Stable Isn’t the Same as Easy

Jan6

I got my scan results back.

They’re stable. No progression.

This is when you would think the natural reaction would be joy, happiness and relief.

When you have early stage cancer it’s happy, you are relieved! You are one step closer to the end.

Not with Metastatic (Stage 4) Part of me is relieved sure. But stability means something very different in this world. It means I continue on the same path with no progression and no changes. You are probably thinking “I don’t get it! That’s good news.” Yes and no.

In the beginning you get excited when scans show tumors getting smaller or staying the same. Then your next scan may have some progression. And then back to stable. The rollercoaster of emotion and keeping up is exhausting. Then one day you realize what stable actually means and doesn’t mean.

Here’s the part we don’t talk about enough.

“Stable” doesn’t mean cancer is gone. It doesn’t mean life goes back to normal. It doesn’t mean one step closer to being finished with treatment. It means the same cycle continues: treatment, side effects, blood counts, scans, waiting, adjusting, worrying — repeat. No movement forward. No clear resolution. Just staying on the hamster wheel.

And that gets exhausting.

The longer things stay stable, the less visible cancer becomes to the outside world. People stop checking in as often. The urgency fades. The assumption becomes that you’re “doing fine.”

But I’m still living with this every single day.

I still wake up not knowing how I’m going to feel. I still have limits that didn’t exist before. I still have to measure everything I do because I pay for it afterward. I still have fatigue that isn’t solved by rest. I still have pain that doesn’t go away. So when scans say “nothing changed,” my day-to-day reality hasn’t actually gotten easier.

There’s also something hard to explain unless you’ve lived it: even progression would mean something different is happening. Decisions. A change in direction. Movement. I’m not wishing for things to get worse — I’m worn down by the limbo of nothing changing at all.

Don’t get me wrong, I do not want to die.

What I want is for the constant waiting and situation to end.

Living with stage 4 cancer isn’t one crisis — it’s an ongoing state of vigilance. You’re always monitoring your body. Always wondering what a symptom means. Always balancing what you want to do with what you’ll pay for later. And when you live like that long enough, it can start to feel like life is happening somewhere else while you wait on the sidelines.

There’s also grief — not just for health, but for identity.

I miss the version of myself who could make plans without hesitation. Who could dance, stay out late, say yes without calculating the cost. I still want to experience things, travel, be part of the world — but unpredictability makes planning feel risky, so I often don’t bother at all. That’s not because I don’t want to live. It’s because disappointment hurts. One day I may feel good so I make plans and have all my brilliant ideas just to be pulled back down to my reality.

People assume stability is the goal. And medically, it is. But emotionally, stability can be heavy. It asks you to endure without a finish line. Imagine running a race that never ends.

The whole thing is just bullshit. You get back on the hamster wheel until the next lab, infusion, scan, being in pain and fatigued with a smile on your face.

I’m writing this because I know I’m not the only one who feels this way — and because so many people stop talking once they’re “stable,” afraid they’ll sound ungrateful or like they’re asking for sympathy.

This isn’t about attention.

It’s about honesty.

You can be grateful to be alive and still mourn the life you lost. You can be relieved by stable scans and still feel trapped by the reality they represent. Both things can be true.

If you’re living in this space too — stable but struggling — you’re not broken. You’re not weak. You’re not doing cancer “wrong.”

You’re human. And this is hard.

Finding My Second Wind

Oct7

For the first time in a long while, I feel a spark again.
It’s subtle, but it’s there — a second wind that’s guiding me toward something meaningful. I have a few projects on the horizon that I’m genuinely excited about, and that excitement feels… new. Familiar in a way, yet deeply different. Maybe that’s because this version of me — the one standing here now — isn’t who I used to be.

Over the past months, I’ve spent a lot of time looking inward. Trying to understand this “new me.” The one who carries both strength and fragility. The one who’s learning not to fight every twist in her path, but to flow with it — to dance with it.

A conversation with another member of the Stage 4 club shifted my perspective completely. He told me, “With Stage 4, you’re not a warrior, and you’re not a survivor — you’re a dancer.”
That really hand an impact on me and made me think. Then of course “YAAAAAAAASSSSSS!!!”

