There’s a river that flows through my life—one I never set out to find, yet one that has shaped me in ways I never imagined.
My experiences with skin cancer began like a quiet trickle. It wasn’t dramatic at first—just a mole, a shadow on my skin, something small and seemingly harmless. But beneath the surface, the current was gathering strength. Before I knew it, the water surged, sweeping away the life I knew.
Diagnosis came like a flash flood. First, uncertainty. Then surgery after surgery. My lymph nodes and then my spleen and pancreas. Then the words: Stage 4. The current grew stronger— after my pancreas and spleen were taken from me, my body changed, and with it, everything else. I was forced into the depths, struggling to keep my head above water, gasping for some sense of control.
There were days when the river raged. The fear of what might lie ahead. The endless scans. The quiet moments when I felt like I was drifting alone, with only my thoughts and the echo of mortality in my ears. I was no longer on the riverbank—I was in it, carried by a force far beyond my choosing.
But with time, I learned to float.
In the still moments, I found clarity. The river didn’t just take—it revealed. It showed me what I was made of. It taught me to navigate pain with patience, to find peace in the unknown, and to embrace the parts of myself I had once overlooked.
I found friendships- real, grounding friendships . I also found connection—with people who’d walked in similar rivers, and with strangers who heard my story and saw themselves reflected in it.
This illness didn’t just change my life—it reshaped my purpose.
Now, I speak out. I climb mountains, literally and figuratively, not to run from this river, but to rise above it and shout from the peaks: This matters. Skin cancer is not a surface issue. It cuts deep—physically, emotionally, spiritually. We must talk about it, we must face it, and we must fight it.
I’ve become an advocate, a storyteller, a reminder that survival is not just about staying afloat, but about choosing how we swim—how we make meaning from the current we’ve been given.
The river still runs through me. Some days, it’s gentle. Some days, it tries to pull me under again. But I know its bends, its rapids, and its stillness. I no longer fear where it leads.
Because this river, as cruel as it has sometimes been, has carried me here—alive, aware, and determined to help others navigate their own.
If my story resonates with you or someone you love, please share it. Skin cancer isn’t always visible—but its impact runs deep.
Let’s keep talking. Let’s keep rowing.
