I grew up in a small town right outside of Austin, Texas, called Wimberley, on a little chicken farm with my big family. We had a family band; my dad’s a bluegrass musician, and my mom’s a writer. They’re hippies, but I always wanted to be an actress—my life plan was always to move to L.A. and be a sitcom star. So I got my degree, moved out to L.A. in 2014, and shortly after that, was diagnosed with Stage IV metastatic breast cancer. I was just 26, had no family history, and had always been really healthy. It was already incurable. It was already, “You have two to five years to live.”
When I found that out, I was on my break between working double shifts at a fancy restaurant in L.A. I was going full force to make my acting dream happen. I had an agent, was going to auditions all the time, and was doing stand-up comedy and improv. I was busy, busy, busy. It was the guy I’d been dating for about a year (who I’d just moved in with) who noticed a lump in my breast. I wasn’t worried; my older sister had a benign lump removed, so I figured it was the same thing. I called the office of the gynecologist I’d seen for years, but saw a different doctor because my doctor was out of town. They told me not to worry—it was just a lump, I was too young for breast cancer. I believed them, because who am I, with my acting degree, to question a medical doctor?
But not only did the lump not go away, when I’d turn to the side and look in the mirror, I could visibly see it; it was getting bigger. I went to another doctor, who said the same thing, but I was starting to feel weird—like nobody was really listening to me. He prescribed an ultrasound, but my insurance wouldn’t cover it because I was too young and had no family history. The third doctor I went to helped me fight my insurance and get one. By then, it had been nine months since we found the lump. That whole time, I was just trying to, you know, be a good patient. The biggest health problem I’d had was getting chlamydia once in college, or getting my tonsils out. Every time I’d gone to a doctor, they’d made me better. I had no reason not to trust what doctors were saying. But in the nine months it took me to get a diagnosis, the breast cancer had already spread to my liver. It was metastatic. I was like, “What? What do you mean it’s too late? What do you mean, I didn’t catch it early? I’ve been doing this for nine months.”
I was still processing this while driving, that same day, to the oncologist they recommended. Again, I was a good patient; I just went along with it. But that oncologist was not great. He kept telling me that I was going to die and needed to accept that, and he shared terrible statistics. I eventually walked out of that office and said to my mom—who’d moved out to L.A. and stayed in an Airbnb to support me—“I don’t ever want to go back there again.” Instead, I went and got a second opinion and a third opinion. That’s one piece of advice I give people who are newly diagnosed: Don’t let anybody rush you or tell you that you don’t have time to get more opinions and figure out your best treatment plan. The time you take now could add time to your life later. Treating cancer is an art—a science, yes, but also an art.
The third opinion I got was at City of Hope, from Dr. Waisman (a perfect name), who looked like Bernie Sanders and was brilliant and compassionate. I’m grateful, in a way, that the first oncologist drove me to a point of frustration where I had to learn to really advocate for myself, because I ended up at this incredible hospital that saved my life, and did it in a way that was intelligent and compassionate. They have a rose garden with a gate that reads, “There is no profit securing the body if in the process we destroy the soul.” I remember seeing that and being like, “OK, this place is different.” They taught me from the beginning to prioritize my mental health, had me sign up with a social worker the first day I was there, and helped me with everything financially, mentally, and physically.
With metastatic breast cancer, what usually happens is that you’re on a treatment until it stops working, then you have to change. That hasn’t been the case for me. I have a breast-cancer subtype called luminal B, which is weird for a young person. It’s a slow-growing cancer, but that means chemo is not effective on it. After trying one treatment combination that didn’t work well, my doctor put me on a drug that came out just a couple of months before my diagnosis. I’ve been on it ever since, which feels lucky and absurd. It shrank all my tumors really quickly, then I had surgery and radiation.
My scans have shown no evidence of disease for almost nine years now. As for that first doctor who told me to just accept that I was going to die—yes, I’ve been tempted to have words with him. But in the words of Ariana Grande, me and my truth will sit in silence. And by silence, I mean I will talk shit about him on the internet forever (but never say his name).
I recently moved back home with my parents in Austin. My dad got cancer last year, and I suddenly found myself in the caretaker position. I came home for a month to help him start chemo and take care of the farm, and kept thinking about what really matters in life, and how there’s nothing more valuable than family and the people that I love. I don’t want to have any regrets about the time I’ve spent with my parents. I wasn’t expecting to move back as quickly as I did, but then I went through a big breakup, and it was like, “OK, this is the perfect time for a change.” For a long time, I was scared to change my life in any way because of my treatment. I didn’t want to not be near that hospital, or not have access to my medicine. When I took the leap, I wasn’t sure how I’d feel. But it’s been wonderful. I’ve also had so many opportunities to travel this year, which would not have been as easy in L.A., expenses-wise.
