A white flowy skirt, a handful of flowers, and a reminder that life can be beautiful even when it doesn’t go according to plan. 🌸

A month or so ago, I was feeling incredibly optimistic about the rest of this year. I had so many ideas and dreams for what was ahead. Then, as life tends to do, things changed.

There have been unexpected turns, plans put on hold, and uncertainty. But there have also been reminders of how much there still is to be hopeful about.

One of those reminders has been running.

For the last month, I wasn’t sure I could run Berlin. My training had stalled, and five miles felt like a wall I couldn’t get past. Then a friend suggested seven minutes of running followed by one minute of walking. I tried it, and finally broke through!

Now Berlin is back in front of me.

It may not look exactly like I imagined it would, but I’m going to keep going. Because running all of the World Marathon Majors for charity still a goal for me.

And maybe that’s the bigger lesson: sometimes moving forward means changing the plan, taking a different route, and continuing anyway.

The juice business and run club can wait. Some of the other ideas I had for this year can wait to come to fruition.

For now, I’m choosing Berlin. I’m choosing to be present for the life that’s actually happening instead of waiting for the life I thought would happen.

The flowers are real, and the hard days that exist behind the lens are real too.

I want to be more honest on this platform, and the reality of life is that there will be ups and downs —sometimes, during a good season of life!

My next stop: Berlin! 🌸

If you’d like to follow the same 14-Day Reset I use to get back on track with my health, you can find it here: stan.store/nicoleellasmith

If you feel called to support the charity I’m running for as I prepare for the Berlin Marathon after cancer surgery, I’d be incredibly grateful. My goal is to run all the major world marathons and I’m halfway there! You can raise money for an incredible cause and support my goal here: fundraise.cff.org/berlin2026/Nicole

– Nicole

Recently, I was invited to share my cancer journey on a cancer-focused podcast. Every time I tell my story, it feels a little lighter, and I hope it reminds someone else that they’re not alone.

Before cancer, I tried to chase every opportunity. After cancer, the noise became quieter. I had to become intentional about what truly mattered.

More than three years later, I finally feel like I’m walking the right path. I’m pursuing my purpose.

I’m working in business, writing my cancer comeback book, creating content I love, training for the Berlin Marathon, and making more fresh pressed juices inspired by the nourishment that helped carry me through treatment and recovery.

Besides creating, I’ve been trying to run more.

My goal is to run all seven Abbott World Marathon Majors: Boston, New York, Chicago, Berlin, London, Tokyo, and Sydney—and I’m about halfway there.

Training for Berlin hasn’t been easy, especially after lung surgery this spring and a busy season of life. There have been moments when I’ve questioned whether I should still do it.

But the answer keeps coming back the same:

Keep going. Trust the process.

I’m learning that purpose isn’t found all at once. It’s built through ordinary, faithful steps in the direction God is calling you.

And that’s my latest update.

If you have someone in your life facing cancer, I’d be honored if you shared my writing with them. If my story helps even one person feel a little less alone or a little more hopeful, then every part of this journey has been worth it.

If you’d like to follow the same 14-Day Reset I use to get back on track with my health, you can find it here: stan.store/nicoleellasmith

If you feel called to support the charity I’m running for as I prepare for the Berlin Marathon after cancer surgery, I’d be incredibly grateful. My goal is to run all the major world marathons and I’m halfway there! You can raise money for an incredible cause and support my goal here: fundraise.cff.org/berlin2026/Nicole

– Nicole ♡

For a long time, I thought a beautiful life would arrive one day.

When I reached the next goal.

When I had everything figured out.

When life finally slowed down.

I’ve realized that’s not how it works. A beautiful life doesn’t arrive one day…

It’s built in the small decisions we make every day and, sometimes, in the paths we never would have chosen.

This summer has reminded me of that.

After work, I’ve spent evenings watching the sunset, walking for miles, and slowly finding my rhythm again through running.

Every run feels a little different now that I’ve endured stage III colon cancer and now lung surgery to remove a cancerous lung tumor. I still notice my lung from time to time, but instead of focusing on what’s changed, I find myself grateful for what my body can do.

