How my story begins: My story began in 2018, with a diagnosis that completely changed the course of my life: stage 2b cervical cancer. I was young, full of plans, and totally unprepared for the words "you have cancer." I had no symptoms that truly alarmed me—nothing that screamed this is serious. But suddenly, my world shifted.
In that moment, I entered a reality I never imagined I'd be part of—one filled with scans, hospital rooms, treatment plans, and the quiet fear that follows you everywhere. But I also discovered something else: strength I didn't know I had and a will to fight that became louder than fear.
Life before my diagnosis: Before my diagnosis, life was colorful, fast-paced, and full of plans. I was always in motion—working hard, laughing loud, dreaming big, and yes... probably surviving on way too much coffee and way too little rest. I felt strong, full of energy, and somehow untouchable. Cancer was a word I knew, but it belonged to someone else's story—not mine.
I had no idea that, deep inside, something had already begun to shift. My body was whispering for help, but I was too busy living, too full of trust in my own health to hear it. That unknowing, that innocence, is something I now carry with both grief and gratitude.
How I felt after diagnosis: When I first heard the words "you have cervical cancer," my world stopped. Fear crashed over me like a wave—overwhelming, suffocating, and raw. I felt lost, vulnerable, and terrified of what lay ahead. There were moments when the weight of uncertainty almost crushed me, and tears came easily.
But even in the darkest moments, a fierce fire began to grow inside me. Alongside the fear was a stubborn will to fight—to hold on to hope, to fight for my life and for the people who loved me. It was a rollercoaster of emotions, a battle between despair and determination. And slowly, day by day, that determination started to light my way forward.
Telling my family and friends: Telling my loved ones was one of the hardest parts. Saying the words "I have cervical cancer" out loud made everything feel painfully real, and I didn't know how to begin. How do you break news like that to the people who love you most? I was scared not only of their reactions, but of seeing my own fear reflected in their eyes.
For a while, I held it in. I tried to protect them, and maybe also protect myself from having to speak the truth. But eventually, I opened up. Some cried. Some went quiet. Some tried to stay strong for me.
No one had the perfect words, but they gave me what I needed most: love, presence, and the reminder that I wouldn't have to face this alone. Even when the words were hard, their hearts spoke louder.
My treatment: When I was first diagnosed in 2018 with stage 2b cervical cancer, I went through chemotherapy, external radiation, and brachytherapy. It was an intense time, both physically and emotionally, but by the end of 2019, I reached remission. Life slowly began to feel normal again, and I truly believed the hardest part was behind me.
But in 2024, everything changed. Doctors found metastases in my lungs, and I was re-staged to 4b. Since then, I've had a lobectomy, three different chemotherapies, and I'm currently on antibody and immunotherapy.
It hasn't been easy—far from it—but I keep showing up for myself, for the people I love, and for the version of me who still believes in hope.
How I felt after treatment: Finishing treatment was supposed to feel like the finish line, like victory. And yes, there was relief, pride, and a deep gratitude that I had made it through. But the truth is, I didn’t feel like myself. Not yet.
The side effects lingered—fatigue that felt like walking through fog, pain in places I didn't expect, changes to my body that I was still trying to accept. My mind was exhausted, too. I thought the hardest part would be over once treatment ended, but I quickly learned that healing takes more than just time.
I was changed—physically, emotionally, deeply. The world around me seemed to move on, but I was still trying to catch my breath. Still learning how to live a life again in a body that felt both familiar and foreign.
And yet, in the middle of all that, there was a quiet strength growing. I had survived. And survival, I learned, was not the end of the story—it’s the beginning of a new one.
What was most difficult for me: The hardest part wasn't just the treatment—it was everything cancer took from me that no one could see. The loss of control. The fear that crept in at night. The feeling of being disconnected from my own body.
One of the most painful was the silence—the moments when others didn’t know what to say, or said nothing at all. I felt isolated at times, like I was carrying a weight too heavy to explain. And even when I was "done" with treatment, that weight didn't disappear.
Living with the uncertainty, the fear of recurrence, the long-term side effects—it was like trying to rebuild myself from the ground up. It still is.
But I also discovered that my strength doesn't come from pretending I'm okay. It comes from being real with myself and with others. That honesty has become my power.
What I did to help myself: I quickly realized that healing wasn’t just about medicine—it was also about finding ways to take care of my mind, my heart, and my spirit. I gave myself permission to rest, to say no, to cry when I needed to, and to stop pretending to be strong all the time.
I started writing just for myself to make sense of the chaos. I leaned into therapy, allowed myself to be vulnerable with the people I trusted, and learned to ask for help (even when it was hard).
