Choosing My Mindset | Resisting Outside Influence With Grace & Understanding
- May 16
- 14 min read
Updated: May 21
***contains a couple potty words. I’m sorry Grammy***
I have learned there are different kinds of silence in this world.
There’s the silence of waiting rooms with broken water fountains and outdated magazines.
The silence between a doctor taking a deep breath and saying the words “your scan was not clear.”
The silence while refreshing a patient portal every seven seconds like somehow your anxiety itself might upload the results faster.
And then there’s the silence after hearing the words:
“It’s metastatic.”
“Stage IV.”
“Advanced.”
“Let me find you a box of tissues.”
“You need to sit down before I share your results.”
“Do you have a living will?”
“Here is where you submit your life insurance policy information so the state of Idaho has it on file for your son.”
“Here are the detrimental life changing risks of this medicine you have to take or else you will die soon”
The entire universe suddenly glitches for one long, cruel second just to watch whether or not you break this time.
I don’t sit in grief very long. I never really have. I’m the kind of person who speed walks emotionally through terrible situations like a mom late for daycare pickup holding a Coconut Redbull in one hand and eleven mental breakdowns in the other.
But this came in waves.
Every single breadcrumb of information demanded its own tiny funeral. Those bastards snuck up on me from every direction for weeks.
The process was maddening.
Scan. Wait 4-5 business days. Cry. Spiral. Convince myself I was probably fine. Hold Max tighter. Refresh MyChart 46 times. Scan again.
It felt like being chased through a haunted house in slow motion.
And the strangest part was realizing I had been walking around in an “earth suit” absolutely riddled with cancer cells multiplying like they paid rent there.
This body.
The same body that grew an entire human being from scratch just two years ago.
The same body that used to belt out every lyric on Eminem’s Curtain Call album while driving with the windows down.
The same body I trained relentlessly for 16 years as an athlete and dancer.
The same body that ran barefoot in the fresh cut grass while my mom laughed and chased me around the backyard when I was a child myself.
The same body I dragged across oceans and airports and foreign countries just to experience the world.
The same body who experienced the warmth of sand from the beaches of Maui, Jamaica, Mexico between its toes within one summer.
The same body I use to pretend I’m an airplane for Max while he laughs and screams “MAMA AGAIN PWEES.”
The same chest my little boy still falls asleep on at night listening to the heartbeat he has known since he was literally a microscopic blob of cells floating inside me.
The body I fed well, cared for, strengthened, respected, and protected felt like it was betraying me. I was fucking pissed. I am angry. I’m furious, in fact.
But as I said, I don’t let myself sit in the heaviness for too long. I refuse to let anger consume who I am. I refuse to let cancer take pieces of me that have nothing to do with tumors or scans or treatment plans.
First of all, I refuse to lose my life.
But I also refuse to lose my humor, my personality, my genuine love for life, and all the little things that make me me.
It’s taken years of work, growth, and honestly a whole lot of therapy to get to a place where I can say this confidently: I truly like who I am as a person. Whole chest. Tumors included. And because of that, I can also say with absolute certainty that this diagnosis feels deeply unfair. I have a million reasons why it shouldn’t be happening.
Yes, my hair is falling out faster than I emotionally prepared for. And yes, there’s grief tied to losing parts of my identity that once felt permanent. But if I’m being honest, the terrifying part was never the hair.
It’s the thought of losing future memories that haven’t happened yet.
Suddenly the lash extensions and perfectly platinum blonde hair mean a little less.
Unfortunately I thought I was lovingly maintaining a beautiful little cottage only to discover raccoons with knives living in the attic.
I am not ready to die.
Not even remotely.
I used to think dying at 85 sounded tragic because life itself felt too short.
6 weeks ago I would’ve said the concept of dying at 100 years old made me want to cry.
Now I sit here at 2am riddled with fear and uncertainty wondering:
What about 31?
What happens if my two year old son loses me before his brain is even old enough to permanently store memories of my voice?
Would I become one of those mothers stitched together through stories other people Itell?
“Your mom loved this song.”
“Your mom had the most obnoxious laugh, you would’ve loved it.”
“You have your moms dimples.”
“You were your mom’s entire world, she loved you so much.”
“Your mom loved daisies and sunflowers. They were her favorite.”
“Your mom was stubborn as hell. That is where you get it from.”
Would I become a photo album person?
A candle on a memory table at his wedding someday?
Would there be a tiny framed picture of me beside a flickering tea light while another woman danced the mother-son dance with my baby because my body quit too early?
Would Max grow up carrying a grief so enormous he couldn’t even explain it because how do you miss someone you barely remember, if at all?
Would he cry alone someday instead of collapsing into my arms while I wiped his tears with my sleeve and held him tight, even if he grows to be twice my size?