I’ve spent weekends doing the things that make me feel most alive like riding my horse, picking fresh strawberries with my niece, reading, writing, dreaming, and having conversations that leave me excited about the future.

And somewhere along the way, I realized I wasn’t trying to get my old life back or go back and walk a different path.

Cancer set me down a new path.

Lately, I’ve also caught myself looking back at different seasons of my life.

At first, I thought I missed old places, people and things that grew apart…

But I don’t think that’s completely true now that I’ve explored these thoughts.

I think I was appreciating what they gave me.

Every chapter has left me with something worth carrying forward.

Cancer taught me gratitude.

Running has taught me patience.

Work has taught me resilience.

The people in my life have taught me compassion.

The difficult seasons have taught me perspective.

Looking back, I wouldn’t change any of it.

Even cancer.

As strange as it sounds, it became one of my greatest teachers. It reminded me that time is precious, health is a gift, and the ordinary moments we often overlook are usually the ones that matter most.

These days, I’m less interested in chasing a perfect life. I’m far more interested in building a meaningful one.

One filled with health, family, faith, movement, adventure, writing, entrepreneurship, and community.

And the courage to keep becoming the person I know I’m capable of being.

If there’s one thing I hope this season reminds you, it’s that the path you travel in your life may not be taking you away from where you’re meant to go…

It may be preparing you for a life even more meaningful than the one you originally imagined.

The beautiful life you’re searching for probably isn’t waiting somewhere in the distance.

You’re already building it.

One ordinary, beautiful day at a time.

Thank you for being here and for following along on this journey.

I hope this encourages you to look at your own life a little differently, and to realize that the unexpected paths you travel may actually become your greatest blessings.

- Nicole ♡

If you want to grab a copy of the 14-day Reset I used to help recover from surgery:
stan.store/nicoleellasmith

And if you feel called to support the charity I’m running for post-surgery:
fundraise.cff.org/berlin2026/Nicole

P.S. If you’ve been following this journey and enjoy these reflections on health, recovery, faith, horses, fitness, and navigating life’s unexpected turns, consider becoming a paid subscriber. Writing has become part of my healing process, and I plan to share much more consistently in this next chapter.

This update is about much more than cancer.

It’s about healing, reinvention, faith, horses, running, Wyoming, moving to Boston, career uncertainty, and the woman I’m still trying to become through all of it.

If you’ve ever found yourself rebuilding after a setback and wondering what comes next, this one’s for you.

It’s also the reason I’m recommitting to writing here.

The last few months have been a whirlwind. Between surgery, recovery, moving to Boston at the beginning of May, catching up on work, and trying to keep up with life, writing took a backseat.

But the truth is that writing has always been one of the ways I heal.

It helps me process what’s happening, make sense of difficult times, and document life lessons.

So if you’re new here, welcome. And if you’ve been following along since my cancer diagnosis, thank you for being part of this journey.

A lot has happened since my last update.

Including a trip to Jackson Hole, Wyoming!

In the middle of recovery, I found myself riding horses through trails surrounded by mountains that seemed to stretch forever.

The landscape was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.

The mountains were bigger, skies were wider and land felt endless.

And standing in the middle of all that open space, my problems felt smaller and my timeline felt less urgent.

It reminded me that life is much bigger than whatever challenge is directly in front of us.

And that maybe my life is more wide open than I’ve been allowing myself to believe.

That perspective came at the perfect time because shortly before that trip, I had been sitting in my follow-up appointment after lung surgery.

Read more

Nobody tells you this part.

Not the diagnosis.
Not the surgery.
Not even the word cancer.

It’s what comes after…

The quiet.

The attempt to go back to your life
when your life doesn’t quite fit anymore.

I thought surviving would feel like winning, but it didn’t.

It felt like… rebuilding something I couldn’t fully see yet.

While I was trying to figure out how to live normally again,
and figure out how to be “me” again—

And in the midst of all of this, life didn’t pause.

It never does.

The year following my cancer treatment, my grandmother passed unexpectedly.

No warning. No long goodbye.
Just… gone.

