Cancer and An Expanding Life

Cancer.

Not a word I ever thought I would type.

And yet, if I’m honest, somewhere deep down I always wondered if I would. Maybe a quiet fear I carried for years. Maybe a self-fulfilling prophecy. I don’t know. Even now, as I write it, the word still feels a little distant. Like it belongs to someone else’s story, not mine.

I don’t think I’ve fully let it land yet.

I was diagnosed with an aggressive form of melanoma—nodular melanoma—just a couple of days before we had family friends arriving to stay with us for the week. And when they left, another precious family was already planning to come. None of it was timed this way on purpose. But I wouldn’t change it.

I don’t want life to stop because of this. I feel good. And if I’m going to walk through something hard, I’d rather do it surrounded by people I love. So our house has been full—kids, conversations, meals, noise, laughter—while in the background, there have been oncologist appointments and PET scans quietly threading their way through it all.

If I’m being honest, I don’t think I’ve had a real moment of quiet to just sit with it. And maybe that’s okay for now.

This all started with a bump on my head that I assumed was a cyst. I even had an appointment in January to have it removed, but something didn’t sit right with the doctor, so I canceled. I found another dermatologist—one I trusted—but he was booked out over a month. I scheduled it and moved on, never imagining it would turn into this.

My PET scan, praise the Lord, showed no cancer in my organs. But it has spread to my lymph nodes. Even writing that feels strange. What has not felt strange—what has felt immediate and undeniable—is the love. It has come quickly and from every direction.

Here in South Carolina, where we have only just begun to build a life, people have shown up in ways that have humbled me. Prayers, messages, meals, support—so much kindness from people who barely know us yet.

And at the same time, back in New Jersey, there is this deep, steady foundation of people who have known us for years. Who know our story. Who are carrying us in ways that only history allows.

And I keep thinking about this simple analogy my husband shared from Kung Fu Panda 2. It feels a little ridiculous to compare all of this to a kids movie but I do think it’s perfect.

If you’ve seen it, Po is raised by his adoptive father, Mr. Ping. Later, he discovers his birth father and begins to build a relationship with him too. At first, Mr. Ping is heartbroken. He thinks he’s being replaced. Like love is limited. Like if Po has another father, there must be less room for him.

But that’s not what happens. Po doesn’t lose a father. He gains one. The circle doesn’t shrink—it expands. And that’s what this feels like.

I have this whole life behind me in New Jersey—years of relationships, shared history, people who know me deeply. That doesn’t go away because we moved. It doesn’t weaken or fade. And now, here in South Carolina, there is more.

More people.
More support.
More love than I expected, especially this quickly.

If I’m honest, there was a part of me that almost didn’t know what to do with it at first. It felt too generous. Too immediate. Like I hadn’t “earned” it yet. But that’s not how love works. It isn’t something we earn. And it isn’t something that runs out.

It multiplies.

It layers.

It shows up in new places without taking anything away from the old.

So here I am, in the middle of something I never would have chosen, something I’m still not sure I’ve fully processed—and yet I feel held. Not because everything is okay. It’s not. Not because I’m particularly strong. I don’t feel that way.

But because I am covered.

Covered by people who have known me for years.
Covered by people who have only just met me.
Covered by prayers I don’t even know are being prayed.

And maybe this is the part I’m starting to see:

This isn’t a story of everything stopping. Or everything falling apart. Or my life being divided into before and after.

It’s a story of expansion.

Of a life that, even in the middle of something heavy, has somehow grown wider.

More people.
More connection.
More evidence that I am not walking this alone.

So maybe I won’t rush the quiet just yet.

Maybe the steady hum of a full house—the noise, the interruptions, the meals, the laughter mixed in with hard things—isn’t something to escape from.

Maybe it’s grace.

Because even here, even now, in the middle of words I never thought I would write…..there is more love than I know what to do with.