Fifteen Years Later: What Cancer Took, and What It Didn’t

This year marks fifteen years since I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

Fifteen years feels like both a lifetime ago and yesterday. I’ve spent a lot of time lately thinking about what those years have meant—what cancer took from me, and what it didn’t.

But mostly, I’ve been thinking about my friend Octavia.

Octavia Hunter was a photographer and one of the most striking people you’d ever see. We met in college, and I remember being instantly captivated by her fiery red hair, her artistic presence, and this effortless beauty that felt both wild and intentional. She carried herself like someone who knew exactly who she was. I had never known anyone like her before..

Like many friendships in your early twenties, we eventually lost touch. But years later, something unexpected brought us back together. Cancer.

We had both been diagnosed around the same time—Octavia with cervical cancer, me with breast cancer. Both early stage. Both of us navigating something we never imagined facing so young.

While launching Violets Are Blue, I knew there was only one person I wanted to photograph me and my products. I reached out to Octavia in 2015, unsure if she’d even remember me.

She did.

Soon she was on a plane to New York.

That visit was one of those rare moments in life where time collapses. We spent days catching up, reminiscing about college, talking about art and photography and life. And of course, we talked about cancer.

There were so many similarities in our stories, and so many differences.

But the one thing we both agreed on was this: it was behind us. We were going to be okay.

Octavia died in 2018. Her cancer returned in 2017.

The fiery, life loving, travelling, risk taking Octavia was taken.

Yet, I’m still here.

I couldn’t understand why she’s been on my mind so much lately. Then a few months ago it hit me. 

I haven’t been living like Octavia would, had she still been here. 

She lived originally and unapologetically. She created the kind of life that felt true to her. She took risks, and loved freely. I don’t think she knew any other way to live.

And when I look at my own life over the past ten years since launching Violets Are Blue, I see something very different.

I see a decade of anxiety.

Fear of failure, fear of growth, of making the wrong life choices, financial fear, health anxieties, (and that was just my typical Monday!)

Cancer played a role in that. When you’ve been diagnosed with something that threatens your life, the illusion of security disappears overnight. The world suddenly feels unpredictable in ways it never did before.

Cancer took my sense of certainty.

But here’s what it didn’t take.

It didn’t take my life.

As I approach fifteen years since my diagnosis, I’m realizing something that feels both simple and profound: living in fear is not really living at all.

For years, I’ve been carrying cancer with me in ways I didn’t even realize—letting it shape how safe or unsafe life feels, letting it quietly fuel my anxiety about the future.

But the truth is, I’m still here.

And being here means something.

I also realized something else recently.

For the last fifteen years, I’ve been waiting for a prince to ride in on a white horse and save me from my fears and anxiety. Someone who could guarantee that everything would be okay. Someone who could promise safety. Stability. Certainty.

But recently I started thinking about everything I’ve lived through.

Death, cross country moves, multiple career changes, starting a business, closing a business, and starting another business. divorce, cancer diagnosis, cancer treatment, death of a parent, financial insecurity, just to name a few, 

And yes, the fear of ending up living in a van down by the river!
    

And when I looked at it honestly, I realized something almost comical.

My success rate at getting through all of that was 100%.

One hundred percent.

I was so busy looking outward for relief that I didn’t realize something obvious.

I was already sitting on my own white horse.

So. Now I’m trying to live differently.

I’m slowing down. Being present. Listening to my body. Letting life be a little less controlled and a little more experienced. And here is my recipe for this new life. 

One day, drive to the mountains,  the next, to the ocean.

Eat ice cream for dinner if you feel like it. Or popcorn! (my personal fav)

Do things because you want to, not because you feel you must.

Buy that car you’ve always wanted—(even if the fear of spending causes a full body rash for a month).

Adopt a pet that will teach you unconditional love (a dog to experience it, a cat to give it!)  

Stay on the couch for two days if your body tells you to.

Spa days are mandatory.

Go to the movies. 

Hike (or amble) in the rain.

Accept that money will come—or it won’t—and make peace with that.

Understand fostering love, friendships and human connections makes you rich, not money.

Spend as much time alone as you do with others—honoring solitude and connection alike.

Music, always and every day—sing like you mean it, play the guitar like you’re figuring it out (because I am).

Seek to fail, that is the only way to improve and be in awe of yourself. 

Tell the people you love that you love them—so much that it almost becomes weird. People need to hear it, especially now.

Love fiercely and deeply and don't apologize for it. Keep an open heart, always, even when broken.

When you start feeling sorry for yourself, think of those who are no longer here.

When you feel scared or are awake at 4am thinking you may never figure it out, Just whisper to yourself over and over... "I AM ALIVE"

And when all hope feels lost, remember something important:

You are already sitting on your own white horse.

Remind yourself that your track record for getting through hard things is still 100%.

Live life, live it for those like Octavia who no longer can.

I will live in honor of that.

Our days are not guaranteed.

And don’t leave this earth with regret. 🌿

And remember, if fate chooses for you to live in a van down by the river at the end of your life, then you will make it the warmest, most cozy, most loving little van anyone has ever seen.

And as long as I have someone to love, something to do and something to look forward to, then this life is a success. 

(Photo is Beautiful Octavia...still doing beautiful work, long after she is gone.)