I found the lump on New Year’s Eve, December 2012. I remember exactly where I was, what I was doing, and the sinking feeling in my stomach when I realized something wasn’t right. It was the start of a new year—but not in the way I had hoped. That moment changed everything.

When I first heard the words “You have breast cancer,” I felt numb. My diagnosis was invasive ductal carcinoma, ER positive, PR negative, HER2 positive—Stage 3. It all seemed surreal.

From the very beginning, my husband has been my rock. He never allowed me to feel sorry for myself. Instead, he encouraged me to keep moving, stay active, and engage in various activities. He attended every appointment with me, took notes, conducted research, and helped me make decisions I could feel confident about. I honestly don’t know how I would have gotten through this without him.

My treatment plan was intense—chemo first, then a right mastectomy, followed by radiation. I was also prescribed ten years of estrogen blockers. I kept working through almost all of it—except for a half-day off on chemo days and a few days after surgery. Staying engaged with work and everyday activities helped keep my mindset positive, and that made all the difference.

But it wasn’t easy.

The hardest part for me came after treatment. I had a failed reconstruction healing issues and had to go through hyperbaric treatments. The emotional toll of not feeling “whole” as a woman with one breast was harder than I expected. There’s this panacea that reconstruction will fix everything—but for me, it didn’t. On top of that, I still deal with long-term side effects from chemo, lymphedema, and the frustration of buying clothes that work with a prosthesis. That part doesn’t get easier with time.

Despite it all, I never saw myself as sick. I always believed I was cancer-free. I didn’t want to wallow in it, so I didn’t join any support groups for a long time. But over the last year, everything changed.

I got involved with the Breast Cancer Foundation of Central Florida (BCFCF) after Riz, my lymphedema physical therapist, invited me to sponsor their gala through my company. That led to me starting a support group—not focused on treatment, but on life after. We’ve got women currently in treatment and others post-treatment, and we talk about it all—how we cope, how we laugh, how we live. Honestly, it’s become this beautiful, unexpected gift. A space filled with laughter, love, and real connection. I never imagined how much joy and friendship it would bring me.

Through this journey, I’ve learned to love my authentic self—exactly as I am. Yes, I miss having both breasts. Yes, I sometimes wish I looked the way I used to. But when I look in the mirror, I remind myself that I’m alive, that I’ve made it through, and that I’m still here to love, laugh, and be grateful every day.

I’ve embraced my white, super-short haircut—and I love it! Losing my long, curly hair was one of the best things ever. I’ve learned to tell the people I love how grateful I am for them. I’ve learned to slow down, to play more, and to soak up the little things. Life feels fuller now… in a “God’s not finished with me yet” way.

I get regular lymphedema massages now, and I’m proud to say I’m an 11-year survivor.

If I could go back to the day I was diagnosed, I would tell myself: “See yourself well. Believe it. Stay positive. Be your own advocate. Ask questions. Do your research. Make the right decisions for you, not what someone else says you should do.”

I say to anyone newly diagnosed: You don’t have to walk this journey alone. There is strength in support. And you are stronger than you think.

BCFCF has been a meaningful part of my journey—not just for what they do but for how they inspire survivors like me to share, connect, and heal in spoken and unspoken ways. They helped me want to give back and make sure that no one has to walk this path feeling alone.

If I could describe BCFCF in one sentence:

They are a lifeline of love, support, and connection that helps survivors feel seen, heard, and whole.

This is my story of survival, love, laughter, and growth. I hope it reminds someone out there that even after cancer, there is joy, beauty, and so much life to be lived.