October 1st – The Day Everything Shifted

In October, I was doing what had somehow become a routine for me—my weekly boob check. Laying in bed, hand over my chest, just making sure everything felt the same as usual. Only this time, it didn’t.

I felt a lump.

I immediately sat up, looked at my husband, and said nothing. He read my face instantly and blurted out:
“…oh shit. Did you just find something?”

The next day I called my doctor. A week later, I was in his office. He felt it too but wasn’t overly alarmed. Still, he referred me for an ultrasound and mammogram. What should have been quick and straightforward turned into a month of back-and-forth with scheduling until I finally got in at a different hospital.

The mammogram, the ultrasound, the second round of mammogram pictures—hours of waiting in a room with at least 20 other women coming and going. Finally, they pulled me aside and said they needed to do a biopsy. Because of the holiday schedule, the soonest they could get me in was the day after Thanksgiving. Obviously, I cleared my schedule.

By December, I was still waiting on results. On Friday, December 2nd, 2022, I got to work early. I had about 40 minutes before my client arrived, so I opened my chart online to check if the results were in.

They were.

The first line read:

“The pathologic diagnosis for the core biopsy at the 4:00 left breast is invasive ductal carcinoma, preliminary Nottingham grade 2, an additional focus of microinvasive carcinoma. DCIS, high-grade. This is concordant with the imaging findings.

The pathologic diagnosis for the left axillary lymph node core biopsy demonstrates metastatic carcinoma.”

I blinked. Re-read. Blinked again.

My exact thoughts, word for word:

“Metastatic carcinoma… cancer? What the fuck. What the fuck am I supposed to learn from this? Oh my god, cancer. Okay. Fuck. I need to call Josh. Oh my fucking god—I have cancer?! I mean, obviously, I’m not going to die. But what the fuck. No crying. I will not cry. This is fine. I am fine. I will be fine. Lessons will be learned, and life will move on.”

I called Josh. He tried to steady me, repeating back my own words to keep me grounded. But my body was in shock mode. I just needed a hug. So, I walked down the hall to my hair girl’s studio. She tried convincing me I was misreading it, bless her heart, but I just told her: “It’s okay. Really. I’m okay.”

Then my client arrived. She happened to be an OB nurse practitioner. I asked her to read the results. She calmly confirmed what I already knew. She gave me names of surgeons and reassured me that I was taking the right steps.

And just like that, I went from a normal Friday morning at work to a woman with cancer.

Signs, Roses, and a Choice

Monday came and I called one of the referrals from my client. That week I met the breast surgeon, then the oncologist. Suddenly my life was filled with back-to-back appointments, tests, and medical terms I had only ever heard in passing.

Here’s the thing—I had always believed that if I ever got cancer, I would never do chemo. To me, chemo felt like the death sentence itself. But now I was staring at the choice head-on, with two small kids depending on me. Do I go natural, like I typically lean, or do I walk into the storm of chemo?

I decided to ask for help—from the angels, guides, whoever else was listening. I asked for a sign, and I made it very specific:
“Even though it’s December and red flowers are common, I want to see an abnormal amount or type of red flower. Make me shocked. Make sure I know it’s you. If I see this in the next 72 hours, I’ll do chemo. If I don’t, I’ll go natural.”

The next day, I was driving my daughter home from school. We passed a subdivision with a landscaped entrance that usually had a few flowers planted. But this day? There were thousands of red roses. Out in the cold. My jaw dropped.
“Jamie, do you see that??”
She stared out the window, wide-eyed. “It’s so pretty… but why are there so many? Aren’t they going to die out there?”

Still, part of me doubted. I told my husband about it when we got home, saying, “I feel like they need to slam another sign in my face so I know for sure.”

At that exact moment, my daughter grabbed the remote and switched the TV—something she never does—and turned on the live action Beauty and the Beast. Not a movie she ever watches. And right as I walked into the room, the scene playing was the enchanted red rose dropping its petal.

Of all the moments in that entire movie, it was that one.

Call me crazy, but that was my answer. Chemo wasn’t optional. It was part of my path.

Starting Chemo

Because of all the testing, I was able to wait until after Christmas and New Year’s to officially start chemo. On January 6th, I walked into my first session. My sister came with me—everyone said to bring someone for the first round, just in case.

