Through my eyes, personal experiences.

Before and After

Before I got sick, I was alive in every sense of the word. Lively and fun… that was me. I was the one saying “yes” to everything.

River rafting? Let’s go.

Hiking? Absolutely.

Snowboarding? I lived for it.

I once called the ski resort home. My house is right at the midway of the mountain, just five minutes from the lake, four minutes from the river, fifteen minutes from fresh powder at the ski lifts, and thirty minutes from the kind of waterfalls and swimming holes that feel like they belong in postcards. Adventure was right outside my door, and I was always ready for it.

Now, my life feels like the opposite. Going to work every day is already too much. I drag myself home only to collapse in bed with my ice packs, medications, and water. The cold never leaves me. Pain wraps around me like barbed wire, sharp and relentless. My skin burns to the touch, as if razor blades are pressing into me with every movement.

Sometimes I forget faces I’ve known all my life. Sometimes my own family feels like strangers in my mind. I want to do fun things with them, to laugh and explore like I used to but at the same time, all I want is rest. The dizziness comes without warning, and if I don’t sit down quickly, I faint.

This is my reality now. The contrast between who I was and who I am is hard to put into words. But writing it here is my way of saying: I am still me. Just a different version, fighting every day.

Diagnosis

When I found out I had Graves’ disease, my body felt like it was disappearing piece by piece. I was losing weight so fast that I barely recognized myself in the mirror.. thin, tired, and drained in a way I had never experienced before.

I still remember the call. “It’s cancer. Thyroid cancer.”Those words hit me like a blow to the chest. Suddenly everything about my life, energy, the adventures, the laughter… shifted into survival mode. My body was lit up like a glow stick from the inside out, and even the nuclear medicine tech looked at me in disbelief, wondering how I was still breathing. The doctors laid out the risks in a tone that was meant to prepare me but only left me more determined: There’s a chance you’ll lose your voice… maybe worse, you’ll need a trach for the rest of your life. Those things, I thought, I could live with. My voice, my breath, even my independence. But my son Colton not having a mom? That was the only consequence I couldn’t accept. SoI chose to fight. Not because I wanted to but because I had to.

Surgery Day

Almost a year later, the surgeon finally had a plan. A date was set, and the countdown to surgery began. I remember sitting in that room, surrounded by sterile walls and buzzing machines, trying to laugh through the fear. Ten people circled me, all focused on the task ahead. My surgeon, a small but confident Japanese woman named Dr. Soh, introduced each member of the team the people who would hold my life in their hands for the next few hours. “Two hours,” they said. “You’ll be in and out.” And they were right but only because of the anesthesia. As I slipped under, I dreamed of my dad. He was there with me, talking, holding me in that way that only a parent can. For a moment, the fear faded. But then I heard another voice breaking through the dream: “Nicole, Nicole… wake up.” Tears rolled down my face as my dad drifted away, and I realized I was in recovery. They asked me to speak, but no words came. My throat was raw, my body heavy. I closed my eyes again. The second time I woke, Nathaniel was there. He asked me to text him. My fingers fumbled with the phone, and I managed to type out the truth of how I felt in that moment: “I feel like my head is gonna roll off my shoulders and I need to pee.” Everyone laughed, the heaviness of the day lightened for a brief second. They promised to come see me once I was settled in my room.

My Room

When I finally woke up in the ICU, the team came into my room with a look that said more than their words ever could. What was supposed to be a two-hour surgery had stretched into six. My thyroid, they explained, wasn’t just sitting in my neck like it should have been, it was tangled. Wrapped so tightly into my chest cavity, coiled around my arteries and muscles, that it became a tedious, dangerous job to get most of it out. At the end of those six hours, my heart began to slow. They had to make a choice: to push further and risk losing me, or to stop and leave behind a piece of my thyroid. They chose life. They left a piece. The room was filled with disbelief. The team talked about how shocking my situation was, how they couldn’t believe I had lived this long carrying that burden in my body, and that’s when the real fight began.

The fight with pain. The fight with endless fatigue. The fight with uncertainty. And worst of all the fight with a healthcare system that often looks at me like I’m exaggerating, like my suffering is invisible, like my story isn’t worth believing. This is where survival turns into a battle. Not just against disease, but against doubt.

The Fight

I can’t say it’s been easy. In fact, nothing about this has been easy. It’s been a fight every single day and being tough is hard. Being strong is hard. But I don’t get the choice to stop. I have to be, I also can’t say I’ve done it alone. If it weren’t for Nathaniel, I don’t know how I would have made it through surgery, through recovery, through the quiet moments when fear and pain pressed down the hardest. He’s been there to remind me that healing doesn’t happen overnight, that I am healing even when I don’t feel like it. I can’t do many of the things I used to love anymore, not yet. I hold on to the hope that slowly, piece by piece, I’ll find my way back to the person I was before. Right now, I’m mostly filled with fear, pain, and sadness. But every once in a while, I get these bursts of energy moments where it feels like I can do anything and everything. Just as quickly, the exhaustion and pain come crashing back down. It’s an endless cycle. But even in that cycle, there’s a heartbeat of hope.

To Anyone Reading This

If you’ve made it this far, maybe you’re fighting your own battle or loving someone who is. Maybe you’re exhausted. Maybe you’re scared. Maybe you’re wondering how you’ll ever make it through another day. Being strong doesn’t mean you don’t cry. It doesn’t mean you don’t break down. It doesn’t mean you don’t feel fear. Being strong simply means you keep going, even when it hurts. There will be days when pain steals your light, when fatigue robs you of joy, when doubt feels louder than hope..

You matter. Your fight matters. Your story matters. I’m still in the middle of my own battle, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that healing isn’t about going back to who we were. It’s about becoming someone new someone forged in fire, someone who carries both scars and strength. That is worth holding on to.

#thyroidcancersurvivor #cancerjourney #apache #outdoors #healing