There are people who come into your life and quietly change you — not with grand gestures or loud words, but with steady strength, quiet faith, and a light that never seems to dim, even in the darkest moments.
For me, that person is my dear friend Nicole,
We met years ago in a local moms’ group — the kind of space where coffee, laughter, and sleepless stories from motherhood connected us all. Over time, through coffee dates, moms’ nights out, and a shared love of photography, our friendship deepened. Nicole has always been the kind of woman who shows up for others — strong but soft, steady but full of joy. She is the friend who listens, who laughs easily, who lifts others up even when life feels heavy.
So when she told me she had breast cancer, it hit me like a rock straight to the stomach. I remember sitting there, my heart sinking, trying to find the right words — but there aren’t any. What do you say when someone you love has just been handed a mountain to climb?
What I didn’t know then was that Nicole wouldn’t just climb that mountain — she would rise from it. She would go through the fire, and from the ashes, she would raise a phoenix.
This is her story — in her own words, in her own strength — the journey of a woman who faced the storm and found grace on the other side.
I still remember exactly where I was when I heard the words, “You have breast cancer.” I was sitting in my work car between patients, waiting for a phone call from my oncologist about the results of my needle biopsy. I had one more patient left to see that day—one more person to help—before I could let whatever news was coming sink in. When he said the words, “It is cancer,” I can’t say I was shocked. Deep down, I think I already knew. I just didn’t want to believe it.
For almost five years, I had been seeing oncologists for what they called “pre-cancer” in both breasts. I had gone through biopsies before—some with markers left behind to track the tissue—and they’d all come back negative. I was taking Tamoxifen, a drug meant to stop cancer before it started. I was supposed to finish my five years on it in just five more months. Five months. But here I was, sitting in my car, realizing that this time, my luck had changed.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t fall apart. Not yet. I had a patient to see, and I had to keep it together. I tucked my emotions away and went back to work, because that’s what I do—I care for others. When I finally made a phone call, it was to my second ex-husband. Not because I needed comfort from him, but because of our two young daughters—just 8 and 13 years old at the time. I needed to know what to tell them, how to tell them, when to tell them. How do you look into your children’s eyes and say something like that?
Looking back, I know I was incredibly blessed—I found my cancer at stage one. And I found it purely by the grace of God. It was a hot day in June, and I was working in home health, in and out of my car all day. I kept feeling something poking me, like one of those little plastic tag fasteners you find on new clothes. I thought it was my bra, so I kept adjusting it, but the poking wouldn’t stop. That night, when I got home, I took a shower—hot, sweaty, exhausted—and that poking feeling was still there. I rubbed the spot on my right breast, and that’s when I felt it. A lump.I finished my shower, got dressed, and called my oldest son, who’s an OB/GYN resident. I think I needed to hear his voice—maybe I wanted reassurance, maybe I just wanted to hear my child tell me what to do. That was June 21, 2023. By July 20, I was hearing those life-changing words: “You have cancer.”
From that moment on, everything moved fast. Appointments. Tests. Biopsies. Consults. Chemo. It’s like being swept up in a current—one minute you’re standing still, and the next you’re just trying to keep your head above water. My last day of work was August 25. By early September, I had a port placed and began chemotherapy. My hair started falling out on September 24. By November 8, I finished my fourth and final round of chemo. On December 1, I went into surgery for eight hours—bilateral mastectomies and reconstruction. That day changed me forever. People ask me how I stayed positive through all of it. The answer is simple: God. I told myself over and over, “Not my plan, but God’s plan.” That thought carried me through. Every needle, every pill, every night lying awake wondering what tomorrow would bring. And you know what? I never got sick from chemo. No nausea, no vomiting. Just fatigue and weird-tasting food. I slept a lot, and I healed.When my hair fell out, I didn’t hide. I didn’t wear wigs or scarves—they were too hot and too uncomfortable. I wore my bald head proudly. If someone didn’t like it, they didn’t have to look at me. And some people even told me I looked beautiful bald. Maybe they said it to be kind. Maybe they meant it. Either way, I took it as love.
The hardest days weren’t chemo. The hardest days were after surgery. Eight hours on the table, and when I woke up, the pain was unreal. My abdomen burned—they’d taken fat from there to reconstruct my breasts. My left sciatic nerve screamed. I had an incision from one hip to the other. I couldn’t move, couldn’t laugh, couldn’t cry. All I could do was repeat, “This too shall pass.” And it did. I healed faster than anyone expected. I was home within days. By God’s grace, I recovered. Through it all, my five children, my parents, my brother and sister-in-law, and so many friends held me up. My 80-year-old mother—my angel on Earth—came to care for me for nearly three weeks. I used to joke that I was supposed to be taking care of her, not the other way around. But that’s what love looks like. That’s what faith looks like. I truly felt the power of prayer surrounding me. I had people praying for me everywhere, and I could feel it.
Before cancer, I believed in God but didn’t always talk about Him openly, especially at work. Occupational therapy school teaches you not to discuss politics or religion with patients—but now, I can’t help it. When a patient talks about faith, I share mine. I tell them how good God is. I understand pain and fear in a way I didn’t before. I can look someone in the eyes and say, “I know,” and mean it. Cancer made me softer. It made me braver. It made me real. Today, I’m good. Truly good. My hair has come back thicker and curlier than ever—a little reminder from God that beauty comes in all forms. My scars don’t bother me; they tell my story. I even got a tattoo—a cross intertwined with a breast cancer ribbon, and the date I was diagnosed. A permanent reminder that God is good. I don’t consider myself a “survivor” in the traditional sense—I was lucky to find my cancer early. But I live differently now. I call my parents more. I hug my kids tighter. I tell my loved ones I love them—every week, every chance I get. Because life is short, and moments matter.
If you’re reading this and just heard those words—“You have breast cancer”—please know this: you are stronger than you think. You will get through this. Let people love you. Let them help. And above all, pray. Prayer works. God listens. Don’t let cancer define you. You are so much more than this diagnosis.
I was blessed. I found it early. I healed. And now, I share my story so you know—it’s okay to be scared, but don’t give up. One day, you’ll look back and see how strong you really were. This too shall pass. And when it does, you’ll shine brighter than ever before.
