The day my brain heard "wa wa wa..."

There are moments in life that divide your story into before and after.

Monday, June 29, was one of those days.

I met with my care coordinator to go over my biopsy results and what would happen next. I'd spent the days leading up to that appointment imagining every possible outcome. I had received the bad news, but no amount of preparation really prepares you to breathe life into the word cancer.

The first thing she told me was that my breast cancer was Stage 1.

Those two words—Stage 1—became my lifeline.

It meant it had been caught early. It was also hormone receptor-positive, meaning the cancer feeds on hormones. She continued explaining treatment options, pathology reports, statistics, medications, and terminology that I'm sure was incredibly important.

But if I'm being completely honest...

After hearing "Stage 1," my brain checked out.

The rest of the appointment sounded something like this:

"Wa wa wa wa wa wa wa..."

If you've ever watched Charlie Brown, you know exactly what I mean.

I remember looking at her, nodding appropriately, and trying so hard to absorb what she was saying. But my mind was busy trying to process the fact that I had just become someone who says, "I have breast cancer."

Oddly enough, I wasn't nearly as emotional as I expected that statement to be.

I didn't fall apart.

I didn't scream.

I didn't even cry.

Maybe it was shock.

Maybe it was relief that it had been found early.

Or maybe my brain simply decided, "This is enough information for today."

At one point she asked if I'd thought about surgery.

Would I want a lumpectomy?

Or a mastectomy?

Surprisingly, I had an answer.

I told her that I'm on the younger side of older, happily married, and blessed with the only child I ever wanted. The girls have done everything I ever asked of them.

I don't need them to find a husband.

I don't need them to nourish a baby.

So if removing both breasts gives me the greatest chance of never having this conversation again, then that's the direction my mind naturally went.

It wasn't a decision made out of fear.

It was a decision made out of wanting the best chance at more birthdays, more vacations, more ordinary Tuesdays, and more time with the people I love.

Family history also played into my thinking.

When I was a little girl, my aunt on my mom's side battled breast cancer. Even though every diagnosis is different, it's impossible not to think about those experiences when you're suddenly living your own.

By the end of the appointment, I left carrying what felt like enough paperwork to write my own medical textbook.

Folders.

Pamphlets.

Phone numbers.

Resources.

Support groups.

Appointment schedules.

It was comforting to know there were so many resources available, but it was also overwhelming. In what felt like a single afternoon, I had gone from being a woman who needed a biopsy to someone who suddenly had an entire cancer care team.

Over the next several days, I would meet with:

• A breast surgeon
• A plastic surgeon
• An oncologist

They also scheduled a breast MRI so they could get an even more detailed picture before making any final treatment decisions.

Cancer moves fast.

One day you're living your normal life.

The next, your calendar is completely booked with doctors you've never met, tests you've never had, and decisions you never imagined making.

As I walked out of that appointment, I realized something.

This wasn't just another doctor's visit.

This was the official beginning of The Journey I Never Asked For.

I don't know exactly where this road leads yet.

I don't know how many tears I'll cry, how many scars I'll earn, or how many times I'll laugh just to keep from crying.

What I do know is this:

I have an incredible medical team.

I have family and friends who have wrapped me in love.

I have faith that God is walking every step of this road with me—even on the days when I can't see beyond the next appointment.

And I have all of you.

Thank you for following along, for praying, for checking in, and for reminding me that I don't have to walk this journey alone.

If sharing my story helps even one woman feel less afraid, encourages someone to schedule that mammogram, or reminds another cancer warrior that they're not alone, then every word will be worth writing.

This isn't the journey I would have chosen.

But it is my journey.

And I'll keep telling the story—one appointment, one milestone, and yes...one "wa wa wa" moment at a time.

Until next time... keep finding joy in the ordinary, hope in the hard days, and strength you didn't know you had. 

Thanks for walking this journey with me.