I had no idea anything was wrong. It was just a normal day, and I was driving when I asked my son to open my mail. He read one word out loud—“abnormal”—and in that moment, my heart sank. I snatched the letter from him. Not me, I thought. I never have anything wrong with me.

Still, I went back for a second mammogram. The look on the radiologist’s face told me everything before she said a word. I was a 4C—highly suspicious. When I walked out of that office, I lost it. I couldn’t get hold of anyone in my family. My boss called, wondering where I was, and through tears, I told her, “I think I have cancer.” That was in 2014. My first diagnosis.

My biggest fear wasn’t the cancer itself—it was my kids. How was I going to tell them? What would happen to them if I didn’t survive? That was the part that tore me up inside. I stayed strong for them. I didn’t let them see me cry. I didn’t let them see the pain. I just kept showing up.

I went through 35 rounds of radiation, a lumpectomy, and a few years on tamoxifen. Eventually, I had to stop taking the medication because of the side effects, even though they said I was only at a four percent chance of recurrence. And wouldn’t you know it—six years later, it came back.

In 2020, I got the same call again. Same breast. Still no lump, no symptoms—just another mammogram that saved my life. This time, surgery and radiation weren’t on the table. The tissue sample I had was graded 46. It should’ve been somewhere between 10 and 20. My doctor wanted to take my left breast. I said, “Take them both.” I wasn’t going to live my life waiting for the other shoe—or breast—to drop. So I had a double mastectomy.

Recovery was hard, but not as bad as I expected. What I didn’t expect was eleven straight months of reconstruction—every two weeks, needles in my chest to stretch my skin until I felt like it was going to pop. But even through that, I kept working. I only took about three weeks off after my surgery before I was back at it.

People ask me how I did it. The truth is, I never let cancer have a place in my mind. I didn’t even call it cancer. I called it my Tata Funk. I made a promise to myself: I was going to get through this, put it behind me, and move on. When dark thoughts crept in—and yes, they did—I’d shut them down. I’d tell myself, “Nope. We’re not going there.” I’ve beat it twice. I’m still here. And I believe with everything in me that God has a plan, and it wasn’t for me to die of breast cancer.

I didn’t join any official support groups, but I’ve always felt led to connect with women walking through it. I meet them in my café. I believe God places them in my path. I don’t sugarcoat it. I tell them the truth—the real truth—not just what a doctor will tell you. I share my story, the good and the ugly. I even show photos from my reconstruction. No one prepared me for what I’d see when those bandages came off. If I can help even one woman avoid that shock, it’s worth it.

And yes—I joke. About the implants. About the scars. About how “the real ones tried to kill me.” Because if I don’t laugh about it, I’ll cry. So I’d rather laugh.

I found out about BCFCF after my second diagnosis. Someone asked if I knew about them, and I didn’t. But as a small business owner with crummy insurance and sky-high deductibles, I needed help. That’s exactly what I found in BCFCF—help, yes—but also hope. Since then, I’ve volunteered at events, worked fundraisers, helped however I could. That first gala I attended, I was volunteering at a booth when they asked all survivors to stand. I stood up, looked around, and thought, Look at us. Look how many of us are still here.

People say I’m strong. I guess I am. But more than anything, I’m honest. And I want other women to know that this journey is hard, but it’s not the end. You can live. You can laugh. You can run a business and sing karaoke and buy the bathing suit. You can take the trip, say yes to the new job, or do whatever it is you’ve been putting off. You don’t need to wait for “someday.”

Losing my dad in 2014 shifted something in me. Getting cancer twice just confirmed it: Life is short. So go live it.

If someone reading this just got diagnosed, here’s what I’d tell you:
Take a deep breath. Stay calm. Get your facts straight. Bring someone with you to appointments, because you’re not going to hear everything. Keep your faith. Say out loud that you will survive. And believe it.

I have four beautiful kids—Slate and Shale, my adopted twin boys, now 31. Clay, who’s 22 and plays college lacrosse in Tennessee. Savannah, my amazing 17-year-old daughter. And one fat English bulldog named Dozer who thinks he runs the place.

And I have a lot of life ahead of me. I’m not done yet.

So here I am—twice diagnosed, never defeated. And if you’re going through this? You’ve got this too.