My Story

If you had met me before breast cancer, you probably would have found me chasing after one of my eight children, volunteering in my community, dreaming up creative projects, or making plans for what came next. Life was wonderfully full.

Then, in November 2023, everything changed.

Although my diagnosis came in November, my journey had actually begun months earlier when I found a lump in my breast. I truly believed it was mastitis. As a busy mom who had breastfed babies for years, it seemed like the most likely explanation.

I went back to my local clinic several times because something didn't feel right. Each visit ended with reassurance, but no one spent time investigating why the lump wasn't going away. I wanted to trust that everything was okay, so I did.

Looking back, one conversation has stayed with me. My beloved OB-GYN—the doctor who had cared for me through six pregnancies, including two sets of twins—once said, "You don't want to look around too much. You never know what you'll find." I know those words were never intended to cause harm, but they stayed with me. Instead of continuing to push for answers, I convinced myself everything was probably fine.

It wasn't.

By the time I was diagnosed, I had Stage III invasive ductal carcinoma, and the cancer had already spread to my lymph nodes.

One of the greatest regrets I carry is that I didn't advocate more strongly for my own health. I wish I had trusted what my body was telling me. I wish I had asked more questions, requested additional imaging, or sought another opinion sooner.

That regret has become part of my purpose.

Since sharing my story, I've heard from many women who recognized their own experiences in mine. Several have gone on to seek additional evaluation after feeling dismissed or uncertain, and more than seven women have told me they were diagnosed with breast cancer much earlier because my story encouraged them to keep asking questions.

That is why I share this part of my journey.

I believe our healthcare providers want the best for us, but I also believe we know our own bodies. If something doesn't feel right, keep asking questions. Seek another opinion if you need one. You deserve to be heard, and your concerns deserve thoughtful attention.

The months that followed my diagnosis became a blur of appointments, chemotherapy, surgeries, radiation, medications, and recovery. I completed chemotherapy in April 2024, underwent a double mastectomy that June, and finished radiation in September. Twenty-six lymph nodes were removed, and twenty-four of them contained cancer.

Cancer changed my body, my plans, and my perspective.

But it also revealed something extraordinary.

During one of the hardest seasons of my life, I experienced the incredible power of community. Friends, family, neighbors, my church, and people I barely knew stepped in to care for my family in ways I will never forget. They delivered meals, drove me to appointments, watched my children, folded laundry, sent encouraging messages, prayed for us, and showed up again and again when we needed them most.

As someone who has always valued community, I experienced it in a way I never had before. Their kindness carried not only me but also my children through treatment. It reminded me that even in our darkest moments, we are not meant to walk alone.

I will always be deeply grateful for the exceptional care I received at Mayo Clinic in Rochester. Every member of my healthcare team treated me with remarkable compassion, expertise, and hope. They cared not only for my cancer but for me as a whole person.

I've also had the privilege of participating in breast cancer research. Knowing that my experiences may help improve care for future patients has become one of the unexpected gifts to come from this journey. If my story or my participation can make the path a little easier for someone else, then it is an honor to contribute.

When treatment ended, I expected life to return to normal.

Instead, I discovered what so many survivors already know.

Recovery isn't the finish line.

It's the beginning of a completely different journey.

Learning to trust my body again. Navigating long-term side effects. Making reconstruction decisions. Living with managed lymphedema. Processing grief. Rediscovering confidence. Finding joy again.

Over time, I became deeply interested in the things that support healing beyond medicine—movement, nutrition, mental health, meaningful relationships, and the small daily choices that help us build strength again. I learned that healing isn't just physical. It's emotional, relational, and deeply personal.

Again and again, I found comfort in hearing other women's stories. Not because our experiences were identical, but because they reminded me that I wasn't alone.

That realization became the beginning of Your Friend Jenn.

The kindness I received during treatment changed me. I watched ordinary people do extraordinary things for my family. I experienced healthcare professionals who cared with both skill and compassion. I discovered the hope that comes from hearing another survivor say, "Me too."

Your Friend Jenn is my way of paying that kindness forward.

My hope is to create a place where women affected by breast cancer can find encouragement, connection, honest conversations, practical resources, and a community that understands. A place where no one has to wonder if they're the only one feeling what they're feeling.

If you've found your way here because of a diagnosis, because you love someone with breast cancer, or because you're trying to figure out what life after treatment looks like, I want you to know one thing:

You are not alone.

There is hope.

There is life after breast cancer.

And there is a community here, ready to walk alongside you.

Welcome, I'm so glad you're here.

-Your Friend, Jenn