A week before she passed, we were all together at my sister’s wedding.

The whole family was together laughing and dancing.
It was the kind of night you remember forever.

But none of us thought: this is the last time we’ll dance with our grandma.

But it was.

And that wedding became a gift.

Because my last memory of her isn’t in a hospital room.
It’s not quiet or heavy.

It’s full.

Then something strange happened.

Months later my aunt was cleaning out her house,
and she found a card she hadn’t sent.

Addressed to me.

“Dear Nicole,
I am always here for you.
More than anything else, I wish you happiness…
Happiness is a choice.
Be grateful. Be kind. Be bold…
Success isn’t measured by how much you make…
but by the joy in your heart
and the impact you have on others…
Being your grandmother has been the greatest blessing…
I will always treasure you…”

She never sent it.

And I’ve asked myself that question more times than I can count.

Why didn’t she send it?

Was she waiting for the right moment?
Did she think she had more time?

Or—

did she already say everything she needed to say
in the way she lived and in her relationship with me?

Here’s the part that gave me goosebumps:

We assume there’s always more time.

Cancer taught me that life can flip overnight.

Losing her taught me something harder:

Even love…
even the deepest, most certain kind…
doesn’t always get delivered at the time and in the way we expect.

…because I still got the message.

Just later.

At a time when I needed it more than I would have when it was written.

And maybe that’s the point.

Not everything arrives on schedule.

But the things meant for you
find you.

So now I think about it differently.

She didn’t not send it.

It was just waiting for the right time to reach me.

If you’re reading this, read this as your letter too:

Be grateful.
Be kind.
Be bold.
Choose happiness.
Chase what matters.
Measure your life by the joy you feel and the lives you touch.

Because one day,
you’ll wish you had more days to spend time with your loved ones and write them more letters.

In Part 5 I’ll share more about my journey to stay cancer-free and what that looks like.

If you feel compelled to donate to my marathon you can do so here: fundraise.cff.org/berlin2026/Nicole. Or if you’re interested in the 14-day reset I used to help me recover from chemotherapy check it out here: stan.store/nicoleellasmith.

If you’re in active cancer treatment, recovering, or love someone who is, I see you.
You don’t have to be strong all the time.
You just have to keep going. One more day.

- Nicole

Okay I’m genuinely so happy writing this.

Had my follow-up this morning and everything went so smooth. X-ray at 8:15 am, appointment at 8:45 am, and right on time for everything. I got there early and had a little window of time to myself.

So obviously I went to Panera and got a chocolate croissant, a sesame bagel, and a cappuccino and just sat there like… wait. this is actually a really good morning.

At X-ray the tech asked me the standard questions which, as a woman, included “Is there any chance you could be pregnant?” I said no and she replied “smart girl.” It caught me off guard and I was like… wait, what?? Haha but I’ll take a joke anytime! I believe laughter is medicine, and I was grateful for her silly comment.

Anyway!! It was great to see my surgeon, Dr. Wee and his team. He is the best of the best at Mass General Brigham and Woman’s. I’m doing amazing and my incisions look great because he was my surgeon. I would highly recommend him to my friends and family —11/10.

Now, I’m officially cleared to start easing back into light workouts, lifting, and running!

And yes… I may have gotten a little ahead of myself already… shocking, I know.

Dr. Wee and his PA both remarked that moving is good for healing, which honestly made me feel better about getting back into my routine.

Ironically, I’m not only moving my body again… I’m also moving to a new apartment in Boston this month!!

Also, when I saw Dr. Wee I mentioned my friend who had surgery with him too. I told him that we both think very highly of what he does, and are grateful he was our surgeon. It made me so happy to share that with him in person and see him crack a smile too!

And the best part:

Pathology came back as very very early lung adenocarcinoma and it had not spread.

I feel like I can finally exhale 100% saying that.

Going forward I’ll have CT scans coordinated with my cancer follow-ups too, which feels reassuring and like my healthcare is in the right hands.

Right now it’s just all good news!
I’m healing, the cancer is out, and I’m moving forward.

