What Cancer Doesn’t Tell You About Survival

Most people think cancer is the hardest part.

It isn’t.

The hardest part is everything that comes with it.

The financial hit.

The selling of your home.

The relocation.

The medical travel.

The insurance chaos.

The quiet erosion of stability while you’re just trying to stay alive.

And, unexpectedly, learning who your friends and family truly are—and who aren’t.

—this is the part no one puts in the brochure.

Cancer doesn’t just attack the body. It dismantles a life.

I learned that the hard way.

Treatment required me to relocate to San Francisco for extended periods of time. I sold my home. I exhausted savings. I went into debt—not from recklessness, but from necessity. Staying alive is expensive, and survivorship rarely includes honest conversations about the years it takes to financially recover after treatment ends.

If there were frequent-flyer miles for medical appointments, I’d be platinum for life.

What carried me through wasn’t luck.

It was work.

I flew. A lot.

I picked up hours while my body was still healing.

I rebuilt credit deliberately and patiently.

I sold what I could to regain stability.

I made hard, unglamorous decisions over and over again.

None of this comes with applause. Just spreadsheets.

As an unmarried woman standing financially on her own, every choice mattered. There was no safety net beyond the one I built myself. That reality sharpens you. It teaches you that independence isn’t loud—it’s consistent, disciplined, and sometimes very boring. (Boring turns out to be wildly underrated.)

Turns out “boring” is wildly underrated when chaos tries to move in rent-free.

Yesterday, I turned 55, and that number arrived carrying more meaning than I expected.

So many people took a moment to reach out—messages, notes, and even simple birthday reminders. I read every single one. Being remembered matters. Those small gestures were a powerful reminder that kindness still exists, and I’m deeply grateful for every person who took the time to acknowledge me.

Yes, even the one-click button. It still counts.

This birthday also marked a quiet professional milestone. After many years in aviation, I’ve reached the point where I could officially retire, with lifetime flight benefits. I’m not going anywhere—but knowing that I’ve earned that option matters. It represents commitment, consistency, and a career built one flight, one holiday, one long day at a time.

Freedom tastes better when it’s earned.

On that same day, something else quietly monumental happened.

Selling my horse living quarters was one of the hardest decisions I’ve made. I poured my heart and sweat into making it mine—every detail, every upgrade, every mile it carried me. Letting it go felt a little like giving away a piece of my identity… and a lot like breaking up with something that never did anything wrong.

We remain on good terms.

But debt is debt.

And I’m no longer the carefree girl I was in my teens—or even the young woman I was when my dad died just before I turned 21. Life has a way of fast-tracking your maturity. I grew up. I learned that sentiment doesn’t pay interest, and nostalgia doesn’t negotiate with lenders.

Ask me how I know.

That decision allowed me to eliminate nearly $40,000 in debt.

On my birthday, I received notice that my credit score had climbed back to 825+.

825+. No red carpet, but it felt like my Academy Award.

Cue imaginary orchestra. Please hold your applause.

I stood there staring at the screen like, Is this where I thank my spreadsheets, my discipline, and every unnecessary item I sold to make this happen?

That number isn’t about status.

It represents recovery.

It represents rebuilding after illness, loss, and upheaval.

It represents undoing what cancer tried to take—not just from my body, but from my future.

Also, proof that boring consistency occasionally throws a party.

That said, my journey is not finished.

I continue to undergo medical testing. New labs come back. More evaluations lie ahead. Medically, I am still navigating uncertainty—one appointment, one result, one step at a time.

But I am not afraid.

I walk in faith. I trust God with what I cannot control, and I take responsibility for what I can. I don’t borrow fear from tomorrow, and I don’t minimize today. I meet what’s in front of me, do the work required, and move forward.

One step. No dramatics.

Healing, I’ve learned, is not a finish line. It’s a practice.

Today, I carry very little debt. I am close to being fully debt-free. For the first time in years, I can see forward clearly—not just toward stability, but toward creation. Toward saving again. Toward land. Toward building Flying J Ranch with patience and intention.

Slow doesn’t mean stuck.

Flying J was never born from comfort.

It was born from rebuilding.

It exists because I understand how isolating illness can be—and how healing doesn’t stop when treatment ends. Healing continues through purpose, through animals, through nature, through faith, and through the quiet strength of showing up even when the outcome isn’t guaranteed.

Hope has hooves. And occasionally mud.

I stand behind my name. People can lie, project, or spread toxicity to elevate themselves, and that’s okay. I know my truth. And I’ve learned that peace is cheaper than proving a point.

Highly recommend. Five stars.

This chapter of my life isn’t about pretending I’ve arrived.

It’s about continuing—with gratitude, discipline, humor, and trust.

At 55, I’m not starting over.

I’m still building.

Still healing.

Still standing.

And I will get there.