.
A week later, I was up again, moving, doing things, almost as usual. The swing back to normal was shocking.
Now I’m trying to pack everything I can into this good week before the cycle starts again. Every other Monday. Down, then up. I’m learning how to live in that rhythm.
May 2026
Side Effects May Include
Chemotherapy comes with a long list of side effects, many of them strange and difficult to explain until you experience them yourself. During my first cycle, I dealt with what I started calling “noodle legs, a heavy weakness in my legs that made even walking to the mailbox feel exhausting. For cycle two, I tried compression socks, and surprisingly, they helped tremendously. So if you see me during infusion weeks, there’s a good chance I’ll be wearing knee-high compression socks with pride.
May 2026
Well, You Look Great!
There are two versions of me now, and neither one is the person I was before cancer. From what I’m told, that old version of me doesn’t really come back. I haven’t decided how I feel about that. I have peace that it’s a good thing, and that God is at work, but it’s still strange.
During infusion week, I become someone still and quieter. The chemo settles over me like a weighted blanket I can’t throw off. My mind is a jumbled mess. I spend most of the day on the couch, drifting between staring at the wall, waves of nausea, and full on exhaustion. Time is somehow lost. The next thing I know, it’s 8pm and I’m headed for my bed.
After a few days the fog lifts.
It feels like a stripped version of me exits, and the other rushes back, moving fast because I know the time with the capable version of me is limited. I wake up early cleaning the house, grocery shopping, buying gifts, tending to plants, washing sheets, catching up on life as quickly as possible before the next infusion rolls in again. I pack in as much normal living as I can while my body allows it. Chores are no longer chores, they are privileges which I no longer take for granted.
The contrast between these two versions of me is so extreme it almost feels like watching two different people share the same life. One survives. The other tries desperately to live enough for both of them.
June 2026
Humanity Shared
We See You
One of the unexpected gifts of this cancer journey has been the kindness of strangers.
The Cracker Barrel waitress who noticed I got a little teary when I couldn't order the meal I wanted because it was 10:45 instead of 11:00. She could have simply apologized and moved on. Instead, she noticed. She acted. S he went to her manager and found a way to get me that chicken anyway.
The landscaper who learned about my cancer and then asked if he could pray with me right there. Not because he knew me well. Not because he had to. Just because he cared.
The nurse who prayed with me in the office on a day when the world felt heavier than it had ever felt before.
The family whose preschooler came home from school insisting that her family pray for me because her teachers had told her about me. A little girl carrying someone else's burden in the only way she knew how.
The women I've met who also have—or had—colon cancer. Women who gave me hours of their time, answered questions they had answered a hundred times before, shared hard-earned wisdom, and offered encouragement when they had every reason to guard their energy.
Some of these people I may never see again. Some were only in my life for a few minutes. But they are part of my story.
They saw me.
They saw my need.
And they acted.
For a stranger.
I will never see most of these people ever again. Some were a part of my story for only minutes, but their compassion stretched far beyond those moments. I am thankful.
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