This past Saturday, I walked for the second time at the American Cancer Society’s Making Strides Against Breast Cancer event in Chicago. But this year felt different, and I’m still searching for the right words to describe it.
A year ago, I looked up at the women on that stage as Portraits of Hope and thought, “One day, I’m going to be one of those women.” Back then, I had no idea what the next year would bring, what my health would be like, or if I’d even get the chance to stand there myself.
One year later, I stood in front of 12,000 people as a Portrait of Hope, representing everyone living with Stage 4 metastatic breast cancer.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fully explain what that moment meant to me. It was about more than standing on a stage or being recognized. It was about having the chance to represent a community of people whose diagnosis is too often linked to dying instead of living.
When I was diagnosed with Stage 4 breast cancer at 35, just 40 days before my wedding, I had no idea what my future would look like. I should have been planning my marriage, looking forward to the years ahead, and dreaming about what my husband and I would do together. Instead, I was learning about chemotherapy, treatment plans, survival rates, and what it meant to have cancer that had already spread.
Metastatic breast cancer, or Stage 4 breast cancer, means the cancer has spread beyond the breast and nearby lymph nodes to other parts of the body, like the liver, lungs, bones, or brain. It’s the only stage of breast cancer that is considered incurable. Treatments are improving and people are living longer, but there is still no cure.
That’s the reality I wake up to every day, but it’s not the only one I live with.
I’m also a wife, daughter, friend, professional, and advocate. I still have dreams, goals, and so much I want to do. I laugh, celebrate milestones, make plans, travel, and find reasons to look forward to tomorrow, even when I have no idea what it will bring.
That’s what I wanted those 12,000 people to see when they looked at me.
I wanted early-stage breast cancer survivors to see that people living with metastatic disease are part of this community too. I wanted previvors, who are facing their own risks and tough choices, to understand why ongoing research is important. Most of all, I wanted someone who just heard the words “you have Stage 4 breast cancer” to look at me and know their life isn’t automatically over.
It might not be the life you imagined. It could look very different from the future you planned, and there will be days when you feel angry, exhausted, scared, or just tired of being strong. But there’s still life to live, memories to make, people to love, and experiences worth looking forward to.
I know this because I’m living it.
Being named a Portrait of Hope by the American Cancer Society is something I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life. To me, being a Portrait of Hope doesn’t mean I have everything figured out, that I’m always positive, or that I’ve found a way to make living with cancer easy. It means I get to share what this diagnosis really looks like, including the parts people don’t always see.
It means standing for the woman in the infusion chair, wondering how many more treatments she can handle. It’s for the mother hoping for more time with her children, the newly diagnosed patient looking for someone who understands, and the people we’ve lost who should still be here with us.
It means making sure that when we talk about breast cancer awareness, we also talk about the people who will be in treatment for the rest of their lives.
While we celebrate survivorship, early detection, and the amazing progress in breast cancer care, we can’t forget that about 20–30% of people diagnosed with early-stage breast cancer may later develop metastatic disease. People still die from breast cancer every day, and we can’t let awareness become more important than the research needed to change these outcomes.
If we find a cure for Stage 4 metastatic breast cancer, we’ll have the cure breast cancer patients need most, a way to stop this disease from taking lives.
That’s why I keep advocating, raising money for research, sharing my story, and speaking up whenever I can, even when I’m physically and mentally exhausted.
And I am exhausted.
Some days, I feel like I’m barely hanging on, trying to balance treatment, work, advocacy, my personal life, and just taking care of myself. There are days when I wish I could turn everything off and have one day where cancer isn’t part of every decision. Sometimes I wonder how much more I can handle, but then I think about the people who don’t get to keep fighting, the friends I’ve lost, and those counting on research for more time.
So I keep going, because giving up on this work has never felt like an option to me.
When I think about everything that’s happened this past year, I feel overwhelmed with gratitude. I’ve had chances to advocate, connect with amazing people, support research, and use my experience to help others understand metastatic breast cancer. I’ve met women who have lived with this disease for years, women who have changed how I see my own diagnosis, and people who remind me why this work matters.
I’ve also been surrounded by incredible support from my husband, family, friends, medical team, and people who have shown up for me in ways I never imagined. I know not everyone has this kind of support, and I don’t take any of it for granted.
To the American Cancer Society, thank you for choosing me as a 2026 Portrait of Hope and for giving someone with Stage 4 metastatic breast cancer the chance to stand on that stage. Thank you for seeing that our stories deserve to be heard and that representation matters, especially for those of us living with a diagnosis that doesn’t have an end to treatment.
And to everyone who’s been part of my life this past year, whether you donated, came to an event, shared something I wrote, checked in on me, or just listened—thank you. You’ve helped make some of the hardest moments a little easier, and you’ve helped me do things I never thought possible after my diagnosis.
Looking back on Saturday, I can’t help but think about the woman I was in that crowd a year ago. I was still trying to understand what living with this disease meant for my future, and I had no idea how much my life would change in the months ahead. I wish I could go back and tell her about all the people she’d meet, the opportunities she’d have, and everything she’d accomplish despite it all.
I don’t know what my health will be like a year from now, and I’d be lying if I said that doesn’t scare me. But I also never thought I’d be standing in front of 12,000 people sharing my story, and I never expected some of the most meaningful moments of my life would come after being diagnosed with terminal cancer.
For someone who once wondered what kind of future she had left, Saturday was an incredible day to be alive.
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