Within six weeks, I was diagnosed with two completely separate cancers—Stage One HER2+ breast cancer and Stage Three rectal cancer.

I’m young.
(44.)

Until then, my health history was completely boring.

Then I got cancer. Two cancers.

And here’s the irony.

On paper, I look equipped.

I’m a lifelong over-achieving perfectionist who believes nothing she ever does is good enough. I have a terminal degree from an Ivy League university. I’ve been in therapy for years. My career has been built on innovation, clear communication, logistics, and making big things happen with very little.

I’ve led teams. I’ve taught students. I’ve worked in health, wellness, and human performance. I know nutrition, sleep, movement, stress, trauma.

I know how to help other people survive.

And if I’m being honest, I like being special. I like smart people sitting around trying to figure out how to handle me because I don’t quite fit into any box.

So of course I got two cancers at once.

Because on paper, I can handle it.

But I did not interview for this job.

I did not expect those smart people to be oncologists.
I did not expect those rooms to be tumor boards.
I did not want to have to pull out every skill I’ve ever learned to fight cancer in my own body.

And if two cancers weren’t enough, there’s this:

I got news of my first diagnosis 364 days after my husband told me he wanted a divorce.

I was a military spouse.
My life had already blown up.
I had just started to rebuild.

And then I was taken out at the knees.

It’s devastating.
It’s deeply unfair.
It’s too much for one person.

It’s a hand of cards no one should have to hold.

But when you’re holding the cards—no matter how complicated the game—you eventually face two choices: you make the next play, or you fold.

And I’m not folding.

I don’t know what cards I’ll pull next.

But I know the ones I’m holding now: wellness, science, sexuality, body image, relationships, logistics, human performance, resilience, mental health, loneliness, grief, mindfulness, spirituality, loss.

And I’ll lay them all down here.

Because I think it matters to tell the truth.
Because maybe you see a piece of yourself.
Because maybe someone asks a better question—or catches something earlier.
Because maybe it saves a life.

And maybe the life this saves is my own.

Welcome to the table.