I found my lump in February of 2015, while I was still in high school. It was protruding out of my right breast as if it wanted to be found. I mentioned the lump to my mom, and she immediately made an appointment for me to see a breast specialist, who gave me an ultrasound and a mammogram. “There is a mass, but you’re 18 years old, and 18-year-olds don’t get breast cancer,” she said as she handed me a piece of paper with the word “fibroadenoma” on it and sent me home.
Three months later, in May, I noticed the lump had grown significantly and was causing my nipple to invert. My mom made me another appointment with the same specialist, and a second ultrasound and mammogram confirmed that the original lump had grown—as had four other lumps. She biopsied the lump, and the very next day (on May 6, 2015), she called me into the hospital. In a little room, the breast specialist sat down, put her hand on my knee, and confirmed that I did have breast cancer. (Yes, as an 18-year-old.) I had a double mastectomy a week later, the day of my senior prom.
I was told I was cancer-free after the mastectomy, but a follow-up PET scan a week later showed the cancer was metastatic, or stage IV—it had already spread to my bones and liver. (Since then, it’s spread to my brain and lungs, too.) The oncologist explained that metastatic breast cancer isn’t curable, but it is treatable. My soul crumbled when I heard the words “isn’t curable.”
I ran out of the room, through the hallway, and wound up crying in a garden. When I was ready, I made my way back and heard the words that would get me through this diagnosis: “I have patients with your same diagnosis who have been alive and well since the ’90s,” the doctor said. “There are more and more treatments coming out all the time. The future is bright.” I decided right then and there that I would be one of those people.
A few days later I had my first chemo treatment in the morning. Later that night, I put on my cap and gown and stood on stage with my classmates at our high school graduation. I remember the speeches about how “our future is here” and wondering, in the back of my mind, if I even had one. (Spoiler alert: I did. And it’s more beautiful than I could have imagined!)
After six treatments, a scan showed I was NEAD—no evidence of active disease. (Those are the words every metastatic breast cancer patient wants to hear.) I continued living my life to the fullest while also learning this new way of life. I was done with the harsh chemo for the moment, but I’ll be on some form of treatment for the rest of my life.
A year later I was diagnosed with brain metastases in the form of seven tumors, from pea- to cherry-sized. In order to undergo targeted radiation, called Gamma Knife, my head had to be strapped to a table with a metal mask. I spent the entire treatment meditating and envisioning beams shrinking the tumors and healing me. (I’ve done this during chemo, too. I believe in the power of choosing love over fear!)
A few months later, I learned the cancer had progressed, and I started a new treatment. This began a cycle for me: Ever since then—over the next eight years—when the cancer progresses, my treatment changes. I’ve had Gamma Knife four times and I’m on my fifth line of treatment. This chemo is harsh, but I choose to focus on having gratitude instead of focusing on the side effects. It’s keeping me alive, so I can experience more of what this beautiful life has to offer.
I’ve always had the feeling that everything is going to be OK. From the day I was diagnosed through all the bad news I’ve been given over the years, something within me has whispered, “It’s going to be OK. Don’t worry.” I choose to follow that feeling, that love, instead of the fear.
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I’ve leaned into my spirituality. Meditation is very important to me. Even on my worst days, the second I sit down and get quiet, the love and gratitude for life take over.
And when I need a little extra support, I lean on my friends and family. This is something I’ve learned along my journey: Let your loved ones hold you up when you need it. You don’t have to be strong all the time. We all crumble once in a while and that’s more than OK.
Three years after my diagnosis, I met someone who would become one of my biggest cheerleaders. Patrick and I shared a break room while working Halloween Horror Nights at Universal Studios in 2018. We were both too nervous to talk at first. He was re-learning English and had a thick accent (he had just moved from Brazil to Florida) and I didn’t know how he’d react to hearing about my cancer.
I almost set my Instagram to private because I didn’t want him to learn about my cancer on social media, but I didn’t—and he did. He knew about my cancer before we eventually started talking, before he asked a mutual friend for my number. He wasn’t put off by the cancer. He eventually told me that it made him admire me more, because of how I was choosing to live.
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Our love story is proof that even with cancer, you can find your soul mate. The right person will see that cancer is just a small piece of you and will want to be with you through the good and bad times.
Through both, I’m going to keep living my life in the most intentional way, spreading love, hope, and inspiration. It’s not always easy, because right now, there’s no cure for metastatic breast cancer. Many people don’t understand that, even some of my own family members, who have asked when I’ll be done with my treatment. I’ll never stop treatment. A metastatic breast cancer patient will have scans every two to six months and proceed from one treatment to the next for the rest of their life. Still, I believe in miracles. I use my voice to speak up, create awareness, and raise money for research—and I live with love and joy.
That doesn’t mean I’m happy all the time. Sometimes I’m sad or angry about living with this disease and the harsh treatment, but I remind myself to be grateful for the thing that’s keeping me alive until the next treatment comes along—or even a cure.
Kim Peiffer is a journalist who writes about style, health, and wellness. She taps into a broad network of doctors, scientists, and medical experts to write in-depth service articles for leading publications.
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