Moving home has also allowed me to expand my MBC advocacy in ways I didn’t anticipate. The hard part of that is, I’ve lost many metastatic friends. I don’t count anymore; it gets depressing once you run out of fingers. Some were women I met when they had early-stage breast cancer, and here I am, Stage IV from the start and still here. It’s made me realize there is no greater purpose for me than to tell their stories and use my time here to scream from the rooftops about what’s happening. All of the gaps in care I experienced. Doctors not listening to young women. Why is any doctor allowed to tell a woman they’re too young for cancer? Why is there a rise in breast cancer rates? Why do people not know that 85 percent of people with breast cancer have NO family history? Why are we talking so much about early detection but doing nothing to make it easier for women under 40 to detect anything? I’m under 40, so I would not even qualify to get a mammogram if I didn’t already have cancer!
As a middle child, lightening things up using humor has always felt like my purpose. Now, it’s bringing light to communities that feel like they’re in the dark. Everything I’ve done—improv, stand-up, playing music—has prepared me to be an MBC advocate. I can talk about this deadly cancer and make people laugh in the same conversation. The way I communicate is silly, and I’ve always looked for the bright side, and honestly, you can’t go through cancer without experiencing a bunch of embarrassing stories that can be really funny. Like, everyone has pooped themselves—it’s just a hilarious, awful fact. Also, I once thought I had a tumor on my butt hole, and I showed it to my oncologist thinking my cancer has spread to my butt hole, and he was like, “That’s just a hemorrhoid, honey.”
Of course, if you had told me 10 years ago that this would be my life now, it would sound awful. And parts are awful, like losing friends. But there’s nothing awful about helping my community and helping women not die of breast cancer. I want everyone to know that if we can cure metastatic breast cancer, no one will die of breast cancer. I think a lot of people don’t understand that even if you have early-stage and are cured, 30 percent of cases recur as metastatic. Meanwhile, the glamorization and pinkification of breast cancer is just so insulting. Honestly, everything I thought I knew about breast cancer was wrong.
On social media, I get to provide the representation that I desperately needed when I was diagnosed. The number of messages I get from people who have just been diagnosed means more to me than anything, because I’ve given them an ounce of representation and hopefully an ounce of hope. When I was diagnosed, it seemed like there was nobody like me anywhere. There was nobody else young who had MBC because the prognosis was much worse then. It’s getting better little by little, because of research, and because we’re not running out of treatment options as quickly.
My advice to people with cancer is to take care of your mental health as much as your physical health. That’s something I didn’t do. At first, I tried to suppress any fear, and not freak out my mom or boyfriend. But you can’t repress these feelings. They’ll eventually explode out, like Champagne from a shaken bottle, when you least expect it. Wouldn’t you rather be crying to a therapist than having a mental breakdown in a grocery store? That was me. I was spending too much time listening to the wrong things. I tried every crazy piece of advice somebody would read on the internet. I developed anxiety and OCD and became orthorexic—an eating disorder where you’re obsessed with healthy eating. I would stand in the store, reading ketchup bottles, having a breakdown. A friend would take me out dancing at bars in West Hollywood, and I’d be like, “I don’t want to be anywhere near alcohol or cigarettes, I have cancer!”
I think the best thing for your mental health is something people are often afraid to do—find your community. (My favorite starting point for that is WeGotThis.org.) For so long, I didn’t have that, and those were my darkest days. Once I started to find other metastatic people, it was so much better. We’re like sisters, we share such intimate things and understand each other on a level that nobody else can, not even our family. Having spaces where you are seen and able to fully be yourself is life-saving. It’s given me so much hope and energy. I was just at a cancer-survivors summer camp called We Are Ocean, and a couple of days in, I found out one of my closest metastatic friends had passed away. We had just gotten matcha together, then I woke up to see that she’s passed away. A friend who also knew her was at camp too, and we immediately ran to find each other. We spent a heartbreakingly beautiful morning at the ocean, crying and screaming at the sky and jumping in the ocean in our underwear. We went out in canoes and threw pink flowers in the ocean. I’ve never seen people show up for grief in that way. I don’t think anybody but cancer survivors can.
Life is less lonely together, and funny too. You’re not gonna face your mortality and not come out of it with a great sense of humor. There’s honestly nobody funnier than the metastatic community, so it drives me crazy when the only way we’re represented is like darkness and death and anger. I’m like, “But we’re also hilarious!” We are so full of life; you will not find anybody who appreciates life more than our community. For anyone who’s not quite ready to put themselves out there and go to an event, I get that; a great way to dip your toe in is through Imerman Angels, which will connect you one-on-one with a mentor who has a similar diagnosis, so you can chat via email or phone, or whatever you’re comfortable with. It’s a great way to connect with someone who really understands your specific experience.
So now I’m 36, and I feel like the conversation when you’re 36 is all about Botox and wrinkles, and I’m like, “Sorry, but I love wrinkles! I love seeing myself and my friends age!” I know a lot of younger women read Glamour, and to them I’d say, no matter what your family history, no matter how good your diet and exercise, stay aware of your body, and advocate for your health. If you have a chest, you should be feeling it. I don’t care how professional your methods are—if you want, have your boyfriend or girlfriend do it. Whatever, just make sure you’re taking care of yourself. The reality is that anyone can get breast cancer at any time.