I really feel like me again. I’m so back. ♡

If you want to grab a copy of the 14-day Reset I used to help recover from surgery:
stan.store/nicoleellasmith

And if you feel called to support the charity I’m running for post-surgery:
fundraise.cff.org/berlin2026/Nicole

There’s still healing to do, but today is a great day!

Signing off.

- Nicole

The first two weeks after surgery were as to be expected.

I got home from the hospital and tried to shower. Something simple and routine, and I couldn’t even do that fully. Part of my body had to stay dry because of the bandages, so I adjusted.

I felt a pull to document my healing.

I shared my first post-surgery update as soon as I got discharged. Over the next few days, I probably should have slowed down, but instead I wrote more, shared photos, and even started fundraising for the Berlin Marathon in September as part of my goal to run all the World Marathon Majors.

Eventually, I slowed down. But I’m stubborn, and I wasn’t willing to let surgery break my spirit.

Cancer doesn’t get to take that from me.

That’s been a consistent decision through all of this. Not waiting to feel ready or for perfect conditions. Just continuing to move forward, even if the pace changes.

What still feels unusual is the diagnosis itself.

I’ve had a lot of people reach out, especially about the fact that this lung cancer wasn’t a result of my colon cancer spreading. It was an entirely separate cancer.

When I first got the news post-surgery, I had a flashback to my previous cancer experience. Likely from the anesthesia wearing off, but I remember tears rolling down my face thinking about how hard that journey had been. At the time, I didn’t even realize this diagnosis wouldn’t require further treatment.

My colon cancer had been stage 3 and had spread to more than 12 lymph nodes. It required immediate surgery, chemotherapy, and major lifestyle changes. Everything happened quickly.

And chemotherapy changed more than I expected.

It didn’t just affect my body. It affected my thinking, my mood, and my ability to sustain the habits I was trying to build.

The best way I can describe it is that it dulled my thoughts.

Everything felt heavier.

That season wasn’t just physically demanding. It was emotional. Even seasonal. It was winter when I finished chemotherapy, and it felt like winter in every sense.

After my first surgery, I was on what they call a “sips and chips” diet. Clear liquids and ice chips.

Looking back, it felt like a kind of forced fasting.

And at the same time, I was searching spiritually.

People talk about prayer and fasting as a way to grow closer to God, and in a way, that’s what happened to me.

It stripped everything down.

And that’s when I accepted Jesus into my life.

There was a real shift after that. A peace I can’t fully explain. Even people around me could feel it. It changed how I moved through everything that followed.

Looking back, that foundation mattered more than anything.

And I didn’t go through any of it alone.

My work, my community, my family, and the people closest to me carried me through. My mom especially, making healthy food when I didn’t have the strength to do it myself.

Then came this second diagnosis.

Adenocarcinoma. Stage 0. In situ.

It was first identified after chemotherapy in 2023, and over the past year it grew from 3 to 5 millimeters.

When I had the option to remove it, I didn’t hesitate.

I wanted it out.
And I’m glad I acted quickly.

It’s still strange to say I’ve had two completely different cancers, and that this isn’t stage 4 colon cancer.

It’s a separate occurrence entirely.

There’s still a lot I’m learning.

Health, medicine, the body… it doesn’t end. And even for me, it can feel overwhelming.

So I’ve had to be intentional with my energy.

Healing. Learning. Working.
And staying connected to what matters most.

Because if I try to do everything, I burn out.

But I am healing.

It’s week two, and I’ve started moving again.

Last week, I lifted once. Nothing excessive, just enough to remind my body what it feels like to engage again.

I’ve also been drinking green tea with honey consistently. Something simple, but grounding.

This week, I lifted again with my mom and my trainer, Al.

And there was a shift.

I felt stronger. Lighter. More present.

There was a moment where I felt genuinely happy to be there. Not pushing, not forcing. Just moving, rebuilding, being in my body again.

That mattered.

I’ve also been going on long walks, adding in a little jogging, staying cautious as I build back toward the marathon.

And I’m proud of that.

Because it’s forward.

And I’m grateful.

