Blog Post 1

July 23, 2025

Interrupted by the unthinkable (twice)

The Beast Called Cancer and the Girl Who Refused to Back Down

Life has a cruel way of testing your strength before you even know you have any. I was just 10 years old when cancer first came calling. A child, more worried about field day and sleepovers than survival. But survival became my new full time job.

They called it “Alveolar Soft Part Sarcoma.” I called it a thief. It stole part of my leg, literally. A major surgery removed a large muscle from my thigh, and with it, my sense of normal. The physical scar it left- which became the topic of a lot of hushed voices afraid to ask out loud. There were months of physical therapy and years of follow-up scans. I learned words no child should have to know. I became the worry of all of my loved ones. Becoming the center of attention at too many moments- something I learned to despise! I limped through adolescence with scars- some you could see, and some you couldn't. But eventually, I was declared clear. Remission. I was free. I was done.

Until I wasn't…

Fast-forward 21 years. I was 31. A wife. A mother of two incredible boys- ages 11 and not even one. Life was loud, beautiful, and chaotic in the best way. I had grown into someone who finally felt strong again. Steady. Whole.

And then came interruption number two: Stage 3 Hodgkins Lymphoma

This time was different. I wasn't a kid anymore. I wasn't just fighting for me. I was fighting with babies in my arms, dinner on the stove, a husband by my side, and a to-do list that didn't care I had cancer.

Six months of grueling chemo. Twelve rounds that chipped away at my strength, my identity, and at times- my hope. It took my hair. It took my energy. It took the version of me that thought I had already faced the hardest thing life had to offer. But somehow, even on the darkest days, I kept showing up. Because moms do that, right? We show up sick, tired, terrified. We show up anyway.

Cancer is gut-wrenching. It shatters your heart and your confidence in your body. It changes you at a cellular level- physically, mentally, spiritually. Twice now, I’ve stared down the beast and come out breathing.

I still don't fully understand why I had to face it twice, but I do know this: I am not the same girl I was at 10. And I'm not the same woman I was at 31. I am something else entirely. Something stronger. Something softer. Something a little more scarred and a lot more awake. I still smile through the tears of fear, anxiety, exhaustion. I still show strength on the days I can barely get out of bed. But I'm learning- to feel the feelings in the moment. To accept that it’s okay to not be okay. To ask for help and lean on that amazing support system I've gathered along the way. I may be “cancer free”- “cured” even. But it never goes away. It never leaves your head, your soul. It is a forever worry, a “until the next round” waiting game. Not by choice, believe me- Id never choose to live like that.

My advice? Find your people. The ones who don't judge the moments of doubt and question. The ones who don't expect you to be the strong one through every battle. The ones who allow you to crumble, and pick you back up. You’re not alone in your battle- no matter what that battle is.

This blog- Muddy Puddles and Sunshine- is for the stories like these. The messy ones. The ones you don't want but somehow make you who you are. Its for the broken and the rebuilt. For the fighters. For the feelers. For the ones still walking through the storm with wet shoes and a stubborn kind of hope.

This is only the beginning.