“We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure.” – Hebrews 6:19

🌀Mood: Reflective, deeply grateful, hopeful, vulnerable, faith-filled, and ultimately joyful.

One year ago today, my life changed forever.

On July 28, 2025, after five months of relentless back pain, countless questions, and visits to five different doctors, I finally received an answer. It wasn’t the answer I expected—or the one anyone ever wants to hear.

“You have multiple myeloma.”

Looking back now, it’s incredible how many pieces had to come together before anyone realized what was happening. What started as back pain gradually became something much bigger. The pain worsened. I became severely anemic and eventually needed a blood transfusion. What seemed like unrelated symptoms were all connected, but it took months before the puzzle finally came together.

Then everything changed in an instant.

I soon learned that I didn’t just have multiple myeloma—I had Stage III multiple myeloma, the most advanced stage of the disease. My kidneys had also sustained Stage III damage, and my doctors explained that my myeloma was highly aggressive. My bone marrow biopsy revealed that 80% of my bone marrow had been overtaken by cancer cells. It was difficult to comprehend how much damage had already been done before we finally had an answer.

As if that wasn’t enough to process, I learned that my cancer had already caused two vertebrae in my spine to collapse. I underwent kyphoplasty to stabilize the fractures and relieve the pain. Almost overnight, I found myself learning an entirely new language—bone marrow biopsies, chemotherapy, stem cell transplants, blood counts, PET scans, and medications I had never heard of. My life had changed forever.

Six months of chemotherapy followed. Every week brought another treatment, another appointment, another blood draw, another milestone. There were days when I felt hopeful and days when I wondered if I was strong enough for what still lay ahead.

Then came my consultation at Fred Hutch.

One conversation is forever etched in my memory. Because of the aggressive nature of my disease and how advanced it was at the time of my diagnosis, my transplant physician explained that an autologous stem cell transplant wasn’t simply recommended—it was essential. Without it, I would not survive.

Hearing those words changed everything.

So I temporarily moved to Seattle for two and a half months while I underwent the transplant and began recovery. My husband continued working and came to Seattle to visit when he could, while my cousin left her home in Montreal and came to be my full-time caregiver for two months.

As difficult as chemotherapy had been, the stem cell transplant was in a category all its own.

Before the transplant could even happen, my stem cells first had to be collected. The shots they gave me to stimulate my stem cells caused a lot of pain, so what could have been an entirely miserable experience actually became one of my favorite memories. My doctors and nurses started taking friendly bets on how many stem cells we would collect. Everyone got involved, comparing predictions and waiting for the final number. In the middle of the pain and something so serious, they gave me something else to focus on. There was laughter and fun, and for a little while, I wasn’t thinking about how much I hurt.

Before the high-dose chemotherapy and transplant began, I was able to go home to Olympia for a weekend to celebrate my birthday. It felt wonderful to sleep in my own bed, see my cats, be surrounded by familiar things, and simply be home.

It was also special because I got to show my cousin the home and community she had heard so much about before we headed back to Seattle for the next—and most difficult—part of the journey.

That weekend reminded me that life still existed beyond cancer.

Then came the transplant itself.

Before I could receive my stem cells back, I first had to undergo high-dose chemotherapy designed to destroy the remaining myeloma cells. That treatment also wiped out my immune system.

Ironically, transplant day itself was one of the easiest parts. My previously collected stem cells were infused back into my body through an IV.

The real work came afterward.

The first thirty days were some of the most difficult of my life.

Every day became a waiting game.

Waiting for my stem cells to find their way home to my bone marrow.

Waiting for my blood counts to recover.

Waiting for my immune system to begin protecting me again.

Part of that time included a ten-day hospital stay during the period when my blood counts were at their lowest and I was most vulnerable. As difficult as those ten days were, I was grateful to be there. If something went wrong, I was exactly where I needed to be.

But ten days in one small hospital room is a very long time.

I couldn’t wait to get out.

And when I finally did, something remarkable happened. My blood counts rebounded incredibly quickly. My doctors couldn’t believe how fast my body was recovering. After everything it had endured, seeing those numbers climb gave me so much hope.

Throughout my time at Fred Hutch, I also made a commitment to myself: keep moving.

Nearly every day, I walked between 6,000 and 10,000 steps. Some days those steps came more easily than others. There were days when my body was exhausted and I didn’t particularly feel like walking, but I kept going.

I believe those walks became an important part of my recovery. They strengthened my body, lifted my spirits, and gave me something I could do for myself when so much else was beyond my control.

And I’m still walking today.

Cancer is incredibly humbling.

Losing my hair was harder than I expected. It wasn’t simply about losing hair. Every glance in the mirror reminded me that my life had changed.

