I Thought Surviving Was the Finish Line. Twenty-One Years Later, I Know Better.

Twenty-one years ago, at my first oncology appointment, a stranger offered me a piece of advice that would become one of the guiding principles of my life: “My darling, 99% of this will be your mental fight.” I carried those words into surgery, through radiation and chemotherapy, and into every uncertain season that followed. They stayed with me through other illnesses, through losing more than 170 pounds, and through the slow, complicated work of reclaiming pieces of myself I once believed were gone forever.

At twenty-seven years old, standing on the precipice of my first partial mastectomy, my focus was singular: I wanted to live. I wanted the precious gift of a future. What I did not understand then was that survival would not seamlessly return me to the life I had known. I emerged from surgery alive, but transformed. My body had changed. My sense of safety had changed. The way I saw myself—and the way the world saw me—had changed.

For twenty-one years, cancer has woven itself into the fabric of my existence. I became known as “The Cancer Lady” and “The Fabulous Fighter.” Those names were given with love, and for a long time I wore them proudly. Fighting was what I did. Surviving was my greatest accomplishment. But somewhere inside that identity, I lost sight of the woman beyond the battle. I had lost my breasts, but I had also lost parts of myself that were harder to name: confidence, desire, creativity, trust in my body, and the freedom to imagine a future that was about more than staying alive.

For years, I believed survival was the finish line. Twenty-one years later, I know better.

Survival was only the beginning. There were still countless stages ahead of me—grieving, healing, rebuilding, rediscovering—and perhaps the most important of all: reclaiming my essence. Creating. Writing. Building something new. Moving my body not as punishment, but as a celebration of what it can still do. Adorning myself in clothing that speaks to my spirit. Taking photographs. Exploring the world. Letting myself want things again. Not because the past has vanished, but because it no longer gets to hold the pen to the rest of my story.

Twenty-one years ago, I was fighting simply to have a future. Today, part of that future looks like five children’s books sitting in front of me—five little pieces of imagination, courage, and joy that would not exist if that twenty-seven-year-old woman had stopped believing there could be something waiting for her beyond survival.

I have now met many versions of myself.

Some have revealed uncomfortable truths and asked me to grow. Others have reminded me to cherish my resilience, my softness, and all the delightful eccentricities that make me who I am. Each version has taught me something about what it means to truly live—not perfectly, not fearlessly, but fully. Healing, I have learned, is not a straight line. It is a continual process of remembering, releasing, and becoming. Some days I feel powerful. Other days I still grieve. Both can be true. Strength does not mean the absence of vulnerability; sometimes strength is simply allowing ourselves to be seen inside it.

I have also discovered the profound power of community—the family, friends, and fellow travelers who have lifted me when I felt alone. The people who witnessed not only my fight, but the woman emerging from it. Their courage and compassion have reminded me that although our journeys are deeply personal, we were never meant to carry them entirely by ourselves.

Today, I am not trying to return to the woman I was before cancer.

I am honoring her. I am grateful for her. But I am no longer chasing her.

I am becoming the woman who survived—and then chose to live.

As I write the next chapters of my life, I do so knowing that I am not defined by my past, but enriched by it. My scars are part of the story, but they are not the whole story. There is still hope to hold, joy to discover, work to create, and life waiting to surprise me.

I thought surviving was the finish line. It turns out, it was the place where I began again.

And twenty-one years later, I am still becoming.

Much love, Friends,

xoxo-Fab