My Boob is a Jellyfish (And Other News I Didn’t Expect to Share)

I found a lump. Or more accurately, a rogue jellyfish with rage issues decided to take up residence in my left boob. And like most women do—I Googled it.

Two weeks ago, my left breast started screaming for attention. A hot, sharp pain. It felt like something might explode if I didn’t listen. Google told me pain usually equals cysts. So, I watched. I waited. The jellyfish grew.

I told a few trusted girlfriends. Their response: get your ass to the doctor. I called my naturopathic clinic and was seen Tuesday night. Two doctors, two sets of hands, one surreal experience. I’ve never had so many strangers so seriously invested in my boobs.

By Friday, I was headed to Overlake Cancer Center with Steve by my side. The building didn’t reek of antiseptic. No terrifying ceiling tiles (I despise the ceiling tiles in a hospital). Soft pillowcases. Heated robes. They knew how to make a scared woman feel like more than a patient.

The procedures were quick—squishogram, ultrasound. Then came the words: breast cancer.

Wait, what?

I don’t have “the gene.” No family history. I don’t even tan, for heaven’s sake. And yet… here we are. I’m one in eight.

The good news? They caught it early. It hasn’t spread to my lymph nodes. The actual cancer is small. The large, painful mass? That’s my badass breast tissue, rallying to defend me. Picture a microscopic army of fearless cells saying, “Hell no, not on our watch.” I’ll take that kind of loyalty any day.

Next steps: biopsy Tuesday at 2 p.m. And I already confirmed—I can wear my reindeer slippers. Thursday at 3:30 p.m., we meet the breast surgeon for our game plan. (Also: thank you, spellcheck. These terms are not beginner-friendly.)

After they told us, I stepped into the dressing room, pulled my Loved sweatshirt over my head, and I prayed. I thanked my body for shouting loud enough to get my attention. I thanked God for my girlfriends who wouldn’t let me ignore it. And I thanked Him—deeply—for Steve.

My rock. My sanctuary. He feels everything I feel. His love is wrapped around me like armor.

We’re using this space to keep you in the loop. Because this isn’t just my journey. It’s ours—Steve’s, Jenna’s, our boys’, our family’s. And it helps knowing you’re walking this road with us. Thank you for the prayers, the messages, the love.

You don’t expect pain to be a blessing. But mine was. It was my body’s SOS—and it might’ve saved my life. Listen when your body talks. And never underestimate the power of fierce friends and fuzzy slippers.

Letter to Self

Dear Me,
You didn’t ignore the signs. You stood in the unknown, held Steve’s hand, and let the tears fall. You are not broken. You are brave. The road ahead is uncertain, but so is every adventure worth taking. Reindeer slippers and all—you’ve got this.
With truth and tenderness,
Me