Lipstick, Faith, and Fight: My War Against Cancer

From diagnosis to defiance—what cancer didn’t see coming

Photo by Tony Eight Media on Unsplash

Cancer didn’t just happen to me—it happened to all of us. My diagnosis sent a shockwave through my family. Suddenly, life became divided into before and after. The dinners, the school runs, the quiet weekends—all of it was colored by this shadow we didn’t invite but couldn’t ignore. I was the one getting poked, scanned, and infused, but my family carried their own invisible burdens. And somehow, in their own quiet, unwavering way, they carried me too.

My children watched me with eyes that held both worry and wonder. They saw me lose hair, weight, energy—but never hope. I refused to let them see cancer win a single day. Even on the worst days, I put on lipstick. I got dressed. I smiled, even if it was through tears. Not because I felt strong, but because I wanted them to believe I still was. My strength wasn’t just for me—it was for them. And in showing them what resilience looked like, I found more of it in myself than I ever thought possible.

My husband became my shelter in the storm. There were days when I couldn’t speak the fear out loud, and yet somehow, he heard it anyway—and met it with love. That kind of support isn’t romantic or easy. It’s raw. It’s sitting together in the dark when the future feels impossible. It’s watching the person you love suffer and still choosing to show up every single day. It’s wiping tears, researching options, holding my hand in waiting rooms, and holding me together when I was falling apart. Cancer tries to fracture everything—but our love became the glue that held it all together.

And then there was faith. My faith didn’t always look like peace. It looked like a wrestling match some nights. I yelled. I questioned. I begged for answers and sometimes sat in silence when none came. But I never stopped believing. I believed that this valley had meaning. That this fire would forge something bigger than pain. Faith wasn’t just a comfort—it was my rebellion. My way of saying, “This diagnosis does not get the final word.” It gave me the audacity to dream beyond cancer, even when I could barely lift my head.

What really rose up in me, though, was fire.

There was something in me that refused to be a passive participant in my own survival. The fire said: Ask the hard questions. Demand the answers. Say no to what doesn’t feel right. Learn everything. Speak your truth. That fire made me brave enough to cold cap, to keep running even during treatment, to shave my head on my terms, and to explore healing beyond the standard protocols. Running gave me moments of control when everything else felt uncertain. It was my rebellion. My moving meditation. My proof that life was still flowing through me.

That fire is still burning.

Because once you’ve walked through hell with your children watching, your husband beside you, faith in your chest, and fire in your eyes—you don’t come out the same. You come out unstoppable.