For my health.
For the people around me.
For the fact that I’m still able to move, to rebuild, to continue.

Cancer isn’t easy, and I have a deep respect for anyone going through it, and for the people who support them.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this:

Put your faith and your health first. Everything else follows.

It’s not about doing everything.
It’s about doing what actually matters.

That’s where meaning is found.

I’m thankful every day for Jesus, my family and friends, my doctors Lillian Chen, Kim Perez, and Jon Wee, and this community.

I wouldn’t be here without you.

Right now, I’m taking it day by day.

I’ve been doing my 14-day reset, leaning into a healthier lifestyle while I heal.

And I keep coming back to my own voice.

Everything I’ve read, everything I’ve studied… it’s like I’m finally applying it.

Not perfectly, but in a way that feels real.

And that’s what’s grounding me.

If you want to follow along or do it with me:
https://stan.store/nicoleellasmith

And if you feel called to support what I’m running for:
https://fundraise.cff.org/berlin2026/Nicole

There’s still healing to do, and I’ll share more in time.

I’m here. I’m healing. And I’m deeply grateful.

- Nicole

I opened my patient portal today…

There was a message sitting there, waiting for me to be ready to see it.

The pathology came back!

Adenocarcinoma in situ (very early stage lung cancer that hasn’t spread).
Stage 0. No spread.
And not related to my colon cancer.

After everything, that feels like a quiet kind of miracle.

I can celebrate not being stage four!

That alone shifts something in my perspective.

There’s relief, obviously and gratitude.
But more than that, there’s this steady kind of peace I didn’t expect.

It’s not in me anymore.

I keep coming back to that.

Recovery has been humbling.
Not unbearable, just slower than I want it to be.

I want to run. I want to push it.
But I’m not willing to set myself back, so right now I’m choosing patience.

I have started lifting again, mostly legs.
Nothing crazy. Just showing up and rebuilding.

There are moments I feel strong, like I’m already moving forward.
And then there are small things, like taking a deeper breath, that remind me I’m still healing.

I think that has been the biggest shift for me. Becoming more patient, more aware, and more grounded than I was before.

And it’s changed how I think about what’s next.

After beating cancer, I said I wanted to run all the world marathons.

I’ll be running the Berlin Marathon for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation, for my sister Jennifer, and for anyone who doesn’t get to take a simple breath for granted.

After this surgery, I feel that in a way I never did before.

Breathing is everything.

Right now, I’m taking it day by day.
Letting my body lead and giving myself more grace than I usually would.

And I’m starting my 14-day reset again, the one I created to help me feel grounded and like myself.

This time, I’m doing it while I heal.

If you want to follow along or do it with me, it can be found here
https://stan.store/nicoleellasmith

And if you feel called to support what I’m running for
https://fundraise.cff.org/berlin2026/Nicole

There’s still more to process, and I’ll share more in time.

But for now… I’m here, I’m healing, and I’m deeply grateful.

- Nicole

I had thoracic surgery yesterday! It was a mixture of the right people, and divine timing if you ask me. My options were to watch and wait or to get surgery, and now, I’m glad I chose the latter.

Dr. Wee at Mass General Brigham and Women’s was able to find and remove a 5mm nodule in the lower left lobe of my lung, just like we had hoped.

There’s been talk that it could be adenocarcinoma in situ, caught very early (stage 0) with no spread. And not related to my colon cancer… which feels like a miracle. Also, no lymph nodes had to be removed! (I will learn more about the pathology in 7-10 days.)

In the middle of all of this, about a month ago, I met someone who worked at this hospital.

At the time, it felt like a normal occurrence, and not divine intervention. Nothing about it suggested how meaningful it would become.

Interestingly, life has a quiet way of setting things in motion before we understand why.

As everything unfolded with my surgery, this person ended up being there in the room with the surgeon and team.

And it’s a long story… one that still doesn’t feel entirely real when I think about it, and one that I’ll share more about in due time.

There was something incredibly grounding about this whole surgery experience.

After learning that the nodule in my lung was a separate early-stage cancer, this all felt less like coincidence, and more like my prayers being answered and angels watching over me.

