For as long as I can remember, my life has been a whirlwind of purpose and passion. I’ve always been the kind of person who thrives on a packed schedule, finding a strange and wonderful comfort in the hum of constant activity. It wasn’t just about staying busy; it was about being intentional with every single hour I was given. This drive led me to build a life that was as demanding as it was fulfilling. I ran my own mobile wedding hair and makeup business, a venture that allowed me to be a part of people’s most joyful moments. Alongside that, I maintained a counseling practice, offering support to those navigating their own mental and emotional landscapes, and I dedicated a significant portion of my time to helping run a homeless charity. My days were a tapestry woven with diverse threads of work, service, and personal growth, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
To manage this incredible load, my days had to start early and run with precision. My alarm would sound at 4:30 in the morning, pulling me from sleep to head to the gym for a workout before the rest of the world woke up. There was a certain magic in that quiet pre-dawn hour, the world still and peaceful as I pushed my body. I’d often cap off my exercise with a coffee, watching the sunrise paint the sky in hues of orange and pink, a moment of serene beauty before diving into a ten-hour workday. It sounds exhausting to many, and perhaps even a little crazy, but this rhythm of life made me feel more alive than anything else. I was doing what I loved, helping people, and taking care of myself—it was a perfect equation. This commitment to a full life extended beyond my professional responsibilities. I was an avid hiker, a dedicated runner, and an enthusiastic reader. I volunteered at a local horse shelter, finding peace in the presence of these gentle giants. My social life was vibrant, filled with cherished friends and family. Even the simple acts of tending to my houseplants or picking up a fresh bouquet of sunflowers each week brought me a profound sense of joy and completeness. I was deeply grateful for the people, the opportunities, and the comforting routines that filled my days with meaning. Taking care of my mind and body was paramount, so I was always attuned to any subtle changes within myself. That’s why, in early July, I knew something was wrong.
It started as a strange, radiating pain that seemed to travel through my entire face. It was a soreness I couldn’t quite explain, and then I noticed a small, tender lump near the bridge of my nose. My first thought was that it was just a blemish, but the sensitivity to the touch ruled that out. I wasn’t overly alarmed, but I’m a firm believer in being proactive with my health, so I booked an appointment with my doctor just to be safe. The doctor referred me for an ultrasound, and the moment they saw the results, the tone changed. I was quickly sent for a CT scan, still not feeling particularly worried. The CT scan revealed something surprising: a fracture in the bridge of my nose and in my eye socket. The doctor, looking rather bewildered, remarked that it looked like I had been punched. I essentially had a broken nose, but I couldn’t recall any incident that could have caused it. I’m a bit clumsy and have fallen off a horse numerous times over the years, but nothing recent had happened that would explain this. The medical team had to perform a welfare check to rule out any hidden violence, but I was just as mystified as they were. It was a baffling puzzle, but I had to trust the process and the doctors who were trying to solve it.
The scans indicated that the break was chronic, likely occurring between six and twelve months prior, yet I had been completely unaware. I was breathing fine, working out, and living my life without a single indication of such a significant injury. While the CT scan explained the pain, it only led to more questions. I was referred to an ear, nose, and throat (ENT) specialist who ordered an MRI with contrast to get a clearer picture. The ENT’s initial theory was that I had blocked mucus that couldn’t drain, leading to inflammation and the lump. It sounded plausible, so I took their word for it. I was scheduled for nasal surgery in August to drain the fluid, but once the procedure began, it became clear that there was no mucus to drain. They did find and repair a deviated septum, but the mystery of the swelling and pain remained. When I woke up, I was told they still didn’t know what was causing the infection, but they had taken a biopsy of the lump. I was sent home with antibiotics, expecting to recover and get my stitches out in a few weeks. The recovery was slow and frustrating. The inflammation would improve one day, only to return with a vengeance the next. Different medications were tried, with the hope that it might be a fungal or sinus infection, but the relief was always temporary. Then, a few weeks later, I received the call that shattered my world.
The doctor’s voice was heavy with sympathy as he told me, “I am so sorry, you need to take this seriously now because your cells are cancerous.” The word ‘cancer’ echoed in my ears, but I couldn’t process it. It felt like a scene from a movie, not my life. The doctor went on to explain that at the age of 32, I had a rare and very aggressive form of sinus cancer. The devastation was absolute. He told me they needed to act now, and I went straight to the hospital for more scans. It was surreal, an out-of-body experience. Even the doctors were shocked, as every previous test had only shown inflammation, pointing to an infection. A series of scans, including an MRI, PET scan, and head and neck CT, led to a diagnosis of squamous cell carcinoma. But the news would get even worse. The cancer had spread to the front of my brain, making it inoperable, and to my hip, classifying it as stage four, or metastatic. Surgery was no longer an option, and chemotherapy was my only treatment. Without treatment, I was told I might have only three weeks to live. With chemo, I could buy myself three to six months, or perhaps twelve if I was lucky. I was considered fortunate to live long enough to see my 33rd birthday. I was given a year to live, and I was supposed to be grateful for it.
I refused to give up. There was no question about whether I would undergo treatment. I started chemotherapy in late August, and the initial side effects were manageable. The fatigue, however, was overwhelming; I felt like a real-life Sleeping Beauty after the first round. After the second, the nausea, aches, and brain fog intensified, but I began to learn how to listen to my body and give it what it needed. The hardest moment came when my hair started to fall out in large clumps. After many tears, I decided to shave it off in September. My best friend was there to do it for me, and she turned a heartbreaking moment into one of love and support. It has been incredibly freeing to let go of that part of my old self and embrace wigs instead. Now, I find myself celebrating the little wins, finding tranquility amidst the chaos, sharing laughter with friends, and cherishing every hug. This terminal diagnosis has given me a profound new lease on life. I am more grateful for every precious day than I ever thought possible. Every sunrise, sunset, smile, and laugh is a treasure. I’ve started documenting my journey online, not only as a way to process my own reality but to raise awareness for this incredibly rare cancer. If people take anything from my story, I want them to know how precious life is. Don’t put off doing the things you want to do. Choose love wherever possible, and don’t waste a single minute of the life you’ve been granted. I’ve always tried to live that way, and I am so glad I did, because now, every moment truly counts.
