When the Skies Clear: Strength, Gratitude, and the Sacred In-Between

Looking Back at 2025

It’s been a while since my last post, and a lot has happened since then.

Looking back now, it’s hard to believe everything that unfolded in 2025.

Last year started with the words we were praying we would never hear again.

The cancer had come back.

Within days everything changed. I had to stop nursing Lucia and begin treatment again. Then the biopsy revealed something unexpected — I was missing the protein needed for CAR-T therapy to work.

The treatment plan we thought we would rely on was suddenly off the table.

So my doctor recommended a newer treatment called Glofitamab with chemo. The early studies were encouraging, but it was still a newer therapy and at the time there were still many unknowns.

Going into 2025, there was a lot we didn’t know.

We didn’t know how well the treatment would work.
We didn’t know how the year would unfold.
And if I’m being honest…we didn’t even know if I would see 2026.

But here we are.

Scan after scan.
Test after test.

And the results have continued to show the same thing.

Clear.

Thanks be to God.

Each month that passes now feels like a quiet sigh of relief. With this type of cancer there’s a window where relapse is more likely, so every clear scan feels like one more step forward.

Rebuilding Strength

While my body continues to recover, George and I have been trying to be intentional about rebuilding strength — both physically and mentally.

We started a 90-day challenge together to help me regain the muscle and fitness I lost during treatment. Some days it’s tough to show up, but it’s been encouraging to feel my body slowly getting stronger again.

Most days, we’ll put the workout on the TV and follow along together… and before we know it, the girls have joined in too.

They don’t always know exactly what they’re doing, but they’re right there with us — jumping, stretching, trying their best. Even little Lucia follows along in her own way, and watching her attempt little “baby squats” is just about the cutest thing.

It’s turned into a really sweet little family moment, and it makes the workouts a lot more enjoyable.

What surprised me most through this cancer journey is that the mental battle was often harder than the physical one.

The treatments, the fatigue, the discomfort — those were difficult, of course. But the harder part was learning to live with uncertainty. Trying to imagine what the future might look like. Wondering how long that future might be.

And in a strange way, walking through that mental battle has also changed how I approach challenges now. Going through something like this makes you realize you’re capable of more than you ever thought.

It has pushed me to challenge myself in ways I probably wouldn’t have before.

It makes me incredibly grateful just to be able to move my body and have the strength to do so.

So rebuilding strength now isn’t just about workouts or physical progress. It’s also about reminding myself that I can move forward, even when the road ahead feels uncertain.

Back in early November, shortly after finishing my Glofit infusions, I ran my first 10K at the Livestrong event in Austin.

Standing at the starting line surrounded by other survivors and families affected by cancer was emotional. Some people were running in honor of loved ones still fighting. Others were running in memory of someone they lost.

And there I was — just incredibly grateful to be able to run at all… something I don’t take for granted anymore.

More than anything, that race felt like a quiet way of telling myself something I’ve had to learn again and again over the past year:

I can do hard things.

November also brought another unexpected blessing. George and I were able to sneak away for a few days to celebrate our 10-year wedding anniversary. We spent some time at Lost Maples State Park and took on a beautiful (and honestly pretty challenging) hike together.

There was something really special about that trip.

Ten years of marriage.
Three daughters.
Two cancer battles.

And yet there we were, still walking side by side on a trail, breathing in fresh air and thanking God for the simple gift of time together.

Nights I Never Expected

The end of the year reminded us again how unpredictable this road can be.

Throughout November and December, I ended up hospitalized three different times with neutropenic fevers as my immune system struggled to recover from treatment.

And somehow George and I found ourselves ringing in the New Year in a place neither of us expected.

A hospital room.

As midnight approached, we stood by the window watching fireworks burst over the city skyline.

It wasn’t how we imagined welcoming the new year.

But standing there together in that quiet room felt strangely peaceful.

No crowds.
No noise.

Just the two of us.

Sometimes the most sacred moments show up in the most unexpected places.

A Story Within A Story

Recently my oncologist released a book called You Visited Me, which shares his journey from being an agnostic physician to becoming Catholic through many experiences in his life — many of them shaped by the patients he has cared for along the way.

One of the chapters tells a story many of you may recognize.

I’ll just leave it at that… wink.