I came prepared: books, journals, healing stones my mother-in-law had given me, water, snacks. I did everything I could to stay calm and bring in good energy. The treatment itself wasn’t as scary as I had built up in my head.

The next day, I actually felt amazing. I went to work like nothing had happened. I later learned that this is what some people call the chemo high—the strange burst of energy and lightness that sometimes follows the first treatment.

That weekend we were celebrating birthdays—my sister-in-law on the 6th, my dad on the 7th—so the family all went out to a restaurant. At first, I was still feeling okay. Then the food came, and suddenly everything shifted. I couldn’t eat, and the stimulation of the restaurant felt like too much. By the time we got home, it hit me like a wall: exhaustion so deep I felt like I hadn’t slept in weeks, and pain in every inch of my body.

Josh was at work, so I pushed through. All that mattered was staying strong for my daughter. (Back then it was just Jamie—little Jolene wasn’t born yet.) I ended up canceling every client on Monday and decided I’d just set a rhythm of treatment Friday, rest through Monday, and go back to work Tuesday.

Letting Go of My Hair

Fourteen days after that first chemo, my hair started falling out—fast. I’d already cut about seven inches off into a bob before treatment, just to have some control over the process. But now it was coming out in clumps, and I knew I needed to get ahead of it.

I remember waiting for Josh to get home from work. I had gathered everything we’d need, and I just sat down on the floor and started to cry. Jamie looked at me with her big four-year-old eyes and asked if I was okay.

I told her, “You know what, kiddo? I don’t even remember a time in my life when I didn’t have hair. I guess I’m just a little scared… how ugly is Mom going to look?”

She hugged me, held my cheeks, and said,
“Mom, hair or no hair, you’re the most beautiful mom in the world.”

Cue more tears—this time because she always has the right thing to say.

When Josh came home, we turned it into a family moment. Jamie got the scissors first, snipping away pieces of my bob. Then Josh finished with the shaver. It was terrifying. But when it was done, I looked in the mirror and realized—I was fine. I even joked that now I matched my bald husband.

And honestly? I looked totally fine.

Chemo Rounds: The Rollercoaster

I was scheduled for six rounds of chemo, each 21 days apart.

Between rounds one and two, I shaved my head. Physically and mentally, I was doing okay. I wasn’t eating much, but life with chemo was tolerable. I did notice I got overstimulated quickly, sometimes even having panic attacks.

Between rounds two and three, things shifted. Eating and drinking became harder. Mouth sores showed up, my gut was a mess, and my nose wouldn’t stop dripping. My body couldn’t decide if I was hot or cold. Still, I pushed through—listening to meditations and audiobooks because reading was almost impossible. I’d go into work and try to pretend nothing had changed, even though everything had.

By round three, things got brutal. My doctor offered to lower the dosage and spread out treatment, but I refused. I just wanted this shit over with. After dose three, I had the worst 12 hours of my entire chemo journey. I vomited nonstop, to the point I couldn’t breathe, curled up on the bathroom floor sobbing and begging for it to stop. Looking back now, I realize I was lucky—it was one horrific day. Some people face that every single day of treatment. It made me pray harder for their peace.

Between rounds four and five, life got a little better. We took our annual family trip to Orlando. Normally we drive, but I chose to fly first class for the comfort and space. I was hesitant about going, but decided to live as normally as possible. That week between chemo was usually my best, so the timing worked.

At home, I tried wigs—itchy, hot, often uncomfortable. I eventually switched to a winter hat with hair attached or just said screw it. I was bald. Deal with it. At Disney, I used a wheelchair and the expedited pass. Honestly, it was eye-opening. People are shockingly disrespectful to wheelchair users. But seeing my daughter and niece light up at skipping lines made me grateful. It reminded me to keep focusing on my breath when the overstimulation hit.

By rounds five and six, I felt lighter. Knowing the end was near made everything easier.

Closing a Chapter

During treatment, I realized I no longer wanted to work in my nail studio. It was my first baby. I worked hard to build it up, even broke a world record in it….Some clients disappeared when they heard “cancer.” Others became unexpected lifelines of support. But I also saw the truth of energy vampires—the ones who drained me every time they sat in my chair. I didn’t want that anymore.

So I told my business partner I was done. She always said when I was done, she’d be done too. I set my last day for May 22. She followed a few weeks later.

