I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how we each move through breast cancer—how differently the road unfolds for every one of us.

Recently, I’ve felt the need to speak honestly—maybe more bluntly than I have before—about my version of survival.

Because it doesn’t look clean. It doesn’t feel brave. And it sure as hell isn’t wrapped in pink ribbons.

Here’s the truth:

• I’m still in the thick of it.
• Still waking up some mornings trying to figure out who I am now.
• Still dealing with PTSD that doesn’t care how many months it’s been.

And so, I talk about it—mostly on Facebook, sometimes in real life, and now here, on my blog—because pretending everything is hunky-dory or things have been easy isn’t healing. It’s hiding. And I’ve done enough of that.

This hasn’t been an empowering “journey.” It’s been a fight. This experience has been brutal. And one I didn’t ask for and wouldn’t wish on anyone.

None. Of. It. Has. Been. Easy.

I didn’t “grow” from cancer—I fucking survived it. Barely, on some days. 

The cost?

• Chemo side effects a year later
• Multiple surgeries
• Multiple infections
• Scars that don’t fade.
• A chest I don’t recognize.
• Radiation burns.
• Joint pain that makes me feel decades older
• Tendon issues.
• Brain fog and memory loss.
• Chronic fatigue
• A creeping kind of grief for the woman I was before this all started.
• And more.

And yet, I’m still here. Still standing. Still figuring it out one slow breath at a time.

People ask why I posted about it so much—why I shared the hard stuff. The truth is, I have a lot of friends (especially in the photography world) who want to know. Who care. Who’ve walked beside me with grace and kindness. I have been told that sharing my story helped other women who were recently diagnosed or going through treatment.

And… because I need to. Because holding it in starts to rot from the inside out.

Survivorship isn’t the end of the story—it’s the start of a whole new one. One that’s messy and confusing and, yes, sometimes beautiful in unexpected ways.

And to anyone reading this who feels like you’re falling behind in the healing game: you’re not. You’re just walking your own path. And that is enough.

This isn’t a perfectly tied-up-in-a-bow blog post. It’s not meant to be. It’s raw, because this is what healing looks like—for me.

So no, I’m not going to pretend I’m fine for the sake of appearances. I talk about it—here—because I need to. Because if I don’t, it festers. Because stuffing it down for other people’s comfort would break me.

I’m not brave every day. I’m not strong every minute. Some days, I’m just fucking pissed. Other days, I’m hollow. But I’m still here. And that has to count for something.

I’ve always been honest—with anyone who asks. I’ll keep sharing, because people deserve to know that survivorship isn’t some glittery pink finish line—it’s the long, messy aftermath.

And I won’t apologize for telling the truth.