As the plane lifted into the clouds, I caught one last look at downtown Toronto. My little terrier, Marlo, was tucked safely under the seat in front of me, and even though we were only a few thousand feet above the ground, I felt like I was on top of the world. Life had been hard the last few years, but I had just completed my doctorate in cancer care at the University of Toronto.
When I first started in cancer care, I quickly fell in love with the work and with my patients. I wanted to give them the very best, and that is what pushed me to go for my doctorate. It was tough, long hours, high stress, and so much pressure. On top of my clinical work, I was also competing as a Team Canada powerlifting athlete. My days were packed with hospital shifts, followed by hours of training at the gym. Eat, sleep, repeat, that was my routine for years.
By the time I finished the program, I was ready for a break and ready to start living. I was engaged, with our wedding set for the fall of 2016. My fiancé and I had been living in different cities while I was in Toronto, but now we were buying our first home, planning our wedding, and starting a life together.
The wedding was beautiful crisp fall air, colorful leaves, and me in a mermaid-style gown that made me feel like the happiest bride. Afterward, we spent two weeks in Italy and Greece for our honeymoon. We ate all the pizza, drank wine, and enjoyed every moment. When we got home, I noticed I had gained about five pounds, which wasn’t a surprise after that much indulgence. But weeks passed, and the weight didn’t come off.
As an athlete, I knew my body well. I was eating healthy and training hard, but instead of losing, I kept gaining. Something didn’t feel right. One day while setting up for a heavy lift, I felt a small pull in my abdomen. It was subtle, but I had lifted thousands of times and knew this felt different. The heartburn was also relentless. No matter what I ate, it was there. I finally went to my doctor, who ordered an ultrasound.
That Friday evening, her name popped up on my phone. I froze as I answered. Her words still echo in my mind: “You have a tumor on your ovary. It’s about 21 by 10 centimeters. I’m sorry, kiddo. You have cancer.” I was 30 years old.
Just six weeks earlier, I had walked down the aisle in my fitted gown, and no one would have guessed a massive tumor was inside me. Ovarian cancer is usually diagnosed at stage 3, with only about a 39 percent chance of surviving five years. I had just started my life, and now I was facing this.
Having worked in cancer care, I thought I knew what I would do if it ever happened to me. But once I was the patient, everything felt different. Suddenly, I wasn’t the expert. I was the one facing the fear and uncertainty.
The first step was surgery to remove the tumor. Thirty-three staples held me together afterward. But surgery was only the beginning. Next came chemotherapy. I knew the process inside and out, which was both comforting and terrifying. I dreaded the side effects I had watched so many patients endure.
For me, the hardest part was exhaustion. As someone who thrived on independence and activity, needing help for even the smallest things was crushing. My husband had to take care of almost everything, and friends brought groceries. Most days, moving from the bed to the couch was my biggest accomplishment.
After four cycles, chemo was done. I thought I’d feel like celebrating, but instead, I was too drained to move. I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself. I had gained 20 pounds, battled endless hot flashes, and felt like a 30-year-old trapped in an elderly body. Recovery turned out to be its own mountain to climb.
It wasn’t until I started dedicating myself to recovery with the same effort I put into treatment that things slowly shifted. Little by little, I began to see myself again. Days of feeling like me turned into weeks, then months, until finally I could look in the mirror and feel whole again.
When I returned to work, I was different. Going through cancer myself gave me a deeper understanding of what my patients faced. I wasn’t just a cancer expert anymore, I was also a survivor.
Despite losing one ovary, my husband and I decided to try for a family. On St. Patrick’s Day 2019, we welcomed our son, Maximilian. A few years later, we were blessed again with our daughter, Madelyn. With only one ovary, I joke that I truly put all my eggs in one basket, but both children are miracles.
Now, looking back on twelve years in cancer care, I see how my journey shaped me. Experiencing cancer firsthand made me a better clinician, and today my focus is on helping survivors through recovery. Cancer is unimaginably hard. Treatment is grueling. Recovery is just as tough. But there is hope. You don’t have to feel stuck. You don’t have to feel alone. There’s a whole community out there to remind you that healing and thriving are possible.