Would he dread my memory being brought up by others because it made his heart crumble in ways he couldn’t cope with?
Would every graduation, birthday, vacation, Christmas morning, and milestone come with sadness randomly kicking him in the ass when he deserves to be experiencing happiness?
In response to that metaphorical tragedy…
Absolutely the fuck not.
No.
No to every single part of that story.
Because I am not going to die.
I refuse, because my prognosis is one that is curable.
When my oncologist finally laid out exactly how advanced the cancer was, I didn’t ask “Why is this happening to me?”
I took a deep breath and said:
“Okay. What’s next? You say jump, I say how high. Every decision we make needs to end with me sitting my ass in an uncomfortable folding chair screaming at the top of my lungs when they call my son’s name at high school graduation sixteen years from now. It also must lead to me dancing the funky chicken at Cole and I’s 50th wedding anniversary with a face covered in wrinkles. Every recommendation you make must contribute 100% to these goals.”
And I meant it.
Still do.
The irony in all of this is that outside of the cancer, I’m extraordinarily healthy.
Every scan checking my organs before chemotherapy came back beautiful.
My oncologist looked me dead in the eyes and told me my sobriety likely saved my life.
6.5 years of rebuilding myself and consciously choosing health wound up being much more important than I ever dreamed of.
Turns out it mattered.
A lot.
If I hadn’t quit drinking years ago, this cancer likely would’ve spread even further before we caught it. My cancer thrives on estrogen specifically, and alcohol consumption detrimentally impacts hormones.
That realization alone nearly knocked the wind out of me.
Every hard choice I made for myself years ago reached forward in time and grabbed my hand.
And because I’m young and healthy, I qualify for the most aggressive, evidence based treatment available.
This cancer diagnosis has come with something I never expected: judgment. A lot of it.
Not from everyone, of course. Most people truly mean well. I know that. I know people are trying to help, trying to offer hope, trying to make sense of something that feels impossible to understand.
Because naturally, when something awful happens, everyone asks the same question: why?
Believe me, nobody wants that answer more than I do.
But sometimes there isn’t a neat explanation. Sometimes there isn’t a hidden toxin, a secret lifestyle mistake, or some dramatic family curse waiting to be uncovered. Sometimes one tiny cell mutates, multiplies, and suddenly your life changes forever.
I have zero family history of breast cancer. Zero. My genetic testing came back clear as an August afternoon sky.
And while I understand concern, what has been hard is watching people confidently hand out medical advice to me without warning based on TikToks, podcasts, conspiracy theories, and “wellness influencers” instead of actual science.
I need people to understand something very clearly (and with so much love):
I am not a science experiment.
I am a 31-year-old mother with a two-year-old son.
I do not have the luxury of gambling with my life to test whether an internet personality might secretly know more than an entire team of oncologists.
My cancer is stage IV metastatic breast cancer. It has spread beyond one local area. This is not a minor diagnosis. This is not the time for me to “see what happens” if I skip treatment and replace it with “not for human consumption”supplements, coffee enemas, or whatever miracle cure is trending online this week. I genuinely say this with kindness.
Do I believe holistic care has value? Absolutely.
I use holistic methods every single day for symptom management, pain relief, mental health, nutrition, and overall wellbeing. Those things matter tremendously.
But holistic support and replacing SOLID evidence-based cancer treatment are not the same thing.
Chemotherapy is brutal. It is exhausting. It comes with side effects I wouldn’t wish on anyone. I understand why people fear it. I fear it too sometimes. I am living it every moment of every day right now.
But my decision to do chemotherapy is not me “giving up” or “blindly trusting doctors.”
It is me fighting for my life.
It is me fighting for more time with my son.
More birthdays. More bedtime stories. More sticky toddler hugs. More ordinary Tuesdays.
And honestly, when people suggest I avoid treatment entirely because they watched a podcast clip or a TikTok video, I don’t think they fully understand what they are asking me to risk.
There are influencers online spreading dangerous misinformation to vulnerable people. Some of them speak beautifully. Some of them sound incredibly convincing. Some of them genuinely believe what they are saying.
That still does not make it true.
(It also does not make it completely, 1000% untrue either)
We should ask questions.
We should advocate for ourselves.
We should get second opinions and understand our options fully.
But there is a massive difference between informed medical advocacy and internet fear mongering with the pressure to pay to join a community, or purchase a diet supplement advertised by exposing the insecurities of chemotherapy patients. It’s quite unnerving the actual nerve of some of these people. Diet culture clashing with those struggling with temporary body composition changes due to a deadly cancer diagnosis is sickening. It’s dishonest. It’s not human.
