Jessica (June)
It might sound strange to say, but my breast cancer diagnosis would have looked entirely different if it weren’t for my friend Kate’s diagnosis shortly before mine.
Kate and I have been friends for over 25 years. We met on the campus of Minnesota State University, Mankato, as two recent grads hired to work the night shift. Kate was in campus security, and I coordinated events in the Student Union. We became fast friends and have spent the past two and a half decades trying to make each other laugh while raising babies, changing careers, and navigating life’s many twists and turns. She is, and always will be, one of the greatest gifts of my life.
Kate was diagnosed with invasive ductal carcinoma on September 16, 2022, and my heart shattered. Kate is the picture of health: positive, active, a label-reader, a healthy eater with a BMI that would bring a tear to your eye, a dedicated recycler. She does everything right, and still, she wasn’t immune. It didn’t feel fair. Meanwhile, I was 75 percent silly putty from working remotely and stress-eating jellybeans through COVID. Kate would finish a 10-mile bike ride and get handed a cancer diagnosis. I had a very bad attitude about it. I cried for a month straight.
A few weeks later, I received yet another reminder in the mail: my mammogram was four years overdue. On my way to toss the notice in the recycling bin, I thought of Kate. I knew what she’d want me to do, so instead of throwing it away, I picked up the phone and made the appointment.
On November 1, 2022, I was officially diagnosed with Ductal Carcinoma In Situ. The call came five minutes before I was scheduled to speak at a conference, delivered over the phone, in the hallway of an event center. I remember taking a deep breath, putting a smile on my face, rolling my shoulders back, and walking into that room to do my job like nothing ever happened.
My cancer was caught early, but it was aggressive. And there is absolutely no doubt in my mind that my story would have turned out very differently if Kate hadn’t walked this path ahead of me. Her treatment plan was much more involved than mine, but watching her face it gave me focus. Gave me courage. Because of Kate, I knew we could do hard things. I knew, somehow, we were going to be okay.
Because my treatment didn’t include chemotherapy and Kate’s did, I had my double mastectomy and expander surgery before her. I made it my mission to gather information and pave the way to make things a little easier for her. At the same time, I tried my hardest to keep us entertained by finding the humor in our situation. My entire goal was to make her laugh. It was laughing at the absurdity of it all that helped carry me through.
What surprised me most about this whole experience was that the active treatment phase was actually the easiest part. Once I was diagnosed, I went into task mode, just ticking boxes and moving forward. I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t angry. The physical discomfort from surgeries made sense; I could rationalize it because there was always a plan, always a next step to follow.
The hardest part came later, months and even years after treatment ended. When life is supposed to “go back to normal,” but the truth is, there’s no real normal after something like this. You’ve unlocked that awareness of “that could never happen to me”... and now you know it can. And that realization changes you.
That’s when I started attending B the Light events. That’s where the real healing began. The support, strength, and understanding I found in that community of women has been where the true work and repair has taken place.
It’s surprising how much the smallest acts of kindness matter when you’re going through something hard. When things got heavy, people showed up, and that support made a real difference. During this chapter of my life, I was struck by how many people reached out, friends from childhood, coworkers past and present, family, and longtime friends.
It’s not easy to admit you can’t do everything, physically or mentally, even for your own family. And accepting help isn’t exactly in my comfort zone. But the people in my life didn’t wait to be asked. They just showed up. They knew I would never ask. They brought meals. Covered expenses. Helped with the house. Kept my kids busy. Stepped in for my husband when he needed backup. The real takeaway? I’m lucky to be surrounded by solid people who give without strings and show up when it counts.
From the beginning, Kate approached her diagnosis with grit and determination, fully committed to facing it from a place of strength. She embraced the mantra “I can do hard things” - not just for herself, but as a message to anyone going through something tough. And because doing the bare minimum has never been her style, she designed a logo and launched a clothing line between chemo sessions, using it as a way to spread hope far beyond her own circle. She donated every cent of the proceeds to the American Cancer Society, because of course she did. Just one more reason she’s so easy to admire. Now, I begin each day reminding myself that I can do hard things too. And that mindset changes everything.
Life today looks different, but it is good. I’m lucky to have a strong circle of family and friends, and a job I genuinely enjoy, where I feel like the work I do matters. I’m still managing some physical limitations, especially with my shoulders, and I’ve got more surgeries ahead. But I’ve learned to give myself permission to slow down and really take life in.
Sometimes that just means sitting on the deck with good music or an audiobook playing, my dog stretched out at my feet, my husband tinkering outside the garage, my boys goofing off in the yard, and letting the breeze roll across my face. I don’t want to rush past any of it. I don’t want to miss the good that’s here, right now.
Being a survivor means knowing just a little more than you did before. It’s standing up straight and walking into a room after receiving terrible news and still doing your job. It’s getting up when you’d rather stay down. It’s making space for fear, anger, and sadness, but not letting them take over. Survival isn’t dramatic. It’s doing the next right thing, over and over. It’s knowing you can do hard things, and holding on to the idea that what’s ahead might just be better than what’s behind.
What I’ve learned is that the best things in life are surprisingly simple, and most of them are free. They’re the people who show up, even when you don’t realize you need them, bringing your favorite coffee. They’re the quiet words of encouragement that hit at just the right time from your round-faced little boy. They’re the laughs shared with people who understand how you operate and give you the space to grow through the rough patches. They're the warm arms of your husband or best friend. They're your people, your tribe, who step in and take over when you just can't anymore. That’s what really matters.
To anyone newly diagnosed, I want you to know this: You are not alone. There is a group of women right here in your community who understand and we love you.