The fall of 2022 was the beginning of the biggest storm of my life.
My family moved under immense pressure and stress. Even though we didn’t go far, it felt overwhelming with two young children and inflexible jobs.
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I didn’t love our new home. I was deeply attached to our old one, and I carried a quiet sense of loss that I never had time to process.
I was also teaching full-time while earning a Master’s degree. It was the most stressful time of my life—until now.
On January 16, 2023, my husband was diagnosed with testicular cancer, completely out of nowhere.
Suddenly, we were sitting in a doctor’s office, scheduling surgery and discussing treatment options.
I remember picking up my girls from school while waiting for scan results to see if the cancer had spread.
I was nauseous and shaking, forcing a smile as I asked about their day.
I couldn’t look at them without picturing the worst.
Two weeks later, my husband underwent surgery, and the cancer was completely removed.
He completed one round of chemotherapy with minimal side effects.
We got through it.
I finished my Master’s degree, and things seemed to calm down. We enjoyed our summer as much as we could.
As the first anniversary of Chris’s diagnosis approached, I felt anxious about reliving that memory.
But I didn’t have time to process it.
On that same day, my mother was diagnosed with uterine cancer.
We didn’t have many details—only that it was “high grade.”
I had never felt that level of panic before.
After several breakdowns, tears, prayers, and late-night Google searches, my mom underwent a successful surgery.
Her recovery would take time, but she would not need further treatment.
We were so grateful to God. We truly believed she had experienced a miracle.
By the fall of 2024, I was drowning in depression and anxiety. I didn’t realize how bad it had become.
I was in survival mode. Every day, I prayed for my family—begging God for health, safety, and peace.
I wanted to believe this year would be better, but deep down, I already felt defeated… waiting for the other shoe to drop.
By November, both of my children had been sick multiple times. I had just recovered from my second round of COVID and was dealing with lingering effects.
At least no one has cancer, I told myself, just to get through the day.
I clung to that thought as we entered January 2025.
Statistically, what were the chances?
January came and went with no major crises.
Whew. The worst year of my life was finally behind me—
until now.
February began with my daughter becoming terribly ill on her fifth birthday. A few days later, my husband came down with influenza and was sicker than I’d ever seen him. Then my older daughter got it too.
Just as we started to recover, the girls and I were hit with another brutal illness—fevers, vomiting, severe dehydration.
I was hardly functioning, trying to care for them while I was just as sick.
Things couldn’t possibly get worse—
until now.
I was barely well enough to speak when I got the call.
My dad had been diagnosed with colon cancer.
My dad—the healthiest, strongest, most proactive person I know—had a large mass in his colon.
It made no sense.
I was in shock, but I had to keep moving— taking care of my children and holding everyone together.
The next few weeks felt painfully familiar: panic, prayer, endless research, conversations that circled the same fears.
My dad underwent surgery, and we prayed for another miracle.
When we learned it was stage 3, we were devastated. He would need chemotherapy.
I was really struggling at work, carrying what felt like the weight of the world.
Then, before my dad even began treatment, my daughter had an anaphylactic reaction at school. She was rushed to the ER by ambulance.
They administered epinephrine in time, and she fully recovered—but it was terrifying.
I blamed myself. I replayed the moment over and over. I didn’t know if I’d ever feel safe sending her to school again.
I had never felt so lost, so overwhelmed—
until now.
Two weeks later, I was diagnosed with breast cancer.
I got the news as I was picking the girls up from school.
I had to find the words to tell my parents—who were already walking through my dad’s diagnosis—that their daughter now had cancer too.
That day marked the beginning of my own fight.
It wasn’t just a rough season.
It wasn’t a string of bad luck.
It was an attack.
I didn’t know it then, but I was in the middle of a war.
This is not just my cancer story.
It’s a story about spiritual warfare—and how prayer and music became my weapons to fight back.
