I’m Still Here: My Fight Against Colorectal Cancer

Before cancer had a name in my life, I was just me — a woman juggling dreams, family, and the never-ending list of things that make up a full, busy life. I wasn’t thinking about hospitals or lab results or how fragile the body could be. I was thinking about living — building something meaningful and beautiful.

In April 2023, I bought Belle Toi Salon and Spa Studio — my dream come true. Belle Toi means “Beautiful You” in French, and that’s exactly what I wanted it to represent. Not just manicures and haircuts, but transformation — a place where people could walk in heavy and leave lighter, renewed, and seen. I poured every ounce of myself into it — my hands, my heart, and my faith.

Life was full. My husband, Keith, was my steady rock; my daughter, Justine, was finding her own path. I was 47, healthy, and full of plans. Cancer wasn’t even a thought.

Then one ordinary day, during a routine checkup, my OBGYN noticed I hadn’t had a colonoscopy. I laughed and said, “Don’t make me older than I am! I’m only forty-seven.” She smiled and said, “The guidelines changed — it’s forty-five now. I want you to walk across the hall today and schedule it.”

So, I did. Not because I thought it mattered, but because she told me to. That short walk — one small, obedient step — saved my life.

A week later, I woke up from my colonoscopy expecting to hear “all clear.” Instead, my doctor’s eyes told a different story. “We found a mass,” he said gently. “We believe it’s cancer.”

Time froze. The words colorectal cancer didn’t feel real. I was healthy, strong, living my dream. When I told Keith, I could see the fear in his eyes even as he tried to stay strong. “I’ve got a fifty-fifty chance,” I said. “And I’m going to beat this.”

That night, I whispered to God, “Please don’t let this be the end. Not like this.” And somewhere deep down, a quiet voice reminded me: This isn’t the end of your story.

When you hear the word “cancer,” the world tilts. Every heartbeat feels uncertain. I wanted to fight — I just didn’t know how yet. The doctors had a plan: chemo, radiation, surgery if needed. But before that, fear pushed me into frantic research — special diets, supplements, miracle cures. Desperation can disguise itself as determination. I tried things I shouldn’t have. Eventually, I realized the real strength wasn’t in chasing control — it was in trusting God and my medical team.

January 2024 marked the beginning of treatment: six pills a day, twenty-eight rounds of radiation, and months of chemotherapy. By day ten, my body was screaming. By day twenty-eight, sitting was agony. My skin burned, my energy vanished. But I still showed up to Belle Toi. Pretending to be okay was sometimes the only power I had left.

On May 22, 2024, my nurse smiled and said, “That’s your last one.” She asked if I wanted to ring the bell. “Not yet,” I said. “I want to make sure the beast is gone.” Later, I cried — not from joy, but from sheer relief. I survived the treatment. Now I had to survive the aftermath.

There’s something surreal about planning your own funeral while you’re still alive. I met with my funeral director, calmly discussed cremation, flowers, and music. It wasn’t surrender — it was reclaiming control. Facing death helped me decide how I wanted to live. I sat in my car afterward, and sunlight warmed my face, and thought, If I’m still breathing, I’m still fighting. If I’m still here, I’m still here.

The hardest part of cancer isn’t always the pain. It’s the mirror. I built a career around beauty, helping others feel radiant. Now my reflection looked foreign — thinning hair, pale skin, hollow eyes. I began wearing scarves and makeup I called “war paint.” Some days, I didn’t recognize myself. Other days, I saw something new — a woman who had been broken and rebuilt.

Belle Toi — Beautiful You — took on a new meaning. Beauty wasn’t about perfection anymore. It was about surviving. One morning, I looked in the mirror and whispered, “You’re still beautiful — because you’re still here.”

By mid-2025, strength began to return. My hair grew back in soft waves. My laughter — real laughter — came back. My faith deepened. Test results showed stability. No surgery. No spread. I was scarred, changed, but still here.

In the fall of 2024, after twenty years of saying “no,” I finally joined Keith on his beloved deer hunt. At 5 a.m., we climbed into a blind under a cold sky. At 7:58, a 9-point buck appeared — my first hunt, my first deer, my first time truly feeling alive again. The world was quiet, sacred. Nature healed me in ways medicine never could.

Cancer took a lot from me — but it did not take me. I am softer, stronger, more grateful. I’ve learned who truly loves me and who I am without everything I thought I needed. I have looked death in the eye and still chosen life.

I’m still here. And as I hold on to this promise, I whisper it every day:

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord,

“plans to prosper you and not to harm you,

plans to give you hope and a future.” — Jeremiah 29:11

This piece reflects the author’s personal experience and perspective. For medical advice, please consult your health care provider.

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