I didn’t sign up for this fight. I didn’t check the box that said: “Yes, I’d like to inherit a gene that tries to kill me.” But here we are.

This is my space to document the journey I never wanted — my BRCA II + breast cancer risk story. It’s not just about doctors and scans. It’s about the grief of walking into hospitals where I once watched my son and my mom slip away. It’s about feeling my heart race when I smell antiseptic or hear a monitor beep. It’s about the panic, the numbness, the strength it takes to sit in a cold chair and not run.

Every time I go to an appointment, I wonder…
Was this the room?
Was this where she got the news?
Where he took his last breath?

But now, I’m here with music in my ears and a fire in my gut. I’m making space for this story.
For the fear, the anger, the reclamation.
For the quiet sobs in parked cars.
For the songs that carried me in and the ones that carried me out.
For the version of me that keeps showing up — scared, but sovereign.

This is not just a page. This is a living record of my fight to protect what’s left, reclaim what was lost, and keep moving forward even when I want to crawl back under the covers and disappear.

🧬🎗️ This is my proof: I’m still here. I’m still showing up. And I’m not fucking stopping.