July 3rd and I have a complicated relationship.

On July 3, 2011, at 28 years old, I was diagnosed with Small Cell Cancer of the Cervix. What started as simply not feeling well turned into discovering a massive tumor that had extended into my hip. Everything happened so quickly that I don't think I had time to fully process what was happening. I remember waking up after having my port placed, looking over at the bags of chemotherapy hanging beside me, and hearing my grandmother's words in my head: “Buckle up, Buttercup.” And buckle up I did.

Treatment at VCU Massey Cancer Center was brutal. My mom drove me back and forth Monday through Friday for radiation—what I jokingly called the most expensive, shortest naps of my life. There was Chemotherapy, Radiation, Brachytherapy, Neutropenia, Hospital stays, and days when simply making it through the day was the accomplishment.

There were moments of fear and mental exhaustion that I don't think you can completely explain unless you've lived them. But, there was also good.

I met incredible women fighting battles alongside me. I had amazing oncologists and some bomb-ass oncology nurses. Cancer taught me early that sometimes survival means finding the good inside the bad—the yin and the yang—and holding onto whatever light you can find. Eventually, my oncologist walked into the room and gave me the words every cancer patient desperately wants to hear: “You're cancer free.”I had been given about a 2% chance of surviving. I remember laughing when he told me how incredible it was that I had beaten those odds. He looked at me and said, “Ma'am, I don't think you understand how great this is.”My response was simple: “I don't think you understand how great my God is.”

I know faith isn't everyone's story, but it is mine. My faith has driven this ship from the beginning. That doesn't mean I've never been scared, angry, exhausted, or questioned why. Faith doesn't make the road easy. Sometimes it simply gives you something to hold onto while you're walking through hell.

The years afterward became about learning a new version of myself—new limitations, a new body, and a life that looked different from the one I imagined at 28. I've always joked that I'm basically a cat with nine lives. I've met several different versions of Jessica over the years. And while I'm admittedly getting a little tired of meeting new ones, every version has helped shape the woman I am today.

Cancer taught me something else: Give yourself grace.

On the days you're angry, be angry—just don't build a house there. On the good days, soak them up. Love your people. Take the pictures. Make the memories. Do the things that make you feel alive. And when you need to stop and rest, allow yourself to do that too.

I thought cancer was a chapter I had already finished.

Then came July 3rd, 2023.
I was wedding shopping when my phone rang. “I'm sorry, Jessica. You have cancer again.” My entire world stopped while somehow becoming incredibly loud at the same time. I remember hanging up and thinking, I have to tell the people I love that I have cancer...again! I was pissed!  After weeks of waiting and uncertainty, I was diagnosed with Uterine Carcinosarcoma, another rare and very aggressive cancer. Apparently, rare cancers are really my jam!

But, this time I was older. Life was different. I was different.

First, came a complete Hysterectomy and the finality of knowing I would never carry children myself. Even though treatment in 2011 had already made that possibility difficult, losing the choice completely was a grief of its own. Then came Chemotherapy again. And if I'm being truthful, this treatment was absolutely brutal. I experienced severe allergic reactions during my infusions. My body was truly revolting against the poison being pumped throughout my body, again. There were mornings when I would ride to Duke Cancer Center praying: “God, please just let me see this afternoon. Please let me make it to dinner tonight. Please let me call my nieces.” Cancer has a way of stripping life down to the things that actually matter.

And that’s when you discover your why.

My wife and my family are mine, but my nieces hold a particularly huge piece of my heart and my why. The thought of my wife having to tell those babies that Aunt Jessie wasn't coming home anymore and would be in their hearts because of Cancer was simply a non-negotiable for me.

So, on the really bad days, I remembered my why. And I remembered my faith.

During my first cancer battle, my Dad would always tell me: “Jessica, just have Faith.” Unfortunately, he passed away before my second diagnosis, and going into another Cancer journey without hearing those words from him was incredibly hard. Then I walked into one of my first chemotherapy appointments. The doctors introduced themselves and eventually turned toward the head Oncologist Nurse who would be caring for me throughout treatment. She looked at me and said, “Hi Jessica. My name is Faith.”I couldn't help but laugh, look toward the sky and think, " I hear you, Dad, well played, well played.”

Some people may call that coincidence. I choose not to.

Cancer in 2023 looked different than cancer in 2011, but I approached it much the same way: cherish the good days, hunker down through the really bad ones, and allow myself to feel whatever came with them. Because Cancer isn't inspirational everyday. Sometimes it's fear. Sometimes it's anger. Sometimes it's grief. Sometimes it's financial stress, physical pain, mental exhaustion, and spiritual wrestling. Sometimes it's rainbows and unicorns. And sometimes it’s dog shit and baby poop.

But cancer has also given me an appreciation for life that I don't know I would have otherwise. The little things aren’t little anymore. The pictures matter. The phone calls matter. Sitting around laughing with people I love matters. Ordinary days matter.

By the grace of God, I was Cancer free again in 2025.

Survivorship hasn't meant everything magically returned to normal. Cancer and its treatments have left lasting effects physically, mentally, financially, and emotionally. I'm still learning this version of myself too. But somewhere along the way, I realized that surviving gave me an opportunity to pay forward some of the light that other people carried for me. We started Be the Light, a nonprofit through which we feed patients at Duke Cancer Center. Sitting with people who understand this road without needing an explanation has brought healing to me too.

Throughout both of my cancer journeys, people became my light—family, friends, doctors, nurses, fellow patients, and sometimes complete strangers who probably never realized how much their kindness mattered.
So one of my prayers for this life is simple: I hope somewhere along my journey, I have been even a small glimmer of that same light for someone else.

Cancer has taken a lot from me. But, strangely enough, it has also given me a lot. It has taught me who I am, what matters, how deeply I can love, how fiercely I can fight, and that hope and grief can occupy the same space.

I'm not here to tell anyone that cancer is easy or that a positive attitude fixes everything. It doesn't. I'm simply here to say that on terrible days, give yourself grace. On the good days, live the hell out of them. Find your people. Find your why. Hold tightly to whatever gives you faith and hope. And never underestimate how much life can still be waiting for you on the other side of a day you weren't sure you would survive.

But—after two very rare Cancer diagnoses exactly twelve years apart, I have established one very firm survivorship boundary:
If my phone rings on July 3rd...
I ain't answering that MFer.