Living Life

Finding Hope After a Metastatic Cancer Diagnosis

Living with metastatic cancer can be an incredibly challenging journey, one that tests your mind, body, and spirit in ways you could never imagine. When I first received my metastatic cancer diagnosis, I was almost certain I wouldn’t live past a year. The fear was overwhelming, and the uncertainty felt like a heavy shadow over every moment.

But here I am, years later, living a life filled with hope and purpose. Through resilience, the unwavering love of my support system, and a commitment to keeping a positive outlook, I am currently no evidence of disease. Those words still feel miraculous every time I say them.

This journey has taught me so much about embracing life fully — even with its complexities. Each day is a gift, and I do my best to approach it with gratitude and joy. I have learned to celebrate the little moments, to let go of things that do not serve me, and to prioritize what truly matters.

If you are walking a similar path, please know that you are not alone. Hope is real, even when the road is hard. Surround yourself with people who lift you up, seek joy wherever you can find it, and give yourself grace on the tough days.

Thank you for following along as I continue to navigate this chapter of my life. I hope sharing my story encourages you to hold onto hope and live each day with intention and love.

Sharing my story in order to provide hope for others

Living by Faith:

Living with metastatic breast cancer can be terrifying. It’s a journey that pushes me into dark corners of fear that I never knew existed. There are days when I feel strong and hopeful, ready to live fully and gratefully. And then there are days — days like today — when I let cancer win, at least for a little while.

Today was one of those days. It was time for my six-month check-up with my oncologist. This visit included a mammogram of my right breast, an ultrasound, blood work for my Signatera test, and then a sit-down with my doctor.

I always get scared when these appointments come around. Even though I know I am safe in the arms of God, the fear still crawls in. It’s a fear that is hard to describe — it’s knowing that at the end of this appointment, my life could change drastically. I could walk out with devastating news, or I could leave with a heart full of relief, calling my loved ones with joyful updates. Days like today remind me why I must live by faith and lean on my family for their prayers, strength, and love.

My husband and son accompanied me to my appointment. We try to turn these trips into something lighter, something that doesn’t revolve solely around cancer. We listen to music, share stories, and always plan a celebratory lunch afterward. It’s funny how lunch becomes this bright spot we focus on, almost a shield that hides the fear of what these appointments might reveal. Days in advance, we talk about where we’ll go to eat, as if deciding on tacos or Italian might somehow keep the bad news away.

As we pulled into the parking lot, my stomach twisted into knots. The familiarity of the building didn’t bring comfort; it reminded me of all the moments my life has hung in the balance inside those walls.

Sitting in the waiting room, waiting for my name to be called for the mammogram, I found myself people-watching. I couldn’t help but wonder what stories surrounded me. There was a woman in the corner completely absorbed in her phone. Was she here for a routine mammogram? Or was she, like me, a cancer survivor hoping for good news? It always surprises me how separate we all seem in these moments. No one makes eye contact. No one offers a reassuring smile. Maybe it’s because we’re all trying to keep our own fears at bay.

Soon, the nurse called my name. She led me down a hall, pointed out where to put my clothes after I changed, and showed me into a small dressing room. She asked if I’d put on deodorant or lotion today. I shook my head no, and she disappeared down the hall.

As I undressed and slipped into the robe, I noticed how unbelievably soft it was. For a moment, I fixated on that small comfort. I couldn’t help but wonder if the hospital chose these robes on purpose, to offer a tiny bit of gentleness in the middle of fear. I tied it around me, placed my belongings in the locker, and sat down in the second waiting room — another room full of women, each lost in her own world, waiting for whatever news might come next.

These days are hard.They stir up every bit of anxiety I have tucked away, reminding me how fragile life is. But they also remind me why I hold so tightly to my faith, why I cherish every laugh with my husband and son, and why we make lunch such a big deal. Because these moments — the music on the drive, the silly debates over where to eat, the way my husband squeezes my hand just a little tighter — they’re life. They’re joy, even on days when fear is loud.

I don’t know what the future holds. None of us do. But today, I trust God with it. I choose to lean on my family’s love, to soak in the comfort of soft robes and gentle nurses, and to look forward to that lunch where, at least for a while, cancer takes a back seat to laughter and togetherness.

The "Robe"

I sit in the second waiting room hoping my name will be called quickly so I can move on with my day. The waiting is always the hardest part — it gives my mind too much space to wander into dark places. Thankfully, my name is called sooner than I expect. A kind tech leads me into the mammogram room, explains what she’ll be doing, and begins the process.

As she takes the images, I find myself studying her face, searching for any hint of concern or reassurance. It’s silly, I know she’s trained not to give anything away, but part of me still hopes I can read something in her expression — anything that might tell me if everything is okay.

When the mammogram is over, she gently tells me that because of my history, I’ll also need an ultrasound. So back to another waiting room I go, this time surrounded by other women also lost in their own thoughts.

Next to me is a mother and daughter chatting about recipes and what they might have for lunch. I can’t help but wonder — are they worried too? Or is this just another routine stop in their day? It’s a reminder that even in places heavy with fear, life keeps happening: people still talk about food, laugh, and make plans.

Finally, my name is called again. I’m led into a dimly lit room and asked to lie down on the table. As the tech begins the ultrasound, my heart pounds in my chest. She’s so quiet. Is that normal? Does she see something? My mind races. What if there’s cancer in my other breast?

When she finishes, she tells me she’ll take the images to the radiologist and be right back. Those few minutes feel like forever. Every possible scenario runs through my mind until finally she returns with a smile. “Everything looks great. We’ll see you in a year.” Relief floods over me. I practically rush to the dressing room, change back into my clothes, and text my family the good news as quickly as I can.

But the day isn’t done yet. Next, I head upstairs to see my oncologist. She’s started doing Signatera testing on me. From what I understand, they retrieved my original tumor from storage and are now using it to test my blood for cancer at the molecular level. In my mind, it’s just one more thing to worry about — another layer of uncertainty.

After my blood draw, I’m called back and asked, once again, to change into a robe. This one isn’t as soft or pretty as the first. But at least the exam room has a beautiful view behind me, a small distraction from my swirling thoughts.

These appointments are exhausting, physically and emotionally. They hold the power to completely change my life — or to give me another stretch of normal, beautiful days. Today, I got to text my family with good news. Today, we get to keep planning lunches and trips and laugh without cancer taking center stage.

And for that, I am profoundly grateful.

Look at that amazing view!

A New Chapter — and Another Layer of Watching

My oncologist comes in quickly, smiling warmly as always. She does her routine exam, then tells me something that feels both heavy and strangely reassuring: I’ll be doing the Signatera test for the rest of my life. It’s important, she explains, to catch any recurrence as early as possible. I nod in agreement, because of course I want every chance to fight this if it ever comes back — but it’s also a reminder that cancer will always, in some way, be a part of my life.

We move on to something I’ve long hoped for: I ask if I might finally be cleared to have reconstruction on my right breast. After everything — surgeries, treatments, tests — this small hope of feeling a bit more like myself again means so much. She smiles and tells me I’m ready. Just like that, another little door opens.

Before I know it, we’re wrapping up. She says she’ll see me again in six months. I change quickly, eager to step back into my “normal” life — or at least the closest version of normal that exists for me now.

Outside, my husband and son are waiting. We head off for our long-planned celebratory lunch, a quiet tradition that helps us mark these days not just with fear, but with gratitude and joy. For the next six months, I’ll try to tuck away the tests and what-ifs, to laugh, to live, and to cherish every beautiful ordinary moment — until it’s time to do this all over again.