Because it’s true.
You stop trying to battle every cell, every scan, every fear — and instead, you learn to move with it. You sway between good days and bad, you rest when your body demands it, and you rise again when your spirit calls. You dance with life, with uncertainty, and yes, even with cancer.

Personally, I call my tumors and lesions “the parties.” They come and go, sometimes loud and wild, sometimes quiet and contained. Every so often, I check in — just to make sure they’re not getting out of control. It’s my way of keeping humor and grace alive in the middle of chaos.

Through reflection (and a lot of honesty), I’m finally starting to come to terms with who I am now — and even more, I’m beginning to appreciate what I’ve been through. Every setback, every scar, every “why me” moment has shaped this version of me that’s ready to create again.

The projects I’m working on are born from that journey. They come from the parts of me that have felt lost, found, broken, rebuilt, and redefined. I can’t wait to share them with you in the coming weeks — not just for those living with metastatic cancer, but for anyone trying to rediscover meaning in their own story.

Because maybe that’s what the second wind really is —
not the return of who we were, but the beginning of who we’re meant to become.

What Metastatic Breast Cancer Really Means: Beyond the Pink Ribbons

Sep22

When people hear the words “breast cancer,” most think of pink ribbons, survivors ringing bells, and five-year remission celebrations. That’s part of the story—but it isn’t the whole story.

There’s another side of breast cancer that doesn’t get talked about enough: metastatic breast cancer (MBC), also known as stage 4. This is the kind I live with. And it’s very different from the pink ribbon version you usually see.

What Stage 4 Really Means

Metastatic breast cancer happens when cancer cells spread beyond the breast and lymph nodes to other parts of the body—most commonly the bones, lungs, liver, or brain. At this point, it’s no longer considered curable. Treatments focus on controlling the disease, managing symptoms, and giving patients as much time—and quality of life—as possible.

That’s the blunt truth: there’s no “end of treatment” for metastatic breast cancer. There’s no ringing the bell and moving on. This is a lifetime diagnosis.

The Myths vs. Reality

Myth 1: You only get stage 4 if you didn’t catch it early.

Reality: Metastatic breast cancer can happen even if you were diagnosed at stage 0, I, II, or III, went through treatment, and were considered “cancer-free or NED, no evidence of disease.” Sometimes cells lie dormant for years before resurfacing.

Myth 2: With enough positivity or strength, you can beat it.

Reality: Positivity can help your outlook, but it’s not a cure. MBC isn’t about “fighting harder”—it’s about living with an illness that medicine hasn’t yet figured out how to stop permanently.

Myth 3: Stage 4 means you’re immediately on your deathbed.

Reality: While MBC is terminal, patients often live years—sometimes many years—on treatment. Advances in medicine mean that some people can manage it more like a chronic illness, though it’s still unpredictable and relentless.

Why Awareness Matters

Pink ribbons raise billions for breast cancer research and awareness—but only a small percentage of that goes toward metastatic breast cancer research. And yet, MBC is the only stage of breast cancer that kills.

Awareness matters because:

We need more research. Treatments are improving, but there’s still no cure. Patients need support. Our journeys look very different from early-stage survivors. We don’t get to “move on.” Caregivers need recognition. They’re living this life alongside us, often silently.

When people understand what metastatic breast cancer really is, they can better support patients, push for research, and help shift the narrative beyond pink ribbons and survivor slogans.

Living Beyond the Ribbon

For me, living with stage 4 means making peace with uncertainty. It means celebrating good scan results, mourning the life I thought I’d have, and finding joy in unexpected places. It means showing up honestly—because awareness isn’t about fear, it’s about truth.

Beyond the pink ribbons, there’s a whole world of us living with metastatic breast cancer every day. And we deserve to be seen, supported, and remembered.

Closing thought

If you know someone with stage 4, don’t be afraid to ask how they’re really doing. And if you want to help, look for organizations that provide support and/or funding for research, not just awareness campaigns.

Some organizations you should look at:

Metavivor

Friend for Life

Cancer Support Community – Gilda’s Club

Derby City Dragons. If you are looking for a dragon boat team in your area, please reach out and I can help you find one!

Check. regularly as I will add more information.