Lately, I’ve been sent countless videos from creators claiming they “cured” stage IV cancer naturally. One of the biggest names people keep sending me is Carli Grampp. (If you are someone who shared with me, please know I still love you and appreciate that you do care about me. I know the intention is always with love and kindness.)
And listen… her story is compelling. She is articulate, charismatic, and clearly resonates with a lot of scared people searching for hope. I understand why people are drawn to her content. She is lovable. Her story is hers, and I give her that grace. She has every right to own her own truth.
But what concerns me, actually what aggravates me, is the way alternative therapies are sometimes presented as though they are scientifically proven replacements for chemotherapy, while conventional treatment is framed as cowardly, ignorant, or harmful.
That messaging is dangerous.
Especially when it’s directed toward terrified cancer patients who are desperate for certainty, and connection.
One thing I’ve noticed is how often dramatic statements are used online for emotional impact; things like calling stage IV breast cancer an automatic “two-year death sentence.” That simply is not universally true. Oncology has evolved tremendously. Many people with metastatic breast cancer live for years while receiving treatment and maintaining quality of life.
Since 2018, evidence based science has changed the landscape of breast cancer treatment in remarkable ways. Through legitimate lab research, controlled clinical trials, and major advances in targeted therapies the survival rate for many breast cancer patients has nearly tripled in just eight years.
That matters. Also, the MammoPrint is an absolutely incredible medical breakthrough.
Because while cancer is terrifying, medicine is not standing still. Researchers, oncologists, scientists, and patients before us have helped pave the way for treatments that are smarter, more effective, and giving people more time, more options, and more hope than ever before.
Any horror story beginning prior to the 2018 breakthrough science of the tumor MammoPrint is not a story that will align with today’s cancer treatment and its outcomes. Please remember that.
Fear gets clicks. Certainty gets followers. But real medicine is far more nuanced than social media allows. It’s not trendy or cool to be accepting of modern medicine anymore.
I also think it’s important to recognize that selling supplements, memberships, coaching programs, or “exclusive cancer communities” can create financial incentives that deserve scrutiny too. If we are going to question the medical system, we should also question people profiting from alternative treatment spaces.
At the end of the day, though, my frustration is not really about one influencer.
It’s about the larger culture we’ve created where every sick person suddenly becomes public property for opinions.
Everyone wants to solve you.
Everyone wants to hand you “the answer.”
Everyone thinks they would make different choices if they were you.
But they are not you.
They are not sitting in the oncology chair.
They are not signing consent forms.
They are not staring at scans showing cancer in multiple places in their body glowing like a Christmas tree, and sobbing like a child in their mom’s lap at 31 years old.
They are not trying to figure out how to survive long enough to watch their child grow up.
I am.
And right now, I need support more than speculation.
Maybe one day science will advance enough that treatments like ivermectin or other alternative therapies become fully evidence-based options for metastatic cancer. Science evolves constantly. Medicine changes constantly. I want this to be true and I am more than open to it; I just do not want to be the guinea pig for it.
But today, in this moment, I cannot bet my life on theories that have not been proven. It would be selfish, and unintelligent.
I do not have the luxury of time.
I do not have the luxury of trial and error.
So yes, I am doing chemotherapy.
And yes, I stand by that decision completely.
Not because I’m weak.
Not because I’m naïve.
Not because I’m “brainwashed by doctors.”
But because I want to live. I want to know without a doubt I remain a part of the positive side of my 96% chance of PROVEN survival rate, and ensure I am not a part of the other 4%.
Here’s some links for things we really need to take into consideration while choosing alternative routes. With solid educated decision making skills.
Claims to have “truth-telling” stories from “experts”
Paid subscription capitalizing on cancer patients seeking any form of community they possibly can
Influencer who causes people to die based on her entirely false cancer diagnosis and how she cured herself
The other piece of this puzzle is that naturally, because I keep searching for the answer to “why is this happening,” I turn inward and blame myself. My brain has apparently decided that if I can just locate the exact mistake I made somewhere along the way, maybe I can make sense of all of this.
So I replay my life like I’m reviewing security camera footage after a crime.
Was it the energy drinks?
The diet soda?
The stress?
The alcohol addiction that lead into sobriety, even though I’m 6.5 years sober?
The non-organic strawberries from 2015?
Did I unknowingly anger the wellness gods by using regular deodorant instead of one that smells like eucalyptus and financial privilege?
I feel this intense need to take radical accountability for something I did not actually cause. And honestly, that has been one of the heaviest parts of all of this. The depression, the overwhelm, the constant second guessing of myself.
But surprisingly, it hasn’t just been my own inner voice doing the criticizing. Other people have been incredibly comfortable voicing their scrutiny too.
“Was your deodorant aluminum free?”
“Did you carry your phone in your sports bra?”
