Going into Christmas, I want to share where things truly stand — not wrapped up, not softened for comfort, just honest.
This year has changed us.
Brain metastases are now part of my reality. They’re a challenge, but symptom progression has been slow. That matters more than people realize. Slow doesn’t mean easy — it means we’re constantly watching, waiting, managing, adjusting — but it also means there is still time between the hard moments.
Migraines are most days now. Some are background noise, others stop me in my tracks. They’re unpredictable, exhausting, and a constant reminder that my nervous system is working overtime just to keep up.
Bone density loss alongside metastasis has created its own chaos — fractures, joint pain, and a body that feels fragile in ways I never expected. Tumor load has caused persistent abdominal discomfort, ongoing stomach issues, and constant bleeding that has led to chronic anemia. These aren’t dramatic symptoms. They’re quiet, relentless ones. The kind that wear you down slowly.
We spent the majority of this year on chemotherapy. We went into it hopeful. Confident, even. We believed in the plan. Chemo helped in some ways, but it wasn’t nearly as effective as we had hoped. Radiation was more successful, but it came with its own damage — a trade-off we didn’t take lightly.
My energy comes and goes. When it shows up, I grab onto it. When it disappears, I let myself rest — even when that’s hard to accept.
That’s been the rhythm of this year: progress paired with loss. Relief paired with consequence.
At the start of the year, we believed we were fighting a short battle. That if we just went hard enough — more drugs, more procedures, more radiation — we could outrun this.
But slowly, quietly, we learned the truth.
This is the long game.
No level of aggressive treatment is going to make this disappear.
That realization was devastating. And freeing. And terrifying. And clarifying — all at once.
Moving forward, every procedure, drug, and treatment option will be chosen with intention. We’re no longer walking blindly into cycles of damage just because they’re offered. If the risk isn’t worth the reward, we stop and reassess. We ask questions. We look at options.
It is okay to ask, “What happens if this doesn’t work?”
It is okay to ask, “What’s next?”
It is okay to ask for alternatives, timelines, quality-of-life conversations, and second opinions.
Advocating for yourself isn’t being difficult — it’s being informed. Your body is not a test subject, and your life deserves intention, clarity, and choice.
I’m still here.
I’m still myself.
I’m still living — even if it looks different.
And I need to say this clearly, especially going into the holidays:
If you are a young woman with a lump — anywhere — get it checked.
If your periods are abnormal, excessively painful, or constantly heavy — get it checked.
If you’re living with pain that’s being brushed off, minimized, or normalized — get it checked.
You are not dramatic.
You are not wasting anyone’s time.
You are not “too young” for answers.
If something feels wrong, trust that instinct. Push. Ask again. Get another opinion. Your body whispers long before it screams — and listening early matters.
This Christmas will be slower. Quieter. More intentional. We’re holding joy gently and grief honestly, side by side. We’re not forcing magic — we’re appreciating what still shows up.
If you’re entering this season tired, scared, grieving, or carrying something invisible — you are not alone. You don’t owe anyone cheerfulness. Sometimes surviving the holidays is the win.
Thank you for being here. Thank you for walking this season with me. And thank you for continuing to listen — not just to my story, but to your own body too.
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