Today, I’m not OK.

Everyone keeps telling me I should be jumping for joy. It’s my third surgery—my exchange is done. But I’m not celebrating. My head is a mess, my body is in pain, and the exhaustion? It’s soul-deep.

I’m supposed to be “done,” right? But I’m never really done.

I can’t let go of Letrozole, even though it feels like it’s slowly unraveling me. The fear is too loud. The fear of it coming back… of it spreading—to my brain, like it did with my mom. That fear owns space in my mind I can’t evict.

So I do what I’ve always done—I plan. I hired a team to map out every single risk factor. Some call it obsessive. Some say it’s masochistic. I say—it’s survival. I had already taken those steps before cancer confirmed what my gut already knew: breast and ovarian issues were never “ifs.” They were just waiting for their moment.

Now, I’ve removed the breasts. The ovaries. The tubes. I’ve tried to outrun the cancer I knew was coming. But my new fear lives in my brain. In my liver. In my lungs.

So I fight. Harder.

I beg my doctors for answers. I push for scans. I argue for better meds. I advocate like hell. I’m even building a white paper just to defend why I want off Letrozole and on Fulvestrant. Because no one is coming to save me. I have to save myself.

And yet… I still wake up every morning. I drink my coffee. My celery juice. My wild blueberry. My pomegranate. My tart cherry. Why? Because I believe in fighting inflammation, feeding my body what it needs, and chasing antioxidants like they’re life rafts.

Even when my stomach rushes food through so fast I barely absorb nutrients. Even when I lose weight I can’t afford to. Even when the gym feels impossible. Even when the acupuncture needles make me want to cry.

I still show up. Because I am trying to outrun, outsmart, and outlive this disease. Not for applause. Not for a medal. But because I’m not done living.

Today is a bad day. The headache has been here for days—before the surgery, during recovery, and now it just lingers like a shadow I can’t shake. I feel dizzy. Foggy. Scared. Tired.

But I’m here

.

And if you’re reading this and fighting your own war—whether it’s with cancer or the fallout it leaves behind—just know: I see you. I’m with you. And even on the worst days, we keep going.

We find the strength to advocate for the life we deserve.

Join the Journey If my story resonates with you, or if you are looking for the tools to advocate for your own health and resilience, let’s connect. You can find more of my journey and the strategies I use to navigate this path in my book, or reach out directly through my website to share your story.