ashlie's Survivor story

     It began as a simple decision: a routine checkup with my primary physician. I asked him to schedule me for a Pap smear too, since I was due for one. Sitting in my gynecologist’s office, I tried to be as transparent as possible. I admitted that I had never had a doctor specifically for my “lady bits” before. Everything seemed fine—at least, at first.

    But then I shared a concern that had been gnawing at me: my stomach felt bloated, firm in a way that didn’t feel normal. I had even taken pregnancy tests at home, but every one of them was negative. My gynecologist listened closely, and instead of brushing it off, she decided to look deeper. She ordered a transvaginal ultrasound.

That scan changed everything.

    They couldn’t find my ovaries. Instead, they discovered a large mass in my pelvic and abdominal area. From there came lab work—blood markers that suggested cancer. Still, there was no official diagnosis. Next came MRIs. CT scans. More questions than answers. Eventually, two masses were revealed—one growing from my left ovary, the other pressed upward into my abdomen. Surgery was scheduled.

    On July 31, 2023, both masses were removed. On August 17th, the biopsy confirmed it: I had cancer. By September 21st, I was beginning frontline chemotherapy. Round after round, infusion after infusion, I sat in that chair, watching the medicine drip into my veins. By May, I had completed five rounds. And yet the treatments continued, always leading toward another scan, another set of results, another hurdle.

    The journey was brutal—on my body, on my mind, on my spirit. I felt heartbroken and betrayed by my own body. Some days the pain was so sharp it felt like my skin couldn’t contain it. Other days the emotional weight crushed me. Bills piled up, health insurance was canceled right after a treatment, disability was denied, and I was forced to fight not only cancer, but the system meant to help me survive it. How could I work when my body was failing? How could I rest when life’s demands never paused? That constant tug-of-war may have been the hardest part.

    And yet, I found strength. I found it in my stubborn faith that everything would somehow work out. I found it in strangers’ kind messages, in the beauty of a sunny day, in the sound of music that lifted my soul, in my own sense of humor that allowed me to laugh through the pain. I found it in the people who loved me, who prayed over me, who reminded me I wasn’t alone.

Cancer taught me something I didn’t want to learn but desperately needed to know: I can do hard things. I am stronger than I ever imagined. My spirit cannot be broken. In many ways, I was prepared for this long before I ever heard the word “cancer.” I had always been joyful, stubborn, tough, and resilient—and those traits became my armor.

    Still, cancer changed how I see myself. I watched my body transform, sometimes to the point I barely recognized the woman in the mirror. My hair fell out, so I played with wigs. Some days I dressed myself up just to prove to the world—and to myself—that I could still be beautiful. Eventually, I embraced my bald head, researched ways to care for it, and learned to celebrate my reflection again. I realized my body wasn’t betraying me—it was fighting for me.

    Support came in imperfect ways. My family did what they could with what they knew, and I had to learn to give them grace while also finding the courage to ask for what I truly needed. This battle was mine, yes—but it rippled into the lives of everyone around me.

    At first, I wanted to keep it all private. To isolate. To carry the weight in silence. But then I found a support group, women who were walking this same unpredictable road. Some were newly diagnosed, some in remission, others facing recurrence. Their stories cracked something open in me. They reminded me that no one should carry this journey alone, and that storytelling itself is a form of survival. They were my light. And now, I want to be that light for someone else.

    Because of them, I understand the power of paying it forward. I want to see more attentiveness in healthcare, more representation for people of color in medicine, and more humanity in the systems that claim to offer assistance but so often leave us feeling lost in the shuffle.

To anyone newly diagnosed, I would say this: it won’t be easy. Some days will be better than others. But while you are living, show up for yourself every single day. Be invested in your own life, because you never know what’s possible if you keep going.

    As for me, my dreams are simple now. I want stability. I want joy. I want to live a life filled with creativity, music, laughter, and love. I don’t need grand accolades—I just want to be whole, to use my voice, and to remind people that they too can be the best version of themselves.

Cancer may have altered my path, but it also made me an artist of resilience. And that is the legacy I intend to leave behind.

My name is Ashlie, and this is my story.