This happened for my colon surgery, and it happened again! The right people being placed in my life exactly when I needed them, before I even knew I would.

What stays with me most from all of this isn’t just the procedure, the outcome, or even the fear leading up to it.

It’s the people.

My family, friends and support system. The ones who showed up, who waited, who prayed without asking for anything in return.

The quiet support, steady presence, and the love that didn’t need to be loud to be felt.

Recovery is proving to be its own process —a bit uncomfortable, but nothing I can’t handle. I just got discharged today!

So far there is a new sense of peace, knowing that I listened to my intuition telling me to do this surgery. I trusted my doctors, and I placed the rest in God’s hands.

Whatever the final pathology says, I know this:

I showed up for myself.
Made the decision that felt right.
And I was carried by faith and the most incredible people through this.

Thank you to everyone who reached out, who prayed, who helped me in ways you may not even realize.

See you next article!

- Nicole

I finished chemotherapy and thought it would feel like crossing a finish line.

I’ve run marathons, so I know that feeling. Your body is exhausted for a week, but there’s a clear sense that the hard part is over.

This wasn’t like that.

I didn’t even ring the bell, and honestly I think that helped me. Life doesn’t suddenly change when treatment ends.

If anything, parts of it got harder.

During chemotherapy there’s a rhythm. You show up, sit in the chair, let them hook you up and in my case ice my hands and feet, go home, and repeat every other week for six months.

After treatment ends, you’re just in it.

There’s no structure and no clear next step. It’s just you and whatever’s left behind.

The chemotherapy wasn’t going into my body anymore, but it hadn’t really left either.

I was dropping things for months because of nerve damage. My brain felt off, like I couldn’t process things as quickly as I used to.

The closest way I can describe it is a hangover that lasts longer than it should.

At the same time, people expect you to bounce back right away.

You start to look better. Your hair starts to grow in more full and your color returns. On the outside it looks like everything is okay.

But I didn’t feel okay.

I kept waiting for something to be wrong.

This showed up before scans, in random moments, and any time my body felt even slightly off.

Walking into follow up appointments felt strange. I’d feel sick just being there, not because I was actually sick, but because my body remembered what it had been through.

That part surprised me.

I thought finishing chemotherapy would mean I could stop thinking about it.

It didn’t.

Trusting my body again took time. It didn’t happen all at once.

It came back in small ways.

I could go for a walk and not feel completely drained. I could work out and not need a full day to recover. I could wake up and not immediately think about cancer.

Those were the wins.

There were also things I didn’t expect.

I carried my chemotherapy in a Lululemon bag, and after I finished I couldn’t even look at it without feeling sick.

I made myself use it anyway. Partly to get over it and partly because it was expensive.

Eventually it stopped bothering me.

I’m proud of myself.

I got through it and I kept building a life after it. I have a horse and I’m still doing things that matter to me. I didn’t let everything stop.

I’m also very grateful for my doctor at Dana Farber.

She knew when to push and when to stop. She pulled the Oxaliplatin when my body couldn’t handle it anymore.

At one point I started calling it poison, and in a way it is, but it’s also the reason I’m here.

Three months after chemotherapy, I got my port out.

I needed it gone, not just physically but mentally. I felt like I couldn’t move forward while it was still part of me.

I knew I still had scans every three months, and I knew it wasn’t truly over, but getting it out helped more than I expected.

That same day I went for a drive with my then boyfriend. We got coffee, drove onto the beach, and took pictures at random railroad tracks we found.

It was simple, but it felt like a normal day, and that felt really good.

Sometimes I think about what it would have been like if I kept the port in longer. I think I might’ve stayed stuck a little longer too, and I’m glad I didn’t.

I stopped trying to get back to who I was before.

I’m different now.

I’m more aware of time. I have less patience for things that don’t matter, and I’m more focused on what actually feels real.

I still miss parts of how things were before, but I wouldn’t trade what I’ve learned.

There’s no clean ending to this.

It’s just life after, and figuring it out as you go.

I’m still here.

And that’s enough for now.