I found strength in small things: deep breaths on hard days, music that lifted me, walks that cleared my head, and moments of laughter that reminded me I was still me.
Most importantly, I tried to meet myself with kindness even when I felt broken. I wasn’t just surviving. I was learning how to truly care for myself in a way I never had before.
My life after cancer: Life after cancer is complicated. People think it’s the happy ending—that once treatment ends, everything goes back to normal. But there is no going back. There’s only forward, and that path looks different now.
I carry scars, both visible and invisible. Some days I feel strong and grateful. Other days, the fear, the fatigue, and the memories still echo. I’ve had to relearn how to trust my body, how to find joy in a world that once felt so fragile.
But cancer also changed me in ways I didn’t expect. I see life differently now. I slow down more. I love harder. I speak more honestly, even when my voice shakes. I’ve learned that being alive—really alive—means showing up as I am, even in the messiest moments.
I'm not the same person I was before cancer and I wouldn't want to be. I've earned every piece of this new version of me.
Where I am today: Today, I'm still walking this path—living with stage 4b after cancer returned in 2024 with metastases in my lungs. It's a chapter I never wanted, and some days are unbearably heavy. There are treatments, fatigue, pain, and moments when the fear feels louder than anything else.
But even in the middle of all that, I'm still here. Still breathing. Still fighting. Still loving.
I've learned to hold both joy and pain at the same time—to laugh with tears in my eyes, to celebrate the smallest wins, and to find beauty even on the hardest days. Strength, I've realized, isn't about being fearless. It's about showing up with your truth, your scars, and your heart wide open.
What carries me today is connection. Finding others who get it. Joining a community like Cervivor reminds me that I’m not alone. That there are voices like mine, stories like mine, and women who understand without needing many words. This community gives me courage when I’m tired and purpose when things feel uncertain.
I may not know what tomorrow holds, but I know this: I still have a story to tell, and as long as I have breath in my body and fire in my soul, I will keep showing up for myself and for others walking this road.
My story is far from over. In many ways, it’s just beginning.
What I want other women to know: You are not alone, even if it feels like the world doesn’t understand what you’re going through. Your fears are valid. Your tears are brave. And your story, no matter where you are in it, matters deeply.
Cancer doesn’t define you. It may change you, break you open, and stretch you beyond anything you thought you could survive. But it will never take your worth, your voice, or your power!
You are still whole, even in the broken places.
Ask questions. Demand answers. Speak up for your body. Trust your instincts. And please never feel ashamed for advocating for yourself. You deserve to be heard, to be seen, and to be cared for with compassion and dignity.
There is a community here of women who will hold space for you to cry, cry with you, laugh with you, and stand beside you. Let us walk this path together.
You are stronger than you think.
You are enough—exactly as you are.
And even on the hardest days, you are never, ever alone.
How I will try to help others: If there’s one thing cancer has taught me, it’s that no one should have to walk this road alone. I want to be the voice I once needed—someone who says, “I see you, I hear you, and you are not alone.”
By sharing my story, with all its heartbreak, strength, and truth, I hope to give others permission to speak theirs. I want to offer comfort, connection, and community to those facing cervical cancer, recurrence, or life after treatment. Sometimes, the most healing words are simply: me, too.
But beyond emotional support, I want to raise awareness. I want to speak loudly about things that are too often whispered—HPV, cervical screenings, gynecological symptoms, sexual health, life after treatment, fear of recurrence. These conversations matter.
Cancer doesn’t care about shame or stigma. So why should we stay silent? I want to help break those taboos—for our daughters, our friends, our communities, and for ourselves.
Whether it’s through one-on-one support, advocacy, writing, or just holding space for another woman’s story, I want to show up with honesty and compassion.
Because everyone deserves to feel seen. Everyone deserves to know their voice matters. And together, our stories can change the world.
Any additional information you'd like to share: If you're reading this and walking through your own diagnosis, I want you to know that I see you. I know how heavy it can feel to hold hope and fear at the same time but please believe this: You are not alone in this.
Since my first diagnosis in 2018, I've learned more about my body, my spirit and my strength than I ever thought possible. I've faced recurrence, advanced-stage cancer, and the unknown. I'm still here, living, feeling and loving.
I'm sharing my story not because it's easy, but because I know how powerful it is when we speak the hard truths out loud. If my words help even one person feel seen, less afraid or more connected then it's worth every bit of vulnerability.
This community means the whole world to me. It reminds me daily that we are not alone, even in the darkest seasons. I hope to be a light for others, the way others have been a light for me.
Be gentle with yourself.
You´re doing better than you think.
And you are never, ever walking alone.