It started with a tiny lump I found in my left breast during a self-exam in March 2021. I brushed it off at first—“Probably just a cyst,” I told myself. I was busy with a big client project, my son’s college applications, and caring for my 78-year-old mom. But when the lump didn’t go away after a month, my husband, Mark, insisted I see a doctor. That’s when my world stopped.
The mammogram and ultrasound led to a biopsy, and a week later, I sat in a cold exam room as my primary care doctor said the words: “It’s cancer—stage 2 invasive ductal carcinoma.” I don’t remember much after that—just Mark holding my hand, and the doctor talking about “next steps” that sounded like a foreign language. All I could think was: Will I be here to see my son graduate? Will Mark have to raise him alone?

I was 30 when my first “bad migraine” hit. I’d just finished teaching a math lesson to my 3rd graders, and suddenly, a sharp pain exploded behind my right eye—so intense I had to sit down on the classroom floor. The lights felt like they were burning my skin, and the sound of kids laughing in the hallway made my head throb. My principal drove me home, and I spent the next two days in a dark bedroom, vomiting from the pain. I thought it was a one-time thing—until it happened again a month later.
Over the next 12 years, chronic migraines became my constant companion. I’d get 8–10 migraines a month, each lasting 3–5 days. I missed 20+ days of work a year, turned down birthday parties and family trips, and stopped doing the things I loved—like painting and playing the guitar—because even the smallest amount of light or sound would trigger a attack. I saw 6 different doctors: some told me “it’s just stress,” others prescribed strong painkillers that made me groggy (but didn’t stop the migraines), and one even suggested I “just relax more.” By 2023, I was sad. I’d started to believe I’d spend the rest of my life in pain—and that I’d never be the teacher, friend, or wife I wanted to be.

Mia was 4 when she had her first asthma attack. We were at her birthday party—she’d just blown out the candles and was chasing her friends around the living room—when suddenly, she stopped, bent over, and started gasping for air. Her face turned red, then blue around the lips, and I froze. I’m a school nurse—I know how to handle emergencies—but when it’s your own kid, your brain goes blank. I grabbed the inhaler the pediatrician had given us (after a “mild wheezing” episode a month prior) and helped her use it, but it did nothing. By the time the ambulance arrived, Mia was barely breathing.

My knees started hurting when I turned 68. At first, it was just a dull ache after walking to the grocery store or climbing the stairs to my apartment. I told myself it was “just old age”—something I’d have to live with. But by 2023, the pain had gotten so bad I could barely stand for 10 minutes. I stopped going to my weekly book club (I couldn’t sit in the hard chairs without wincing), I turned down my granddaughter Lily’s invitation to go shopping for her wedding dress (she’d begged me to be her “second opinion”), and I even started using a cane—something I’d promised myself I’d never do.
The worst part was watching Lily practice for her wedding. She’d ask me to “dance with her” in the living room, and I’d have to say no—my knees would throb just thinking about bending them. One night, I sat on the couch and cried while Lily showed me photos of wedding venues. I thought, I’ll never be able to walk her down the aisle. I’ll have to sit in a wheelchair and watch from the back. I’d seen my sister struggle with knee pain for years, and she’d ended up having a total knee replacement that left her in physical therapy for months. I was terrified of surgery—but I was even more terrified of missing the most important day of Lily’s life.