As I read through the book, I found myself deeply moved by the stories he shared. Being an oncologist means walking with people through some of the hardest moments of their lives. As you can imagine, many of those stories sadly end in death. He writes about sitting with patients as he delivers devastating news, saying his goodbyes, attending funerals, and sometimes even standing up to give their eulogies.

As I read, one quiet thought kept returning to my mind.

What if that had been my story?

Sometimes I think about the families whose stories ended differently — the mothers who didn’t get to watch their children grow up, the husbands who had to learn how to carry on without their wives, the empty chairs at dinner tables that cancer left behind.

Those thoughts don’t make me afraid.

They make me grateful in a way I didn’t understand before.

Because every extra day I’ve been given feels like a gift I never want to take for granted.

Because instead… I’m still here.

Still hearing the laughter of my girls echo through the house.
Still receiving hugs and kisses from my husband.
Still sharing deep conversations with friends.
Still noticing the quiet little “winks” from God that seem to appear when I need them most.

I feel deeply blessed.

But if I’m being honest, there is another feeling that many cancer survivors quietly carry — a kind of survivor’s guilt.

Why did treatment work for me when it didn’t for so many others?
Why was I given more time?

I don’t think I’ll ever fully understand that.

What I do know is that I’m still in a window where relapse remains a possibility, and that reality humbles me daily. But it also fills me with a deep gratitude for the time I’ve already been given.

Every hug feels deeper.
Every laugh feels louder.
Every ordinary day feels like a gift.

And I am determined not to waste the time I have been given.

If you enjoy stories about faith, medicine, and the profound encounters that happen in moments of suffering and hope, I would truly recommend his book You Visited Me. It offers a beautiful glimpse into the heart of a physician who has walked alongside so many families through their hardest moments.

If you'd like a copy, you can find it here: You Visited Me by Dr. Robert Collins

Sacred Silence

During these quieter moments of recovery, I’ve also been reading a book called The Blessed Eucharist.

It stirred something deep in my heart.

It helped me lean into the mystery that Jesus is truly present in the Eucharist — that He is right there with us, sharing in both our suffering and our joy.

That realization led me back to a practice from my childhood: wearing a veil at church.

Growing up it was something we did culturally. I didn’t fully understand its meaning then.

But returning to it now feels different.

In a world that moves so fast and speaks so loudly, there is something deeply healing about honoring the mystery of a God who loves us enough to remain with us in such humility.

It’s my small way of saying,

“I know You are here.”

The Gift of Today

If cancer has taught me anything, it is that life is not measured in years or milestones.

It is measured in moments.

The laughter of my girls echoing through the house.
The warmth of my husband’s hand.
A quiet prayer whispered before sunrise.
A body strong enough to run again.
A clear scan.

None of us knows how many moments we will be given.

Cancer simply made me aware of that truth sooner than I expected.

But awareness can be a gift.

Because when you truly understand how fragile life is, you begin to notice the things you once rushed past.

Maybe that’s something all of us are invited to see — not just in moments like this, but in the ordinary days we’re given.

Today my scans are clear.

My body is still healing. My neutrophils are slowly recovering, and I’ve had a couple IVIG infusions to help support my immune system while it rebuild.
My heart is still learning how to live in the unknown.

My doctor has joked more than once that I have a habit of throwing him curveballs.

At this point, I’m hoping we’ve run out of those.

But if there are any more along the way, I pray we face them the same way we’ve tried to face everything else — with strength and grace.

But today, I’ve been given another day.
And for that… I am deeply grateful.

Thank you so much for walking this road with me. Your prayers, encouragement, and love truly continue to give me strength and blessings every day.

Prayer Requests

• Continued healing and immune recovery as my body rebuilds strength and my neutrophil levels improve in the months ahead.

• Peace of mind and trust in God’s plan during this season of uncertainty, especially when fears about the future try to creep in.

• Wisdom and guidance for my doctors as they continue monitoring my recovery and helping me navigate the next steps of this journey.

• Protection over my family, especially my girls and George, as we continue adjusting to this season of rebuilding and gratitude.

• Strength and comfort for those still fighting cancer, especially the families I’ve been reminded of through the Livestrong run and the stories in my oncologist’s book.

• Gratitude for the gift of time, that I may continue to live each day fully and not take the ordinary moments for granted.

With all my love,

Blessy