Miske Hendrietta

The Year My World Shifted: Finding My Way Through Stage 3 Breast Cancer

In 2024, I was a busy mother of three. My days were measured in work, school runs, cooking, and the beautiful, chaotic hum of family life. Then, with one diagnosis, the hum stopped. Stage 3 Breast Cancer. In an instant, my life didn’t just change—it turned completely upside down.

The Physical Toll

The last two years have been a marathon I never asked to run. My body has become a map of modern medicine’s most aggressive interventions:

*Surgeries: Two major procedures to remove what was trying to kill me.

*Chemotherapy: I completed five rounds before a life-threatening complication forced us to stop.

*The Loss: Losing my hair felt like losing a piece of my identity in the mirror every morning.

*Radiation: While the sessions ended, the side effects haven’t. I still carry the physical reminders of those beams every single day.

Because of the intensity of the treatments, I was pushed into early menopause. At a time when I should be in the prime of my life, my body is navigating a transition it wasn't ready for, adding another layer of complexity to an already heavy burden.

The "New Normal" (That Doesn't Feel Normal)

People often think that when the "active" treatment ends, you’re "done." But for a survivor, the battle just changes shape. My life is now a calendar of:

*Daily medications.

*every three weeks.

*IV drips every six months.

*Countless blood tests, scans, and specialist appointments.

The hospital has become a second home, but not one I ever wanted.

Living With the Shadow

Perhaps the hardest part to explain to those who haven’t been here is the fear. Even when the scans are clear, there is a lingering worry that never truly sleeps. I look at life through a different lens now. The trivial things don't bother me as much, but the weight of "what if" is always present.

I see the world with more color and more urgency, but also with a fragility that I can’t unsee.

A Vision for the Future

I am sharing my story because I don't want this to be the standard forever. I want the mothers, daughters, and sisters of the future to have it easier.

I hope for treatments that aren't as brutal on the body.

I hope for a world where "early menopause" isn't a side effect of survival.

I hope for a cure.

Until then, I will keep showing up—for my three children, for myself, and for the community of survivors who know exactly how heavy this "new life" can feel. We are more than our diagnoses, but we are forever changed by them.

To my fellow survivors: You are not alone in your fear. It is okay to not be "fine," even when the treatment is over. We are still here, and that is enough.

Please help me, help the Perkins.