A true story of missed symptoms, medical gaslighting, a body that kept score, and the cancer that almost got away.

I was sick, just trying to make it through the morning without puking or panicking, when a Wyoming cop pulled us over and said he smelled weed. I told him I had cancer. I told him I had a med card. He didn’t give a damn. Took everything. Two joints, some low-dose gummies, and whatever scraps of dignity I had left.

Up all night with cancer and no choice but to write through it. A raw, late-night reflection on insomnia, illness, and using words to survive the hours no one else sees.

I haven’t even launched my GoFundMe yet and I’m already spiraling. This is the part where I confess I’m more afraid of being ignored than being sick. What if no one donates? What if no one cares? What if I’ve spent my whole life being just likable enough to get invited to things—but not loved enough to keep me alive? It’s dark, it’s funny, it’s uncomfortable. So basically, it’s me.

I named my tumor Richard because if something’s going to live in my ass rent-free, it might as well have a name. This post is about finding some humor in the grotesque, some power in the naming, and some relief in not taking this whole cancer thing too seriously for five minutes. It’s personal, slightly unhinged, and honestly kind of cathartic.

I'm a single woman with no kids, no parents, and now cancer. This is what survival looks like without a safety net. It’s not brave. It’s necessary.

I haven’t touched my camera in months. Cancer drained my creative drive, left me burnt out and terrified of falling behind. This essay is my way back—writing is the only thing still willing to meet me where I am.

This is a deeply personal, occasionally deranged account of navigating rectal cancer with two unrelated Dr. Singhs, a waiting room full of smiling poop emojis, and way too many questions about the future of my butthole. It’s part medical odyssey, part existential comedy, where I ask inappropriate things at inappropriate times and try to hold onto some scrap of humor, desire, and dignity—usually one gloved finger at a time.

When you run a creative business while quietly managing a cancer diagnosis, you learn that grace doesn’t always come wrapped in empathy. Sometimes, it looks like criticism in your inbox. Sometimes, it’s silence from the people you thought would show up. And sometimes—if you’re lucky—it’s a surprise act of kindness from a client you never saw coming.

This is a story about what happens when illness collides with professionalism, when expectations clash with reality, and how one stranger’s gesture changed everything.

What happens when cancer diarrhea meets 105-degree heat and Wind-Removing Pose? A humiliating tale of gut betrayal, bathroom drama, and a yoga mat left behind like a crime scene. Hot yoga is not for the weak of colon—read at your own risk (and near a toilet).

I never got a wedding registry. I never unwrapped a onesie at a baby shower or squealed over a KitchenAid mixer. But then I got cancer—and suddenly, I had needs no one wants to talk about at brunch. After a messy apartment flood, losing my dad, and now facing stage 3 colon cancer, I’ve created the one registry I never imagined I’d need. It's not filled with blenders or bassinet blankets—just the real stuff: broth, gas cards, soft socks, and a little dignity. Think of it as my bridal shower, just... for tumors.

I thought I’d learn what stage my cancer was in. Instead, I learned how quietly a person can disappear in a paper gown.

Facing chronic gut conditions and rectal cancer, I’m turning to a radical solution: Fecal Microbial Transplant (FMT). With promising European research behind it—but insurance refusing coverage—I need your help to fund this unconventional, life-changing treatment.

Therapy’s weird. Trust is hard. And I’m not here to be fixed—I’m here to be witnessed. A brutally honest letter to the stranger with the clipboard.

My colon cancer symptoms were repeatedly dismissed as COVID, grief, and menstrual bleeding. Learn from my misdiagnosis nightmare—recognize early colon cancer signs, advocate fiercely for a colonoscopy, and demand accountability from your doctors.

A raw, darkly funny poem, about my first therapy session after a cancer diagnosis. Mood Lighting explores grief, sarcasm, mental health, and what it means to perform sanity under fluorescent lights.

I wrote this in the dead of winter, sometime between 3am and not wanting to wake up. I had just been diagnosed with colon cancer and couldn’t tell anyone in my life how dark my thoughts had gotten. So I told strangers. I posted anonymously on Reddit—no plan, no polish, just a raw download of grief, exhaustion, and quiet defiance.

This is what I wrote when I didn’t know if I wanted to live or if I just didn’t want to die the way they told me I had to. It's about my mother’s suicide, my father's death from dementia, a 40-day water-only fast that cracked something open in me, and the complicated faith I have in healing—just not the kind that comes pre-approved by insurance.

It’s not a manifesto. It’s not a cry for help. It’s a record of one of the loneliest nights of my life and the surprising chorus that answered back.