I know prolonged stress can make the body vulnerable, but cancer? That never crossed my mind… until it did.
It started with a spontaneous fracture in my spine—a plasmacytoma that crushed the bones holding my head up. October 19, 2012. Surgery followed. Parts removed. Pieces added. Fused together with a titanium plate like something bionic. One millimeter from paralysis. Experts missed it the first time and sent me home. A week later, during my second ambulance ride, they finally sprang into action. That small wrecking ball struck me in the throat, and somehow, it rebooted everything—mind, body, and soul.
On December 4, 2012, I was diagnosed with Stage II Multiple Myeloma. I was 37.
MM is a sleeping beast. A monkey on my back. It lives in the marrow and attacks bones when stirred by stress. And I’d had stress. Years of it. Chronic, invisible, grinding pressure. I believe it made room for the disease.
Still, I am here—alive and breathing against all odds. Every day, I try to stay mindful of that truth. Recovery has meant learning to forgive others, yes—but more importantly, learning to forgive myself.
Fear thrives where uncertainty and trauma live. And navigating adulthood blindly, with invisible wounds and no roadmap, left plenty of room for both. But grace came in strange forms. Timing, support, sudden clarity. Somehow, I became the captain of this life-ship through a storm I didn’t expect to survive.
Spiritually, I’ve always been driven. I said the prayers, accepted salvation at fourteen, and committed my life to “service before self” at eighteen. I became a missionary, willing to go wherever I was needed. Jesus was real to me. Mother Teresa and Michelangelo were my heroes. I passed out gospel tracts on Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras with the Baptist Student Union. One hand was stretched toward heaven. The other was stretched toward humanity. I wanted revival. I wanted truth.
My theology, however, evolved. I’ve studied world religions, experienced everything from traditional to contemporary worship, participated in baptisms, blessings, and healing services. Raised Southern Baptist with non-denominational leanings, I eventually found a home in the United Methodist Church. Still, I remain cautious of organized religion—especially when it’s used to harm or control. I follow the core teachings of Jesus and the wisdom of others like Buddha. My faith is personal. Intellectual. Not performative.
Some aren’t ready for the way I talk about faith. That’s okay. I don’t need them to be. I’ve chosen the path of human rights, social justice, and spiritual openness. I believe people matter more than dogma. Love is louder than fear.
Hopeful? Yes. Content? Not always. But I’m working on it.
Today, I live with partial remission. Not cancer-free. But I’m pain-free. My mind is clear. My spirit is awake. I’m not where I thought I’d be—financially, academically, or materially—but I’m alive. And more aware than ever that the more I learn, the more I realize I don’t know.
They call me a survivor. I didn’t expect that title. I expected 5–7 years, tops. The spinal fracture, the stem cell transplants, the chemo, the radiation—it all blurred together. I’ve made mistakes in the fog. I’ve acted from trauma. I’ve chosen paths that didn’t lead where I’d hoped. But I’ve also grown. Solved problems in new ways. Surprised myself. Learned to live with fear without letting it decide for me.
No, I don’t believe in “blindly following my bliss.” The world’s too complex for that. We’re all connected, and our words and actions matter more than our possessions. Kindness matters. Respect matters. And differences—whether in body, mind, spirit, or background—should be celebrated, not erased.
It would be strange if I said the stem cell transplants didn’t change me. They did. The first in 2013. The second a year later. I call 2013 my rebirth year. That’s when I began writing about it all.
Humor helped. Writing helped more. I started sharing my story—not always polished, not always perfect, but real. People close to me would say my mind moves faster than my mouth. I talk a blue streak when I’m nervous. I joke when I’m scared. I’m overconfident when defending others, but not myself.
I’ve trusted unsafe people. I’ve lived with the consequences. Fear was planted in me early, and it twisted everything for years. But something has shifted. Some of those fears—especially the irrational ones—are finally dissolving. Even the fear of death feels lighter. The MM monkey is still there. But I’m learning how to sit with it without letting it steal the day.
Writing keeps me from crumbling. It gives weight and shape to experiences that might otherwise drown me. And maybe, just maybe, those words will light the way for someone else still wandering in the dark.
Because becoming a warrior through cancer isn’t the worst thing that’s happened to me.
It just might be the most important.
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