What I’m fighting for.
In my almost 43 years of life, I’ve heard some of the most devastating words a person can imagine — the kind that instantly change everything.
First came, “We found a mass. Quite honestly, I’m concerned.”
Then the call that shattered my world: “It is malignant. You have a 10 cm tumor. There are also 2 spots in your left lung.”
And finally, the harshest truth of all:
“It’s stage 4. Our best guess is you have a 10–15% chance of living the next 5 years.”
That was nearly six years ago. Since then, I’ve been in a relentless fight with stage 4 colon cancer — and I somehow beat that 15% chance. I’ve endured 42 radiation treatments, over 60 rounds of chemo, and more surgeries in these years than many people face in an entire lifetime. I battled sepsis so severe I was within hours of death — twice — and still, I’m here.
There is always a quiet fear lingering in the background, whispering that I’m living on borrowed time. I’ve already surpassed the odds by almost a year. Yet I worry my 10- and 7‑year‑old children might grow up without their mom beside them as they step into middle school and grade school.
So I try not to dwell on that fear. Instead, I focus on making every day meaningful for them. I want their memories filled with moments like when I taught them to ride a two‑wheeler, or how we practiced spelling words together every single morning before school.
I hope they think of our fun zoo trips, the laughter, and every single Muffins With Mom event we shared. I want them to understand what I’ve gone through — not to feel sadness, but to see how deeply I fought for time with them. I pray they remember that even when chemo made me unbelievably sick, it was what allowed me to stay with them just one more day.
I’m still fighting — every single day — because I never want my children to believe I gave up on them or on life. My will to live is stitched together with love for them.
I hope, more than anything, that they feel proud. That they see the courage and strength that comes from facing cancer head‑on. I want them to carry that strength in the moments when I’m at my weakest, and to believe there is always light waiting on the other side of the darkness.
Because while the bad has been unimaginably hard, the good has somehow become even more beautiful. We cherish everything differently now. My kids don’t realize my time may be limited — they just know I do what I do so we can still share the fun moments later. And while this cancer fight is absolute hell, it is worth every battle if it means I get even one more trip to the zoo with them next year.
