When I think back to those first days, I realize that the diagnosis itself was only the beginning.

Reading the words “Stage 4 lung cancer” was terrifying, but the truth is, I didn’t actually understand what those words meant. Like many people, I immediately assumed the worst. My mind jumped ahead to all the things that could happen, and suddenly every thought seemed to begin with fear. It was like hitting a brick wall head on, and my world just stopped.

It felt overwhelming. Not only was I trying to understand a life-changing diagnosis, but I was also trying to make sense of what it might mean for our future, our plans, and the financial security we had worked so hard to build. The unknown wasn’t just medical—it touched every part of our lives.

In the days that followed, we met with the pulmonologist, and looking back, I believe finding him when we did was one of the first blessings on this journey. He spoke honestly, took his time with us, and never made us feel like just a number.

He reviewed the scans with us. He explained where the tumor was located and what the imaging showed. He explained why the diagnosis was considered Stage 4 and what that meant medically. Most importantly, he helped separate facts from fear.

Until that appointment, the words “Stage 4” had taken on a life of its own in my mind. Once I understood more about what we were facing, I was still scared, but at least we were able to better comprehend the terminology. There is a difference between fear and uncertainty. Fear is difficult enough, but uncertainty can consume you.

Unfortunately, understanding the diagnosis didn’t mean we had all the answers. There were still more tests to come, and every new test seemed to carry the possibility of another piece of bad news.

When the results were finally reviewed, we learned something that felt like an answer to prayer. While the cancer had spread beyond the original tumor, it had not spread to major organs such as my brain, liver, abdomen, or other areas that we had feared might be involved. Given everything we had been imagining in those early weeks, that news felt like a gift.

It may sound strange to describe any news associated with a Stage 4 diagnosis as encouraging, but that is exactly what it was. In a season filled with fear and uncertainty, we learned to celebrate every victory, no matter how small it might seem. This was one of those victories.

While all of this was happening, I knew this journey wasn’t just mine.

My husband was carrying his own fears while trying to stay strong for me. Looking back, I think that may have been one of the hardest roles of all. While I was facing the diagnosis firsthand, he was forced to watch someone he loved walk into uncertainty, knowing there was very little he could do to change it. He attended appointments, listened to doctors, sat through tests, and heard the same words I heard. But unlike me, he couldn’t fight the battle for me. He couldn’t take the pain away. He couldn’t sit in the treatment chair in my place. All he could do was stand beside me and hope. What he did do however was never give up, he pushed positivity even when I had none. I don’t think even he knows how much that changed things for me. Staying positive is one of the biggest battles I faced.

Love has a way of showing up when you need it most. In a partnership built on love, trust, and deep respect, he held on to me when I felt myself slipping into fear. He listened when I needed to talk, reassured me when my thoughts ran away with me, and gently reminded me to focus on the day in front of us instead of all the unknowns.

My children were also processing news that no child wants to hear about a parent. They were a constant system of support and love, while I know they were often trying to hide their worry behind hopeful conversations. I leaned heavy on their shoulders, as they became one of my biggest reasons to fight this. Them and of course my grand children, that one was deep for me. As adults we know how we remember our grandparents and I wanted time for them to know me, to build that bond so they would remember me.

Friends and family reached out with messages, prayers, phone calls, and support. I don’t think any of them realize how significant they are in my life and how being together on a zoom call was something even I didn’t know I needed.

 I learned very quickly that difficult news doesn’t affect just one person. It ripples through everyone who loves you. It even touches the lives of those who depend on you, including my customers. I kept all of this quiet because it was a personal battle, but I soon realized that even those in a professional circle become part of the journey in ways you never expect. Behind every email, phone call, project, and meeting was someone doing their best to keep moving forward while carrying fears they rarely spoke about.

Those weeks were emotionally exhausting. There were tears. There were sleepless nights. There were moments when fear seemed to take over every thought. There were also moments of gratitude, moments of hope, and moments when the support of family, friends, and my faith in God carried me through days when I wasn’t sure I could carry myself.

Looking back now, I realize those weeks were about more than tests and scans. They were about learning what we were facing, finding doctors we trusted, leaning on the people who loved us, and beginning to understand that while the road ahead would be difficult, we would not be walking it alone.

For the first time since the diagnosis, I was ready to fight.

We had a team. We had a plan. And even though the future remained uncertain, we finally had a direction.

Treatments were being scheduled. Appointments filled the calendar. The waiting was finally over, and it felt like we were moving forward.

I thought the hardest part was behind me. I was wrong.