January invites reflection. And as Cervical Cancer Awareness Month, it felt like the right time to look back, not just at what happened, but at who I became along the way.
When Ascension Sacred Heart asked if they could share my story in honor of Awareness Month, I decided to reflect in my own way. I wrote to the woman I once was, my 31-year-old self, sitting in a hospital gown, newly diagnosed with stage III cervical cancer.
Hey you,
You’re sitting in a hospital gown right now. Alone. Your hands are cold and nervous. You’re pretending you’re fine, but your stomach is in your throat. You don’t know what’s coming yet, only that everything feels like it’s breaking open.
I wish I could sit beside you in that chair. I’d tell you that you’re about to walk through something unimaginably hard.
That there will be radiation rooms and chemo chairs and lonely hallways and lonelier nights.
That you’ll ring a bell one day with shaking hands and a broken body and think, ”I survived, but now what?”
I’d tell you that you’ll lose parts of your body. And you’ll grieve them. Quietly. Deeply. In ways no one sees. But I’d also tell you that womanhood won’t leave you. It will evolve. It will soften.
I’d tell you that you’re stronger than you think right now. That one day the anger you have at your body right now will turn into awe for everything it carried you through.
I’d tell you that fear won’t disappear, but it will change shape. Annual checkups will still make your heart race. Hospital smells will always mean something. But one day, you’ll walk back through those same doors not as a patient, but resilient and happy.
I’d tell you that joy will return. Slowly. In sunsets and sunrises. In dogs. In laughter with friends. In small ordinary days. In all the in-between little moments that don’t feel little anymore. That you’ll build a life again.
Somewhere along the way, you’ll learn how small the things you once worried about really were. How quickly life rearranges your priorities.
You’ll also learn a harder truth that not everyone gets this moment. Not everyone rings the bell. Not everyone walks back in five years later. And the weight of that unfairness will stay with you long after the cancer leaves your body.
You’ll never have words for the gratitude you feel. But you’ll know that every doctor, nurse, and staff member who holds your hand and walks you through the hardest days, they helped God and they carry you here. Earth angels.
And I’d tell you one more thing.
Five years from now,
You will be cancer-free.
With love,
Elli
Read more about my story here.
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