This Is My Story. Not the Only Story.

Before I keep telling you the raw parts of my cancer journey, I need you to know something. And I need you to hear it before you hear anything else.

This is what cancer felt like for me. It is not what cancer feels like for everyone.

I know that sounds simple, but it matters more than almost anything else I'm going to say. Because somewhere along the way, people started treating cancer like it has one script — one way to feel, one way to fight, one way to be brave. And it doesn't. The diagnosis comes with a name. The treatment comes with a plan. But the way it lands on your spirit, your body, your marriage, your kids, your faith, your bank account, your sense of who you even are anymore — that part doesn't fit on any chart. That part is yours alone.

So this is mine. My raw, unfiltered, sometimes uncomfortable truth. And if I'm being honest with you, I pray it stays mine. I would not wish the way I went through this on anybody.

I Was Not That Person

People love to tell you how strong you are. And maybe some people really do feel strong from the first day. Maybe some people stay positive, keep the faith steady, hold it together without falling apart. I have met people who found a kind of peace early and never lost it, and I am genuinely happy for them.

I was not that person.

There were nights the fear sat on my chest so heavy I could barely pull in a full breath. There were days I smiled through a phone call while everything inside me was coming apart — telling people I'm okay when I was nowhere close to okay. I said it to protect them. I said it so my kids wouldn't see how scared their parent really was. I looked at my children more times than I can count and wondered, quietly, if I was going to be here for the things they still needed me for. I grieved the version of myself I used to be. I felt betrayed by my own body — like it had turned on me without asking permission.

And here is the part I really need you to understand: none of that made my faith weak.

Faith and Fear in the Same Body

I love God. I trust God. I believe with my whole heart that He carried me through this. But faith never made the fear disappear. The two of them lived in the same body, at the same time, and I stopped apologizing for that. There were nights I was too sick and too tired to pray anything that sounded holy. Sometimes all I had was Lord, help me. Sometimes I didn't even have that — I just laid there hurting, hoping He understood what my silence was trying to say.

I believe He did.

Being afraid does not mean you don't have faith. It means you're human. You can trust God completely and still cry the whole way to a scan. You can be grateful to be alive and still heartbroken over everything cancer took from you. You can be in remission and still flinch every time a new ache shows up. Gratitude and grief turned out to be roommates. So did healing and hurting. Nobody warned me about that, so I'm warning you.

Silence Almost Cost Me Too Much

I held too much in. I downplayed too much. I told myself things were fine when something inside me already knew they weren't. And I keep thinking — if I had spoken up sooner, asked the harder question, pushed back on the answer that didn't sit right with me, how much could have been different?

So if my words do anything, I want them to do that for you. I want you to know it's okay to ask the question again when the answer feels wrong. To say that doesn't make sense to me, explain it again. To pay attention to the thing your body keeps whispering even when everyone around you is telling you it's nothing. Advocate for yourself. Be the loud one in the room if you have to be. Nobody is living in your body but you.

Your Story Is Valid. Whatever It Looks Like.

Maybe you didn't cry the way I cried. Maybe you cried a whole lot more. Maybe you were angry, or numb, or weirdly calm, or all of it before lunch. Maybe your faith never wobbled once. Maybe you had to fight to hold onto it with both hands.

Whatever it was — your story is real. Your experience is valid. I am not here to define what this journey should look or feel like for you, and I would never try to. Every diagnosis is different. Every body responds differently. Every heart carries pain in its own way. Mine is just mine.

If I could choose anything for you, it's this: that you never have to know the nights I knew. That your doctors listen closer. That the fear never gets to be as suffocating, and the nights never get as lonely.

I pray you never go through it the way I did.

But if you do — I hope these words find you somewhere in the dark and remind you that you're still here. Still loved. Still held. And still allowed to feel every single thing you feel, without anybody handing you a rulebook for how you're supposed to survive something like this.

Because that's all it really is in the end. Surviving.

And sometimes surviving looks like faith. Sometimes it looks like tears. Sometimes it's silence. Sometimes it's breaking all the way down and getting back up anyway.

For me, it looked like every bit of that.

— Von Unfiltered

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