Fatigue No One Sees

Sep18

Here’s the thing about fatigue with stage IV cancer: it’s not “I stayed up too late last night” tired. It’s not “I just need a nap and a coffee” tired. It’s bone-deep, soul-sucking exhaustion that no amount of sleep, vitamins, or positive thinking can fix.

And the kicker? It’s unpredictable.

Just because I wake up feeling halfway decent doesn’t mean I’ll still feel that way by lunchtime. I can say “yes” to something with every intention of showing up — then my body pulls the rug out from under me, and suddenly I’m on the couch with zero energy, nauseous, and mad at the world. It feels depressing because I want to go, I plan to go, and then… I can’t.

That’s the hardest part: not being able to trust my own body. I used to be a planner. I thrived on calendars, commitments, and being the person who always showed up. Now, week 4 of my Ibrance cycle is basically the Bermuda Triangle of my life. Energy goes in, but nothing comes out. I know better than to schedule anything major then — but life doesn’t stop for my blood counts. Showers, birthdays, dinners, family things… they don’t care what week I’m on.

And then comes the guilt. Backing out feels disrespectful, like I’m letting people down. But here’s the truth: I’m not disrespecting anyone — I’m protecting myself. This isn’t about being flaky, it’s about survival.

I’ve had to redefine what “showing up” means. Sometimes it looks like dropping off a gift even if I can’t stay for the party. Sometimes it’s sending a text that says, “I’m with you in spirit.” And sometimes it’s choosing to stay home, rest, and save what little energy I have for the scans, infusions, or just getting through the next day.

Do I like it? Absolutely not. Do I grieve the old me who could plan without hesitation, commit without fear, and follow through every time? Every single day.

But here’s what I’m learning: showing up doesn’t always mean being there in person. Sometimes showing up means honoring what my body needs. Sometimes it means loving people from a distance. Sometimes it means letting go of the guilt and reminding myself — I’m not lazy, I’m not unreliable, I’m not disrespectful. I’m living with cancer fatigue, and it’s okay to say, this is all I have to give today.

And honestly? That’s enough.

Grieving Your Youth

Sep16

I’m 55 years old, on the cusp of 56, and I feel like I’m standing in two worlds at once. In my mind, I’m still in my thirties—maybe late twenties on a good day. But when I look in the mirror or feel the way my body moves, I can’t deny the truth: youth has packed its bags and left the building.

I don’t have the tiny waist I once did. I’m no longer a size 6. My hair isn’t long and luxurious anymore, and my skin doesn’t glow like it used to. My back and hips don’t hold me up with the same ease, my knees are protesting daily, and my energy disappears faster than I’d like. My vision is fading, my hearing is slipping, and I walk into rooms forgetting why I’m there. Sometimes, I tell a story and lose my train of thought mid-sentence. The younger me would never have believed this was coming.

I’m grieving.

Not grieving my self—my mind, my spirit, my humor, or my essence—but grieving the body that once let me move through life with ease. The one that ran in heels, danced all night, climbed mountains without a second thought, and could pull together a day full of errands and still have energy left to go out at night. That body is gone, and I miss her.

I know people love to say things like:

“Age is just a number.”

“You’re only as old as you feel.”

“It beats the alternative.”

And sure, I get it. But those sayings feel like quick band-aids on a much deeper wound. Because the truth is, I’ve never been this old before. I don’t know how to carry the weight of it yet. I’m trying to figure out who I am now in this changed body, and it’s harder than I expected.

Yes, I could focus on wisdom. On all I’ve learned. On the fact that inside, I still feel vibrant and capable and full of ideas. And some days, that’s enough. But most days, my body pulls me back to reality: you can’t do everything you used to.

So, is it superficial to grieve this? Or is it something deeper, even profound?

I think it’s both. Grieving youth isn’t just about looks, or size, or energy. It’s about saying goodbye to the version of myself who moved through life effortlessly. It’s about learning to accept the trade-off—wisdom and perspective in exchange for aches, fatigue, and softness where firmness once lived.

Here’s the truth I’ve landed on: I don’t have to like it. But I do have to accept it. People live, hopefully grow old, and eventually, we die. The body ages even while the spirit stays young. Somewhere in that messy middle is where I am—learning to honor who I was, while still embracing who I’m becoming.

