In 2025, I started making handcrafted artisanal skincare products, including cold-processed soaps and lotions. When I started, I chuckled at the thought of world domination through skincare, despite all the legitimate businesses already out there. In 2026, I launched Alluring Tranquility, and I would tell my husband, with a smile as I purchased more butters, oils, and ingredients to make my lotions and other products, that I was going to make us "thousandaires."
I have been successful at local shows, but I'm still finding my footing on social media. I don't have the best self-esteem, so I don't enjoy making videos. However, I spend a lot of time on TikTok and Facebook watching what others are doing and how they are doing it.
I've noticed a great deal of misinformation being shared. People post recipes that include water (often tap water), honey, or aloe but make no mention of preservatives. When I ask about it, they often respond that they've never had a problem storing the product in a sealed jar. Just because they haven't noticed a problem doesn't mean there isn't one.
That realization led me to start researching the science behind skincare formulation. I thought perhaps I could create voice-only podcasts without having to appear on camera, and I'm currently working to find my footing in that space as well. I enjoy talking, and I hope people will find value in both my research and the way I present the information.
Throughout my life, I have done many different things. My greatest strength has always been connecting with people through conversation, so I'm confident I can figure this out.
In May, 2026, I was the proud mother of an 18-year-old who was preparing to graduate. To say that his journey through school had not been an easy one would be an understatement.
Just before the last day of school, I woke up in the middle of the night. I don't know what woke me, but I instinctively reached over to my right breast and felt a lump—a hard lump about the size of a nickel. From that moment on, I couldn't sleep. I kept feeling it throughout the night. By morning, it had become tender. Was it tender because I had spent the entire night touching it, or was the tenderness what woke me in the first place? I still don't know the answer to that question.
The next morning, I asked my husband if he could feel it. He could.
So, I did what every red-blooded American woman does—I did nothing for about an hour. Then I called the clinic to schedule an appointment for a mammogram.
The scheduler who answered my call said, "I see you have a post-op appointment scheduled for Friday, June 5, for an upcoming procedure. Why don't we add your concern to that appointment and go from there?"
On June 5, I met with a very kind physician assistant—not my regular primary care provider. She examined me and said, "Oh yeah, you definitely have a lump there," and scheduled me for diagnostic imaging.
On June 17, 2026, I went in for a mammogram and an ultrasound. After reviewing my scans, the radiologist came into the room and said, "I'm concerned about that spot. I'd like you to come back for a biopsy."
At that point, I met with the nurse, who was able to schedule the biopsy for two days later, on June 19. She mentioned that she would be off for a couple of days but assured me that a colleague would be watching for my results.
I went home and tried not to dwell on the radiologist's words: I'm concerned about that spot.
Later that evening, I was sitting with my husband, watching television, chatting, and crocheting to keep both my hands and my mind busy when my phone chimed. It was a notification from my clinic's patient portal indicating that new test results were available.
I opened the app and looked through the images and the live ultrasound. Then I did the one thing that caused me the most stress up to that point—I started reading the radiologist's notes.
The report stated there was a 50–95% chance that the mass was cancerous based on its spiculated appearance and indistinct margins. Of course, I didn't see the spikes or the fuzzy outline it described, but apparently, he did.
On June 19, I went in for the biopsy. The nurse performed another ultrasound, and then the radiologist came in. He explained that he would make a small incision and insert a biopsy needle. He told me I would hear a popping sound each time a tissue sample was taken.
He collected five tissue samples before placing a small metal marker at the biopsy site. They explained that the results would most likely be available later that afternoon, but they would not be released through the patient portal. Instead, I would have to wait until the nurse returned to the office on Monday or Tuesday to receive the results.
As I left, I kept thinking, If it's positive, they'll call me right away. Breast cancer is serious, and the sooner treatment begins, the better.
Before I went home, they performed another mammogram to confirm that the marker had been placed correctly and had remained in the proper position. They bandaged the incision, gave me my post-procedure instructions, and sent me on my way.
By 3:00 p.m. on Monday, June 22, I was a true crazy woman. I hadn't heard from anyone. Earlier that day, I had called the clinic, but they told me the biopsy results were not available yet.
By that point, I wasn't a happy woman. My husband, trying to help me relax, gave me half of a CBD gummy in hopes it would help me sleep. I don't use recreational drugs because I already take several medications to manage other health conditions, which I'm sure will come into play later in this story.
The gummy certainly had an effect. I drifted in and out of sleep but never truly rested. At one point, I turned on the TV and watched old episodes of Bewitched and found myself thinking about how it really isn't a comedy—it's more of a family drama. Endora is always stirring up trouble, and everyone seems to spend the entire episode arguing.
The next morning, June 23, I was still dozing on and off from the restless night before when I realized I had missed a call from the clinic at 7:36 a.m.
I immediately called the nurse back.
She told me the biopsy had confirmed that the lump was cancer. The diagnosis was Invasive Ductal Carcinoma. She explained that someone would be contacting me later that day to schedule my follow-up appointments.
Just like that, my life changed forever.
So here I was—I had breast cancer: Invasive Ductal Carcinoma in my right breast.
I never heard from the other nurse that day to schedule my follow-up appointments. The next morning, I called back the nurse who had given me the diagnosis and said, "Perhaps to you it's not a big deal, but to me it's a pretty big deal. Why hasn't anyone called me?"
She apologized, and about an hour later, I finally received the call.
The woman on the other end talked for quite a while, but the very first thing she said that stuck with me was, "It's not really that big of a deal."
Now, something you should know about me is that I'm not the type of person who takes things in stride. If something upsets me, you'll know it immediately. I think she sensed my reaction because she quickly clarified what she meant. She explained that my cancer was Stage 1 and that it had been caught relatively early—less than a year after my 2025 mammogram, just 10 months to be exact.
While I understood what she was trying to say, hearing the words, "It's not really that big of a deal," was difficult. To me, it was a very big deal. In a matter of days, my life had changed from worrying about growing my small business and celebrating my son's graduation to hearing the words no one ever wants to hear:
"You have breast cancer."
That was the beginning of a journey I never expected to take.
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