I married my college sweetheart on November 12, 2016 — eight beautiful years after we first fell in love. Just five weeks later, life flipped upside down when doctors told me I had cancer.
The news stunned everyone. I was only 28, lived “healthy,” and on the outside appeared fine. What few realized was that behind my smiles, I’d quietly battled anxiety and depression for years. Strangely, the diagnosis made me pause for the first time in a long while. It felt like permission to reassess the life I was racing through, to question my priorities and habits, instead of ignoring the quiet warnings inside my own heart.
Cancer forces you to look reality in the face. It reminds you that life is fragile, time is limited, and tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. After a brief wave of sadness, something shifted: I became hopeful. I saw the diagnosis as an unexpected invitation to rewrite my story, change my attitude, and stop taking my days for granted.
After lots of prayer and careful conversations, my husband and I chose not to follow the standard treatment path right away. I decided to first pursue a natural approach, with the agreement that I would start chemo if things progressed. Peace became my guiding principle. I worked on managing stress, nurturing my mental health, and strengthening my body through diet, exercise, and supportive supplements. Most importantly, I began the process of reconnecting with myself.
Growing up on the east coast had trained me to rush. I lived strapped to timelines, chasing deadlines, while holding a job that paid well but didn’t align with my soul. My choices felt like survival — trying to keep up financially rather than building a life I truly loved.
In time, I began to understand that my cancer diagnosis, as terrifying as it was, carried a strange blessing: perspective.
Over the following months, I leaned into things that genuinely lit me up. I danced, cooked from scratch, wrote quietly in journals and unfinished book chapters, explored tougher hiking trails, rested without guilt, remembered old wounds, and bravely began healing. I learned to listen to myself again.
Just before the wedding, I had completed an in-person life coach certification. I was already a certified personal trainer working with ambitious women in Fortune 100 companies, and I saw how overwhelmed many of them were. Although a psychology degree tempted me, life coaching felt like the path I was meant to follow — I just hadn’t yet found the courage to step into it.
That changed after cancer. In 2017, I took on my first life-coaching client, and everything shifted. For years I’d doubted myself and searched for the “right” career. Cancer reminded me that time runs out — and I finally gave myself permission to do what felt right.
As the years passed, my health stayed stable and my coaching business slowly grew. My faith deepened, carrying me when my body or emotions felt tired. I began to feel aligned with my purpose, grateful that God used even hardship to guide me.
By 2020, I was helping women reconnect with themselves, reshape habits, navigate burnout, improve relationships, and step into more meaningful lives. Life coaching filled me with a kind of joy fitness coaching never quite could.
Then, in May 2020, I noticed an enlarged lymph node getting bigger. Before doctors could schedule imaging, I discovered I was pregnant with our second child. Surprised but thrilled, we waited until after delivery to re-evaluate. By the end of the pregnancy, things changed quickly. Our son arrived early, and four weeks later I learned the cancer had progressed from stage I to stage III. Chemo began immediately.
Overnight, we became a family of four while juggling newborn life and biweekly chemotherapy. Surprisingly, I felt peace. I leaned fully into faith, trusting God with what I couldn’t control.
That same week, a family friend’s daughter — little Giovana Zalez — passed away after her battle with cancer. Heartbroken, I chose to shave and donate my hair to Wigs For Kids before treatment took it. As a coach who helps women reconnect with themselves, it felt right to help a child feel more like themselves, too.
I cut six 18-inch ponytails in Giovana’s honor. When the confirmation email arrived, I cried, thinking of children facing illness, fear, and identity changes beyond their understanding. If my hair could offer even one of them a moment of normalcy, it was worth everything.
Through chemo, newborn chaos, and uncertainty, our support system surrounded us. Family flew in from the east coast. Our daycare stepped in on treatment weekends. Friends sent meals, clothes, and financial help. We truly felt carried.
Feeling blessed, I wanted to give more. I transformed my year-long coaching program into a four-week accelerator so more women — especially mothers with limited time and resources — could access it. I even gifted a spot to a stay-at-home mom of four, and the joy from her response reaffirmed everything.
I never expected to coach through chemo, but I sensed God calling me deeper. With energy I didn’t fully understand, I kept showing up — for my family, my clients, and my purpose.
Today, I’m bald, fueled by caffeine and #newbornlife — and I’m in remission, with three rounds of chemo left. I chose surrender in 2021, and I continue choosing it daily. My goal now is simple: let God use my life, my skills, my story — even my hair — to bless others.
And if you’re reading this, I hope you feel encouraged to serve in your own way, too. Because every single day we get to wake up and live is a gift — and I’m so grateful I still get to say yes to mine.
