The ADVENTure I Didn’t See Coming

December is a time of waiting. Of building. Of holy anticipation. It’s Advent, yes—but this year, my “ADVENTure” looked more like jellyfish boobs and emergency imaging appointments.

Let’s start with the facts: Two weeks ago, I found a lump in my left breast. It felt like a water balloon. Or maybe a jellyfish having a tantrum. Not a cute jellyfish. A pissed-off one with a vendetta.

And like any woman with access to the internet at midnight—I Googled it. Phew! Sounds like a cyst. Except then it hurt. A lot. Like someone was stabbing me with a fire-heated knife. And then (brace yourself) I started lactating. I haven’t breastfed in 17 years. My boobs forgot.

I kept quiet at first. Prayed it away. Went to work. Slung chicken nuggets. Made dinner. But the lump grew louder—figuratively and maybe literally. I finally texted my Oregon bestie (who’s basically a walking WebMD with a heart) and my tribe of girlfriends. Their response: STOP. GO. CALL NOW.

So I did.

I called my old naturopath—my lifeline during other health crises. They got me in immediately. Two doctors examined me. Took me seriously. Didn’t downplay the jellyfish or the pain or the freaky milk-from-nowhere thing. They ordered everything: imaging, labs, and a fast-track to answers.

Finding a same-week imaging appointment in December? Nearly impossible. But God’s good at cracking calendars. I got in at Overlake—despite my trauma history with that place. But you know what? No blue pillows. No scary ceiling tiles. Just heated robes and staff who treated me like a human.

When they told me it was breast cancer, my world didn’t spin—it focused. Steve stood beside me, cracking jokes, holding my hand, keeping me grounded. That man is peace with a pulse.

We don’t know all the answers yet. Biopsy is scheduled for Tuesday. Results, Thursday. But here’s what I do know:

1. My body spoke loudly. And I’m finally listening.
2. Google doesn’t always get it right.
3. Waiting is holy. And hard.
4. This cancer has no idea who it’s messing with.

December is Advent. A time of anticipation, yes. But also hope. I’m not waiting in fear—I’m waiting with purpose. With peace. With pink reindeer slippers packed for Tuesday.

To my breast friends: please, get a mammogram. And to everyone else—may you hug more, assume less, and love fiercely this season.

I’ll be over here, trusting that Love Wins.

Sometimes the story doesn’t begin with the hero riding into battle. It starts in the quiet—the waiting, the jellyfish pain, the Google spiral. But love brings clarity. Community brings courage. And faith? Faith lights the match when the dark gets too loud.

Letter to Self

Dear Me,
You felt the fear. You called anyway. You laughed in waiting rooms and cried into Steve’s shoulder. You’ve battled before—and here you are again. Wholehearted. A little wounded. Very brave. Your body is not your enemy. It’s your messenger. And this season, you don’t just wait. You believe.
Love,
Me