“Did you buy organic produce or did you eat pesticides?”
“How did you not notice your lymph nodes were swollen?”
“You drank a lot of diet soda and energy drinks…”
“You didn’t notice the lumps while breastfeeding?”
These are all real comments and questions I’ve heard in the last month.
And listen up, I understand where some of it comes from. Humans desperately want explanations for terrible things. We want cause and effect because it helps us feel safe. If we can identify the reason something happened to someone else, especially someone we love, then maybe we can convince ourselves it could never happen to us.
But the problem with that mindset is that it quietly turns sick people into suspects.
Like somehow I accidentally “lifestyled” my way into stage IV metastatic breast cancer at 31 years old while raising a toddler, working, surviving, and simply being a human being.
Stop.
Please stop asking cancer patients to defend every grocery item, every habit, every choice they’ve ever made as if they’re standing trial for their own diagnosis.
Sometimes terrible things happen without a neat explanation. Sometimes cells mutate. Sometimes biology betrays you completely out of nowhere.
And I can promise you this:
I already blame myself enough without needing an audience participation segment.
Back to me, now. Lol.
So here’s the game plan, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, and unwelcome demons residing in my left breast:
First: 16 rounds of chemotherapy.
Round one.
Adriamycin and Cyclophosphamide every two weeks.
Also lovingly nicknamed “The Red Devil,” which honestly sounds less like a medication and more like a WWE wrestler sponsored by Satan himself.
Then weekly Paclitaxel for 12 weeks.
Every week I get bloodwork.
Physical exams.
One injection to force my body into temporary menopause, which feels exactly as dramatic as it sounds… and another injection to boost my white blood cells.
Managing side effects.
Protecting my sobriety fiercely.
Because staying sober matters just as much to me as killing cancer cells does.
Round two.
Then comes the double mastectomy and reconstruction. A massive surgery, with risk factors that mean nothing to me in comparison to the benefit.
Round three.
Then radiation to my breast and sternum five to six days a week for two straight months.
Then healing.
Actual healing.
And in the middle of all the science and medicine and terrifying words, I’m also fighting for myself in every softer way I know how too.
CBD and CBG.
Acupuncture.
Red light therapy.
Reiki.
Grounding.
Meditation.
Protein packed meals.
Fresh air.
Journaling.
Sunlight with safety measures.
Playing with my son. Spending time with my friends and family. Avoiding isolation.
A realistic consistent exercise routine that keeps me moving, safe, and strong.
Reading uplifting material, making art, and less screen time.
Saunas and deep breathing.
Bedtime routine.
Being mindful of my caffeine consumption.
Accepting my body is going to dramatically change quickly, but knowing the importance of allowing it to do so.
Therapy. Therapy. Therapy.
And perhaps the hardest challenge of all:
Allowing people to help me.
Which frankly feels disgusting and unnatural to my stubborn, hyper independent, workaholic brain.
I went from being a full time graduate student, working a full time job, and being a full time single parent to a toddler because of my family’s unique situation… to being forced to just, stop. To sit down. Hold back. Rest.
I cannot work. I have worked since I was 15 years old, and have never known any different.
I cannot provide for myself or my son.
I cannot continue adding finances to my sons college account.
I cannot drive much.
I cannot continue with my school clinical hours and finish next semester anymore.
I cannot physically handle carrying my giant two-year-old son as often.
I cannot participate in much socially because I have so many appointments, and my symptoms require me to be home more often.
I’ve already learned a lot.
Mostly that people really do love me.
And that accepting love gracefully is its own kind of strength.
I’ve completed my first round of chemo.
Round two will be administered in four days.
The side effects after the first treatment were brutal. They’re expected to get more severe after each treatment.
The exhaustion. The pain. The steroids. The emotional crash.
But none of that hurt as badly as missing time with Max.
That little boy owns every surviving piece of my heart.
I love him more than I hate the fact I unknowingly walked around with cancer growing inside me for years.
And maybe that’s the whole point.
This fight is for me.
But mostly It’s for him.
When we play dragons, I always pretend to slay the monsters dramatically before collapsing onto the carpet while he laughs hysterically and declares himself the winner anyway.
One day, when he’s older, I’ll tell him the story about how his mama fought a real dragon.
A terrifying one.
A vicious one.
A blood thirsty one.
And how I looked it dead in the face and said:
“You’re a butt face” before saving myself, Max, and everyone else around me from the destruction and havoc it was wreaking on our lives.
I hope one day Max tells his story and shares his admiration for his mom, a petite dragon slayer sporting compression socks, pink crocs, and a shiny bald head. I hope he chooses me as his fighter, every single time. Because you bet your ass I am his ultimate fighter, and I will never stop pushing forward for him
A small heartfelt registry linked below:
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