In Part 4, I’ll share more about life after cancer, how I managed each follow-up appointment in the months and years to follow, and how recovery is both mental and visceral.

If you’re in treatment, recovering, or love someone who is, I see you.
You don’t have to be strong all the time.
You just have to keep going. One more day.

- Nicole

I met with my thoracic surgeon this week at Mass General, who came highly recommended by my doctor at Dana Farber and people I trust.

In a way, it felt like more than coincidence. Like the right people were placed in my path before I even knew I would need them.

Read more

Update! I had my now-annual cancer scans yesterday at Dana-Farber Chestnut Hill.

Scan days used to make me incredibly nervous. This time, I was still nervous, but more at peace than I’ve ever been before.

It helped to have my family checking in all day, texting and calling. It also helped to have some amazing colleagues who stepped in to help with work du…

Read more

I really thought the hardest part was over.

They cut the cancer out.
The tumor was gone.
The surgery went perfectly.

In my mind, I was already healed.

What I didn’t understand yet was that in oncology, you don’t beat cancer the day you become NED (no evidence of disease). Survival is measured in five-year increments.

Five years.

That’s when it hit me: this wasn’t going to be a sprint to the finish line. This was going to be a marathon.

Patiently, my wonderful oncologist Dr. Kimberly Perez introduced me to FOLFOX, a six-month chemotherapy regimen made up of 5-FU, leucovorin, and Oxaliplatin.

Surgery removes what they can see.
Chemotherapy goes after what they can’t.

At the time, I didn’t want to understand that distinction.

I cried during my first infusion. Truly cried. I was convinced surgery had fixed everything and that chemo was excessive.

Spoiler: I still did the chemo.

So there I was in a reclined chair at Dana-Farber, port accessed, clear medicine flowing into my chest, waiting for something dramatic to happen…

*Drip, drip, beep.* Nothing dramatic happened.

At first.

Chemo is subtle. It accumulates.

The Oxaliplatin made cold feel like electricity.
Cold water? Painful.
Holding something from the freezer? Immediate regret.

Somehow, I still managed to suck down smoothies and vegetable juices over the course of the next six months, but at the expense of my throat feeling like a tiny straw.

I iced my hands and feet during infusions to help prevent neuropathy (which I believe helped), but by month five I was dropping things, and my blood counts dipped low enough that we stopped the Oxaliplatin.

The fatigue built slowly.

Not “I stayed up too late” tired.

Bone-deep, brain-fog, heavy-limbs kind of tired.

Food tasted muted.
Running became walking.
And then walking became a celebration of taking only a few lunges!

That was the hardest part.

Not the nausea.
Not losing some hair volume or feeling foggy.

It was losing the identity of being the strong and energetic person I had placed so much worth and value in.

I’ve always been high-energy. The one who brings life into a room!

Suddenly, I looked pale, puffy and sick.

There was one night I walked to the beach feeling overwhelmed and my mom, who was watching my location, calmly drove there to pick me up. (A quiet reminder that even your strong friends need extra strength sometimes.)

But here’s what surprised me:

Chemotherapy did not break who I am. Instead, it clarified what was important to me.

At 2 a.m., when the fear would surface and the thoughts overtook the silence…
What if I’m the 50%?
What if this doesn’t work?

I slowly stopped asking, “Why me?”

And started asking, “Who am I becoming?”

Cancer stripped away the illusion that time is guaranteed.

And it made life sharper, brighter and less mundane.

Fresh air felt sacred.
Good days felt amazing!
Love felt louder than ever.

I don’t think chemo made me fearless.

I think it gave me clarity, and it’s this clarity that kills the uncertainty about who you will be tomorrow.

Clarity about what matters.
Clarity about who shows up.
Clarity about how I want to live.

I’m still working toward my five-year mark.

There are still scans, follow-ups, and moments of fear.

But there is also a steadiness to life now.

…and it is Hope.

Hope that has been tested and proven. Even when life feels heavy, I know I’m still here for a reason.

In Part 3, I’ll share what it’s like after finishing chemotherapy, dealing with the fear of recurrence, and how learning to trust my body again became its own kind of healing.

