I Didn't Just Throw These Blogs Together.

 

I need to say this before I share anything else.

These blogs are not something I sat down and threw together one afternoon because I wanted attention, or sympathy, or just something to post.

These words came from somewhere deeper than that.

They came from journal pages. From hospital beds. From chemo chairs. From the nights when the whole house was quiet but my mind would not stop talking. From the moments I was too scared to say out loud what I was really feeling, so I wrote it down instead.

I journaled through my entire treatment. Not perfectly. Not every day. Not always in pretty words or finished sentences. Sometimes it was just a few lines scratched out before I fell asleep. Sometimes it was anger. Sometimes it was fear. Sometimes it was a prayer. And sometimes it was me trying to convince myself I was okay when I absolutely was not.

Now I'm taking pieces of those entries and turning them into something I can share.

Why It Repeats

So if it sounds like I say certain things more than once, I need you to understand why. It isn't because I'm trying to repeat myself. It's because trauma doesn't move in a straight line, and healing doesn't fit into one clean chapter. Fear came back. Faith came back. Pain came back. And God kept showing up, over and over, in the middle of all of it. Some of these memories still come to me in pieces, and I'm writing them the way they return to me.

There are things in here I wrote while I was living through them. Things I never once believed another person would read. Too personal. Too raw. Too heavy. Things I thought would stay between me, my journal, and God.

I've Always Been Private

Because I'm a private person.

I've always been the one who deals with things quietly. I don't like feeling exposed. I don't like being looked at differently. And pity — pity makes me uncomfortable in a way I can't even fully put into words. I can be hurting and still tell you, 'I'm okay.' I can be terrified and still smile. I can be falling apart on the inside and still show up for everybody else.

So sharing this much of myself does not come naturally to me. It's uncomfortable. It's vulnerable. It feels like opening the door to a room I spent a long time keeping shut.

But I don't believe this battle is mine to keep to myself anymore.

The First Time — 2023

The first time I had cancer, back in 2023, I felt God telling me to share. And I did — a little. I talked some about chemo. I let people see small pieces of what I was going through. But never too much. Not the deep stuff. Not the ugly-crying stuff. Not the 'God, I'm scared' stuff. Not the nights I lay there wondering how much more my body could take.

So many times something would press on my heart to share, and I'd tell myself, 'I'll just put it in my journal.' Then I'd close the cover and think: No. That's too personal. That makes me too exposed. And I'd hide it.

Then It Came Back — 2025

Then 2025 came. And the cancer came back. And something in me changed.

Not all at once. Not in some beautiful, dramatic way. It was more like life backed me into a corner where I couldn't keep pretending that staying silent was the same thing as staying safe.

Because the second time, I wrote even more. And what I wrote was harder to look at.

I wrote about a kind of fear I never wanted anyone to see. About being so tired. About being angry at the whole situation. About feeling like my own body had betrayed me. About trying to stay strong for my children while quietly wondering how much strength I had left in me. About crying when nobody was watching. About still believing in God and being terrified at the very same time.

And at first I still thought — this is too much. I can't share this.

The Person in the Dark Room

But then I started thinking about the person sitting in their own dark room right now.

Maybe it isn't cancer for them. Maybe it's grief. Maybe it's depression. A marriage coming apart. Money they can't make stretch. A sickness no one else can see. A fear they don't even have words for. Maybe they're the strong one in their family too, and they are so tired of being strong. Maybe they're smiling in public and breaking down in private. Maybe they're praying and still scared, and they've started believing that being afraid means their faith isn't enough.

And maybe — just maybe — if I tell the truth about what I felt, they'll feel a little less alone in what they're feeling.

Why I'm Sharing

That's why I'm doing this.

Not because it's easy. Not because I want everybody in my business. Not because I enjoy going back to those moments. I'm sharing because if God carried me through something this heavy, I don't believe I'm supposed to bury the testimony just because it makes me squirm. I don't believe I survived all of this only to pretend it didn't hurt.

Some of these blogs may be hard to read, because they were hard to live. Some sound emotional because I was emotional when I wrote them. Some feel heavy because the moments were heavy. And some may sound like I'm circling back to the same pain — because my journey circled back too.

This Was a Fight

This was a fight. A real one. Physical. Mental. Emotional. Spiritual.

And I'm still learning how to tell the truth about it without shrinking back. Still learning how to be open without feeling ashamed. Still learning that being vulnerable isn't the same as being weak.

Sometimes vulnerability is obedience. Sometimes it's ministry. Sometimes it's the thing that helps the next person finally breathe.

Laying Them Down

So no — I didn't throw these blogs together.

I carried these words a long time. Through treatment. Through the cancer coming back. Through surgeries. Through scans. Through the nights I was scared to even close my eyes.

And now I'm laying them down, one page at a time. Not polished. Not pretending to have the answers. Just honestly.

Because this is my story. This is what I wrote when I was only trying to survive.

And if opening my journal helps even one person feel seen, I'll keep sharing. Even when it scares me. Even when it leaves me feeling exposed. Even when I have to take a deep breath before I press publish.

Because maybe this battle was never meant to stay hidden.

Maybe somebody needs the raw version. Maybe somebody needs to know that faith can live in the same room as fear. That they're not crazy for feeling broken. That God can stay close even when life feels unbearable.

And maybe that's why He kept pressing it on my heart all along.

— Von Unfiltered

Stage 3 (2023) · Remission (2024) · Stage 4 (2025) · Remission (2026)

"A time to be silent and a time to speak."  — Ecclesiastes 3:7