Plot Twist, Mindset Shift

Note to the reader: This will be the longest post I write.

The Diagnosis

Life threw me a major plot twist on August 8, 2024, when I was diagnosed with triple-negative breast cancer—just three weeks before my wedding. In an instant, everything changed. One day, I was managing the whirlwind of motherhood, a new and demanding job, the chaos of summer schedules and back-to-school lists, and planning a shotgun destination wedding. The next, I was facing a fight for my life. It was a reality I never imagined for myself, and I’m still coming to terms with what it means.

I’ve always been someone who seeks out knowledge, even when it’s uncomfortable. In those first days, when I wasn’t crying, I buried myself in research, trying to understand what this diagnosis meant for me and my family. But despite the information, there was an undercurrent of shock, fear, and the undeniable feeling of losing control of my life. The future had suddenly shifted, and I was struggling to catch up.

When I first heard the diagnosis, my mind spun with disbelief. Is this for real? It can’t be. I’m young, healthy, and I have young kids. I didn’t feel sick, so how could this be happening? The fear that my time with my children could be cut short hit me like a wave. Suddenly, every minute with them felt heavier, more precious. The weight of it all was overwhelming.

At the time, Andy and I were deep into the final preparations for our wedding, and I found myself asking him over and over if he still wanted to go through with it. Did he want to take on the burden of a sick person like me? We cried a lot during those first weeks, grappling with the uncertainty of what lay ahead. Ultimately, we decided to keep the diagnosis to ourselves until after the wedding. The cancer may have changed our plans for the next year, but we weren’t going to let it steal the joy of our wedding day. It was our moment, and we wanted it to be about love and celebration, not sadness or pity. For that brief time, we vacillated between planning for my treatment and denying it altogether as we clung to the happiness we could still have.

Image: Only one of the best days of my life marrying Andy at The Dorfold in Nantwich, Cheshire, England on August 31, 2024.

Learning to Adjust

Since my diagnosis, I’ve had to shift my perspective in ways I never expected. Cancer has forced me to let go of my plans for myself and my family and embrace a different way of living. It’s no longer about striving for perfection or managing every little detail. Instead, I’m learning to focus on what I can still control—my mindset, my gratitude, and the love I share with those around me.

I’m finding that even though life has changed drastically, there are still moments that bring light. It’s about being present for the small things, like snuggling with the kids on the couch, taking “walk-dates” with Andy, or trying a yoga class with my mom and pilates with Emily, and popping over to see my parents just down the road. These moments don’t erase the fear, but they remind me that life can still hold beauty, even amid uncertainty.

Images from Left to Right: Mom and I before our myofascial session; Em and I after reformer pilates class (we're still smiling!) at Midtown.

I’ve always tried to find the good in people and the positive side of things, not letting negative emotions take hold for too long. But news like this hits differently—it’s impossible not to ask, Why me? There’s no easy answer, and I’ve realized there’s no fairness to it. My mom once told me, during another difficult time, that maybe I was going through it because I was strong and God knew I could handle it. I’m not sure where she or I stand on the topic of God these days, but her words still resonate. If someone had to face this, I’d rather it be me than my kids, Andy, or my parents.

Still, the treatment plan scares me as much as the diagnosis. The more I learned about the side effects of chemotherapy, the more anxious I became. A 90-minute chemo counseling session opened my eyes to what was coming—beyond fatigue and hair loss, I was warned about mouth sores, itchy skin, “chemo brain,”  induced menopause, and the exposure risks to loved ones living in the same house as me. To stay resilient, I try to frame my progress like training for a marathon. Instead of thinking of 4 out of 16 infusions, I count it as 4 down, with 8 more to go in this first or two phases—it feels more manageable that way. Andy also made a sticker chart for me—which has oddly been a motivator.

Images from Left to Right: Small weekly wins checking off chemo infusion dates for Cycle 1 Days 1-3 and Cycle 2 Day 1.

And I focus on showing up. I believe in the old adage that half the battle is just showing up. If I can attend my kids’ games, even if I cheer a little less to save my energy, I’m still there—and they’ll remember that. If I join a work call but let my team take the lead because I’m tired that day, I’m still present and in the room supporting my team. If I can make until 8 p.m., and kiss my kids good-night, then I’m part of the moments that matter. I don’t want to miss these things, so I show up—even when it’s hard.

Gratitude Amidst Uncertainty

One of the most surprising lessons I’ve learned through this process is how much power gratitude has in difficult times. Even in the face of this diagnosis, there are so many things I’m thankful for. I’m grateful that I was diagnosed at stage 2 instead of stage 4, that I live close to one of the country’s best cancer hospitals, and that Andy has been by my side through it all. I’m incredibly thankful for my parents, who dropped everything in their lives and moved down the street from me to be “on-call” and ready for all the unexpected and difficult moments to come. I often think about how much harder this journey could have been if I’d faced it alone or during times when my kids were more vulnerable.

