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.