And maybe that’s the real work of this stage of life: to let yourself grieve what’s gone, without letting it rob you of the joy that’s still here.

The Difference No One Talks About

Sep8

When people talk about cancer, the story almost always centers on survivorship. There’s a beginning, a middle, and an end. A diagnosis, a battle, and a victory. Survivors ring bells, declare themselves warriors who “beat cancer,” and step back into a version of normal life. Yes, there’s fear of recurrence. Yes, there ay be follow-up scans every six months or a year if something doesn’t feel right. Yes, there may be medications with side effects—but for most, those meds have a finish line, often five years down the road.

Stage IV is different.

There is no finish line. There is no “last day of treatment.” There is no bell to ring. Cancer doesn’t leave; it moves in. It’s not something you beat—it’s something you live with. Sometimes it quiets down, sometimes it flares up, but it is always there.

Stage IV means:

Infusions that don’t end. Scans more often. Constant blood work watching white blood cell counts and tumor markers. Stopping and starting meds because your body can’t handle it and the fear that everything will get out of control, and sometimes it does. Medications that are lifelong, not temporary. Radiation to stop growth on occasion. Exhaustion that never fully lifts. The knowledge that cancer is not a visitor that might come back—it already has.

For survivors, the narrative is one of triumph: “I fought and I won.” For those of us living with Stage IV, the narrative is different. It’s about endurance. Adaptation. Learning how to carry cancer alongside life, even when the load feels unbearable. Sometimes the disease wins ground. Sometimes it’s held in control. But it never leaves the room.

This isn’t about minimizing what early-stage survivors go through—their fight is real. But the lived reality of Stage IV is different. It’s not about beating cancer once and for all. It’s about learning to live fully while cancer stays.

Grieving the Old Me with Stage IV Cancer

Sep1

Grief with stage IV cancer isn’t just about death—it’s about losing pieces of yourself while you’re still here.

I grieve the life I had. The ability to plan a day and actually do it. The energy to say yes without wondering if I’ll be too fatigued, in pain, or stuck at another surprise blood draw. I watch people go on with their lives and sometimes wish I could just jump in without a second thought.

Instead, trips are shorter, closer, slower. They’re built with rest breaks and backup plans. My daily schedule has shifted from “here’s my whole day” to “here’s what I might try this week.” And when I don’t get it all done, it feels like failure—like I wasn’t enough.

The truth is, cancer has taught me a brutal lesson: energy isn’t just physical. Emotional energy drains faster than running a marathon. My body is fighting behind the scenes 24/7. And my brain? Let’s just say it’s its own exhausting full-time job.

So now I live in a rhythm: do a thing, rest, recharge, repeat. High-energy, pre-cancer me would’ve laughed at the idea of needing recovery time after folding laundry. Yet here I am, with a bullet journal (yes, I caved) trying to map out energy like its currency. I may not be able to control my body but I can take charge of how I respond to it.

This grief isn’t the same as mourning a death, but it is mourning—the loss of my old self, of the version of me who didn’t have to measure every ounce of energy just to exist. And yeah, it sucks.

But I’m still here. I’m still me—just reshaped. Different. Learning to live in this “new normal.” (ugh! I hate that term…must find something else like ‘The Realness Era’ or ‘Life 2.0 – with glitches’) And maybe the most defiant thing I can do is name the grief, feel it, and still keep moving forward, just a little slower and without a plan.

And this my friends is what it is to be resilient. One of the most important lessons to learn from your time on this rock.

Radiation Sessions: Getting the Authorities Involved

Aug26

Radiation sessions for this crazy party are officially complete. I like to think they made an example out of this group—showing the others that we’re not putting up with any nonsense.

In case you missed: I think of every lesion and tumor as a party. The party in my hip got a bit out of hand and needed the authorities to come in and get it back under control.

The rad tech asked me if I was excited to be done. I told her, “I don’t get excited anymore because there’s always something else.” That’s the reality—this is my life now. And honestly, I’m glad she doesn’t understand that. Hopefully, she never will.

As I walked out of the dressing room, rocking the ever-fashionable patterned house dress, I noticed a woman sitting there. She had clearly been through chemo and was finishing her radiation. But what struck me most was the fear on her face.