The transplant was humbling in a different way. I’ve always been independent, yet suddenly I needed other people to care for me. I was physically exhausted, emotionally vulnerable, and completely dependent on others during those early weeks.

There were days when even taking a shower felt like an accomplishment. And there was the nausea—so much nausea. Day after day, it seemed to be there.

That’s when my cousin and I discovered one of the best medicines that wasn’t on my medication list: Scandal and popcorn.

We would curl up and watch episode after episode, and for a little while I wasn’t thinking about blood counts, medications, nausea, or doctor’s appointments. We were simply watching a television show, eating popcorn, and enjoying being together.

Those moments mattered.

Today marks one year since my diagnosis.

It is also Day 143 since my stem cell transplant.

One year ago, I couldn’t imagine this day.

During treatment, life was measured differently. I stopped thinking in months and started thinking in days. Day 7. Day 30. Day 66. Day 90. Day 100.

And now, Day 143.

Looking back, I realize all of those small victories became something extraordinary.

Cancer changes you.

It changes your priorities.

It changes your perspective.

And it changes your relationships.

This past year has taught me more than I ever imagined.

It taught me that I am stronger than I believed—not because I never felt afraid, but because I kept putting one foot in front of the other, even when I wasn’t sure I could.

It taught me that it’s okay to ask for help. For someone who has always valued independence, learning to let others care for me wasn’t easy. But it became one of the greatest blessings of this journey.

It taught me that every ordinary day is a gift. A quiet morning. Dinner with my husband. Coffee with a friend. Sitting outside in the sunshine. These moments don’t seem ordinary anymore.

Cancer also reveals people.

Some friends walked beside me every step of the journey. They prayed. They checked in. They sent cards, meals, flowers, texts, and encouragement. They reminded me over and over that I wasn’t walking this road alone.

Others quietly faded away.

I’ll admit, that hurt.

But over time I realized I didn’t want to focus on those who stepped away. Instead, I wanted to cherish those who stepped closer. Their kindness carried me more than they’ll ever know.

One lesson I hope I never forget is the power of choosing hope.

There were certainly moments of fear, tears, disappointment, and uncertainty. But every morning I made a choice to look for God’s blessings instead of focusing only on my circumstances. I don’t believe a positive attitude changed my diagnosis, but I do believe it changed how I walked through it. It helped me notice God’s faithfulness every single day.

Most of all, this journey deepened my faith.

People sometimes ask me how I stayed so positive.

The answer is simple.

I never walked through this alone.

God never promised me an easy journey, but He faithfully walked beside me through every doctor’s appointment, every chemotherapy treatment, every sleepless night, every setback, every victory, and every prayer.

And looking back, I realize that while I was praying for big miracles, God was also giving me hundreds of little ones—one conversation, one walk, one laugh, one answered prayer, and one ordinary day at a time.

An anchor isn’t needed when the seas are calm.

An anchor is needed when the storms come.

This past year brought the greatest storm of my life.

And through every frightening diagnosis…

Every treatment…

Every setback…

Every act of kindness…

Every answered prayer…

Every tiny victory…

My Anchor held.

Before I close, I simply want to say thank you.

Thank you to my incredible medical team, whose skill, compassion, encouragement—and sometimes humor—carried me through every stage of this journey.

Thank you to my family, whose love never wavered.

Thank you to my team at WSECU, who checked on me, prayed for me, encouraged me, and reminded me that I was missed.

Thank you to my husband, who continued carrying the responsibilities of our life at home, came to Seattle whenever he could, and supported me through the hardest year of our lives.

And a very special thank you to my incredible cousin, who left her home in Montreal and put her own life on hold for two months to become my caregiver. You saw me at my most vulnerable. You sat beside me through the hard days, made me laugh, watched endless episodes of Scandal with me, and helped me get through a time in my life I could never have navigated alone. Your sacrifice and love are gifts I will treasure forever.

Thank you to every friend who sent a text, made a meal, mailed a card, sent flowers, offered a ride, visited, called, or whispered a prayer.

And thank you to every one of you who has read this blog over the past year. Whether you’ve commented, shared a post, sent me a message, prayed for me, or simply followed along quietly, thank you for walking this journey with me.

You have carried me through the hardest year of my life in ways you may never fully understand.

As I reflect on this first anniversary, my heart is full.

Not because the journey has been easy.

Not because it’s over.

But because I have experienced God’s faithfulness over and over again.

One year ago, I had no idea what the next 365 days would hold.

Today, I don’t know exactly what the next 365 days will bring.

But I know this.

The same God who carried me through the greatest storm of my life will continue to walk beside me in whatever comes next.

When I named this blog My Anchor Holds, I had no idea that one day I would be living those words. Looking back over this past year, I can honestly say they weren’t just the title of a blog.

They became the story of my life.

My Anchor held.

And it always will.