I’ve also learned that focusing on gratitude doesn’t erase the hard stuff—it just helps me see it in a different light. The fears and challenges are still there, but so are the moments of connection and kindness. Like when Emily and Meghan wore pink to show their support, or when Charlie volunteered to help out with his younger sister so I could rest... even to take a nap, which is so unlike me. Or watching my parents shuffle Meghan to school, or my dad cleaning up dinner so I can spend my last bit of energy of the day on the kids. Or when my dear friend sent me the most thoughtful care package, full of supplies and little treasures for every new health and mental challenge I was about to face. And a friend of a lifetime who took my daughter on three college tours when I didn't have the energy. Or the random hydrangeas on my doorstep left by one neighbor that sat next to a plate of my favorite cookies left by another neighbor. The frequent emails from the school counselors and teachers just to check in on our family. And then there are the welcomed calls and texts from friends, extended family and co-workers, and all of the outreach of support that Andy fields on our behalf. These little acts of love remind me that while I can’t change the diagnosis, I can choose how I face it.

When I feel overwhelmed, the fear usually stems from one place—the fear of missing out on time with my loved ones. It’s the thought of losing precious moments that grips me the hardest. To navigate between that fear and a sense of gratitude, I turned to something I’ve always loved: writing. It started with lists—capturing all the traditions we’ve built as a family, both the big ones and the everyday rituals. I wrote down why they’re important, how they began, and the memories tied to them. If I don't make it to the other side of this, I want my kids to hold onto those traditions and remember me through them.

I also keep a list of all the acts of kindness people have shown me since my diagnosis. The outpouring of love has been overwhelming, and I know that when the initial shock of my diagnosis fades, and things get tougher, I’ll need those reminders. I want to look back and remember how supported I felt in these early days.

Writing has always been therapeutic for me—whether it’s journaling, drafting business plans, or jotting down chapters of books I may or may not finish. It helps me make sense of my thoughts and reframe them when fear creeps in. Through writing, I find a way to shift my focus back to gratitude, even in the most uncertain moments.

Mindset Shift

This journey isn’t one I would have chosen, but I’m finding ways to move forward with a different perspective. I’m starting to come to terms with a new rhythm of life, one where rest is necessary and where I have to lean on others more than I’m used to—finding new ways to communicate with Andy and the kids (#onlyhavetoaskonce). And, learning to ask for help from others to do things I wish I could do - like decorate for the holidays, or make everyone’s breakfast and lunch each day, or stay up late until the teens come home from a night out. But I’m also discovering a quiet strength within myself, one that is helping me face each new day, no matter what it brings.

Through all of this, I’ve come to realize that life doesn’t stop when you’re handed a difficult diagnosis. It changes, yes, but it continues to unfold in unexpected ways. I’m learning to embrace the changes, to appreciate the moments of joy, and to find strength in the love and support that surrounds me. It’s a mindset shift I never anticipated but one that’s guiding me through this new chapter.

HOCO

Images Left to Right: Tea and crepes with Meghan; JHHS homecoming; UW-Madison tour; Apple-picking; Pre-wedding kisses; ManU vs Liverpool at Old Trafford.

At first, I hesitated to read about other people’s cancer journeys. I didn’t see myself in those stories; it felt too distant and unrelatable. But as I opened up to friends, family, and colleagues about my own diagnosis, I discovered a community of shared experiences and strength I never knew existed. These conversations created a safe space for connection and learning from those who have faced their own battles.

A co-worker shared her story of battling lymphoma and enduring a similar chemotherapy regimen while starting her first job in Portugal. A friend told me about his mother’s fight with the same cancer as mine when he was just four years old in Colombia. My aunt opened up about shaving her head in solidarity with her best friend during her cancer fight in Arizona. Another friend is facing her battle with breast cancer, which led her to an unexpected new career in California. A close friend shared with me what it was like working with a co-worker with breast cancer in Illinois. My mother-in-law opened up about her experience while battling cancer more than a decade ago in England. Hearing these stories made me realize how deeply cancer touches lives across the world, often in ways we never know until we ask.

Cancer doesn’t discriminate, and learning how others have endured and come out stronger has shifted my perspective. It’s made me want to be that person on the other side—someone who isn’t defined by their current struggle but carries the experience as a source of strength and resilience to be a better version of themselves for the future.

The plot twist of cancer has already started to redefine so much about my life, but it’s also reinforcing what I’ve always known—that sometimes, the most difficult shifts bring the most growth. I’m learning to adapt, to find hope amid fear, and to hold onto the love that keeps me going. This blog is my way of documenting that journey—sharing the ups and downs, the lessons learned, and the moments that remind me there is still so much to fight for. I hope you’ll join me as I navigate this path, one step at a time.