Being me, I sat down and asked, “What are you in for?”

“Breast cancer,” she said. Stage 2.

She told me how it feels like it will never end, how she’s starting meds next week, and how heavy the fear sits on her. I could feel it radiating off her—stress, anxiety, uncertainty. And I remembered exactly what that felt like in the beginning. When everything is new. Unknown. Terrifying.

I listened. I empathized. And I tried, in whatever small way, to reassure her. Maybe my outlook helped her feel just a little less alone in that moment.

Later, as I got into my car, I noticed her still sitting in hers. I walked over, gave her my number, and told her if she ever needs someone to vent to, I’m here.

I feel so deeply for the newer cancer people. It’s such a frightening start—you can’t help but think your life is over, that death is waiting just around the corner. But with time, with knowledge, with experience… the fear softens. The unknown becomes manageable. And slowly, you start to breathe again. But it never goes away…ever.

Yes, this is my reality: the parties keep coming. But I’ve learned how to walk in, take a seat, and own the damn room—even when the authorities have to step in.

Extra Padding: Flaw or Built-In Protection?

Aug21

I’ve been down on myself about weight lately. Then I fell, bruised my hip, and realized—thank goodness I landed on a “padded” spot.

That got me thinking. As women age, our bones thin, become fragile, and breaks from osteoporosis or osteopenia become a real risk. Maybe that “extra padding” isn’t a flaw. Maybe it’s armor.

Think about pregnancy. Weight gain is natural—not just for the baby, but to protect the mother’s body too. It’s the same principle later in life.

So what if the extra padding isn’t something to fight? What if it’s your body’s way of keeping you safe?

What do you think—protection or problem? Change my mind.

Yay, Radiation!

Aug16

It’s been nine years since I last had the pleasure of being zapped. Back then, after chemo and surgery, I endured 33 sessions of radiation to my left chest. It didn’t hurt, but the fatigue was overwhelming. And boy did it tear up the skin on my chest.

Fast forward to today: I just completed the first of five sessions. This time it’s stronger radiation, and it’s aimed directly at the bone. If you’ve ever experienced bone pain, you know—it’s no joke.

What Radiation Looks Like Now

Here’s the routine: I lie on a custom mold they made of me during the prep session. It’s surprisingly comfortable, designed to contour my body so I stay perfectly still. The team lines me up, takes a quick CT scan to ensure accuracy, and then delivers the zap. The setup takes longer than the treatment itself, which lasts only 5–10 minutes.

But here’s the difference: radiation for stage IV doesn’t just cause fatigue—it knocks you out much faster. The body treats it like an attack, triggering inflammation and stirring up all the other lesions. Suddenly, everything is on high alert, and my whole system feels like it’s in battle mode.

Thankfully, oxycodone helps take the edge off, because I honestly can’t imagine what this would feel like without it.

The Plan Ahead

For now, I get to rest for a couple of days and (hopefully) regain some energy. Next week, I’ll go in Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, with the final session scheduled for the following Tuesday. The treatment itself doesn’t hurt, but the aftermath—the deep bone pain and crushing fatigue—certainly does.

The doctors say the pain and exhaustion could linger for up to four weeks. After that, more scans will tell us whether the radiation did its job. In the meantime, I balance rest with gentle movement to keep the blood flowing.

The Bell That isn’t Mine

In many treatment centers, there’s a bell patients ring when they’ve completed active treatment. It symbolizes the end of a difficult chapter and the start of a new one. But for those of us living with stage IV, there is no “end of treatment.” The bell isn’t meant for us.

Today, I rang it anyway. I told the receptionist that I would never get to ring the bell officially. The receptionist clapped and told me I could ring it anytime I want. That small moment stuck with me—because why shouldn’t I celebrate my milestones, even if my path looks different?

So I’ve decided to start a charm bracelet. One charm for every procedure I’ve had over the last ten years, and new ones for whatever lies ahead. My own way of marking the journey.

Moving Forward

This weekend, my focus is simple: rest, restore, and gather strength for the next round. Radiation may be tough, but I’m tougher—and I’m finding my own ways to honor the path I’m on.