My diagnosis was a very sudden rupture in the life I thought I understood. The routines I carefully built, the attention I paid to my health, the steady rhythm of work and friendships — all of it felt instantly unstable. I found the lump by accident on an ordinary night. Within days, my instincts told me something wasn’t right. Thankfully, my doctor listened. Four weeks later, I had a treatment plan.

Young women get breast cancer, too. About 4% of U.S. cases occur in women under 40 each year — and we’re more likely to be diagnosed at later stages with more aggressive disease. Yet breast cancer is still framed as something that happens “later.” That narrative is outdated — and dangerous.

Since October, my life has been measured in chemo cycles. Dose-dense AC came first, with brutal side effects and forced menopause. Now I’m on Taxol, preparing for a double mastectomy, radiation, and long-term hormone therapy. I don’t always recognize myself — not in the mirror, not in my body, not in the pace of my days.

But something else has taken shape, too: advocacy.

If advocacy means anything, it means refusing to stay quiet because the truth is uncomfortable. It means pushing for earlier attention to symptoms, better education, and a culture that trusts women when they say something is wrong. It means recognizing that young patients are not rare exceptions — we are a growing reality.

Some days, surviving looks like strength. Other days, it looks like brushing my teeth and calling that a win. Both count.

I’m sharing my story not because I’ve reached the end, but because I’m still in it. If this space helps even one person seek answers sooner, trust their instincts harder, or feel less alone in the shock of it all, then this story is bigger than just me.

And maybe that’s the point.