Two weeks after my final chemo, I celebrated my 38th birthday with a quick trip to the Getaway tiny cabins. My daughter gave me a run for my money one night (kids have a way of humbling you), but I was grateful for those final weeks before surgery.

Surgery Day

On May 23, surgery day came. I had chosen a double mastectomy, despite my doctor’s recommendation against it. She said there was no evidence the cancer would appear in the other breast. But my research told me otherwise, and I wasn’t taking chances.

The morning of, I was terrified. Would my nipples be spared? Would reconstruction be possible immediately? Would the cancer still be in my lymph nodes? So many unknowns.

I prayed.

When I woke up, the surgeon told me the best news: they had done the mastectomy and reconstruction in one surgery, and I had kept my nipples—by a microscopic margin. Even better, my lymph nodes came back cancer-free.

Recovery was hell. Two weeks felt like years. I had drains, constant pain, and waves of hopelessness. But once the drains were out, life started to feel more normal. And then came the words I had been waiting for:

Cancer free.

A Twist I Never Saw Coming

I chose to skip radiation. The research study I fit into showed it wasn’t necessary, and my doctor left the decision to me. My oncologist, however, pushed me hard to start post-cancer medication. The side effects list sounded like chemo round seven, and I begged for a break. They reluctantly gave me one month.

In early September, I took my first dose. By the end of the month, I was nauseous. But this wasn’t chemo nausea—it was familiar, pregnancy nausea. I grabbed an old test, and within minutes, it was clear:

I was pregnant.

I was hysterical. Everything I had been told was screaming in my head: pregnancy + this medication = deformities, miscarriages, danger. I called my oncologist’s office. The nurse practitioner’s response floored me:
“Okay, let us know when you take care of it so we know whether to push back your next dose.”

Excuse me?

She told me I could not keep the baby. That it wasn’t an option. Cancel my next dose. I hung up and said nope, not happening.

That very day, a package arrived from my cousin. Inside was a box frame with pink flowers, a pink ribbon, and a butterfly. Butterflies had always been my sign from my guides that I was on the right path. In that moment, I knew—we were keeping this baby.

My OB confirmed it. He told me the baby looked perfect, healthy, and strong. There was no reason to abort. My oncologist, on the other hand, dragged me in for an appointment to pressure me further. But I stood firm.

Jolene May

On May 22—exactly one year to the day after closing my studio—I delivered our daughter, Jolene May. The cord was loosely wrapped around her neck, but she came out absolutely perfect. The timing of her birth felt divine, like the universe stamping this date forever in my story.

A New Doctor, A New Perspective

A few weeks later, I tried going back to my oncologist for bloodwork. They kept me waiting for an hour, then told me flat out: “We no longer have appointments available for you.” It was clear they were cutting ties because I refused the medication.

That was the final straw. I found a new oncologist who actually listened. She reassured me:

• The medication was optional.
• I could start it in five years, or never.
• And most importantly—shame on them for telling me to abort my baby. There is no evidence it would have harmed her.

I was furious, but also relieved. Because now I had confirmation that following my heart had been the right choice all along.

Full Circle

Here I am now—two years later from the moment I learned I was pregnant with Jo. That wild little girl is 16 months old, Jamie is 7, and I am cancer free. My natural hair is finally long enough that I don’t hate it (progress!).

These days, my focus is on helping others find calm in the middle of their chaos—through Meditate with Jamie, this blog, my TikTok channel, and the kids’ bedtime stories I create. It’s all become part of my healing, part of my way of giving back.

When I look back at photos from 2023, one thing stands out: I kept smiling. I kept living. Even in the darkest moments, I refused to let cancer or fear take that from me.

Because at the end of the day, life is really, really hard.
But it’s also really, really amazing.

Don’t let the hard overshadow your amazing.

Resources I Actually Used

If you’ve made it this far — thank you. 💕

I know my email form is a little… let’s just say “non-functional” (because I refuse to pay for the fancy one 🙃). But if you’re curious about some of the things I leaned on during chemo and healing — from snacks and teas to comfort items — I’ve gathered them here:

👉 Benable List
👉 Amazon Store

Not a pitch, not a push — just what really helped me when I needed it. You can always reach out to me [email protected]