If you’re in treatment, recovering, or love someone who is, I see you.
You don’t have to be strong all the time.
You just have to keep going. One more day.

- Nicole

I didn’t feel like I was dying.
I didn’t look sick.
And I definitely didn’t think I had cancer.

It started as a dull ache in my stomach.

I remember telling my best friend about it during a trip to California. We laughed it off. Tried to “eat healthy” that trip. Assumed it was stress, hormones, travel…something normal.

Months later, I was at the gym telling another friend that I couldn’t eat Chipotle anymore because it wrecked my stomach. Which was tragic, because I loved Chipotle.

Then things escalated.

I could barely eat.
I could barely run, and I love running.
I was spending six hours in the bathroom every night.

The only foods I could tolerate were fresh-pressed vegetable juice (if I wasn’t too tired to make it sometimes my mom would make it for me) and, ironically, homemade ice cream from a local cow farm.

I don’t know how I lasted as long as I did, living my days fueled by juice and ice cream. But I did. I kept going, working, pretending it was all fine.

Until I finally got a call from my doctor.

They told me I could get in to see a GI sooner than the three-month wait I’d originally been given. When I explained that I’d seen dark blood in my stool, it was game over.

I was sent for a colonoscopy as soon as possible.

The night before the procedure, I called my church friend, Tom (someone I considered further along in his closeness to God than me) and asked him to pray for me.

He didn’t pick up.

Later, I missed his call back.

He left me a voicemail praying over me no matter what the outcome was.

I woke up from that colonoscopy to the outcome.

Colon cancer.

My mom was with me and she went white as a ghost.

And as surreal as it sounds, I felt… relieved. (hah)

Not because it was cancer.
But because there was finally something tangible wrong.

Something I could do something about.

Despite wishing I had gone to the ER months earlier instead of waiting for a GI appointment and a colonoscopy, everything somehow lined up perfectly.

I ended up with the best surgeon and specialist in laparoscopic surgery, which meant no scars.
We checked into the hospital at exactly the right time, when I hadn’t eaten yet that day.
Then she texted one of the only doctors in the country who could place a stent over the tumor in my colon so I could try to clear things out before surgery.

I stayed in the hospital from Friday to Monday pre-surgery.

The night before surgery, I stayed awake almost the entire time. Not from fear, but from excitement that this would all be over soon. That night I gave my life to Jesus Christ. Then I responded to every single message and well wish that came in through social media before being rolled into the Operating Room.

For the first time in months, I felt like things were looking up.

The surgery went perfectly, even though it went a little longer than usual.

Genetically, it turned out that I had an extra foot of colon! The part that was double-folded was exactly where the tumor was. To this day I have been told that this had nothing to do with me getting cancer, but I believe it played a role in it.

All credit due to the best surgeon in the world, Dr. Lillian Chen. I had one foot less colon, but one more chance at life!

I was losing weight on my new post-surgery ice-chip diet and I felt better everyday.
I was in pain, but I knew it was temporary.

Dr. Chen removed forty lymph nodes during surgery, and I would come to find out that twelve were cancerous near the tumor site.

I truly believed the surgery had solved all my problems.

What I didn’t know was that I was about to be hit with chemotherapy options and an entirely new battle.

The weeks after emerging from a 10 day hospital stay, felt like holding my breath.

Waiting for pathology results.
Waiting for staging.
Waiting to find out next steps.

It taught me patience.
It taught me presence.
It taught me how to live in the moment.

Then the results came back.

I had Stage III Colon Cancer.

When I asked about the survival statistics I was told, “You have a 50% chance of surviving beyond five years.”

That number shook me to my core.

This was no longer just about removing a tumor.
This was a whole new battlefield.

And I had so much learning to do to survive it.

In Part 2, I’ll share what chemotherapy really did to my body and mind, and the moment I realized surviving cancer would be much harder than being diagnosed with it.

If you’re here because you’re sick, scared, grieving, or need a glimpse of hope —I see you. You’re not weak for feeling this way. You’re human, and you’re not alone.

- Nicole