Talking about oneself can be awkward, to say the least—at least for me. Whether you have a story or not (and on paper, I do): two-time cancer survivor, from wheelchair to walker, and a boatload of miracle babies. But I’m getting ahead of myself. My name is Briana Mae. Briana means strong, Mae means mother. My parents had no idea the foreshadowing they were doing when they named me. It’s quite ironic how eventually, everything connects.
I was born on a rainy night in May, making me the elite sign—a Taurus. I’m the last of my siblings. The typical little sister: annoying and historically funny. I loved to read, to be outside. I had a family that loved me. Everything was fine. Everything was good—at least on the outside. On the inside, for years, I was quite literally dying. Isn’t it insane how the essence of you can be an oxymoron? Your whole existence, a contradiction.
On September 17th, at twelve years old, I was diagnosed with Stage 4 Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. I fought the good fight and I won. I did the intense chemotherapy, the radiation treatments. I lost all of my hair—but I was free. Free, yet so fucking sad. I felt so defeated, even though I “won.” I was so confused as a twelve-year-old, wondering what about any of that signified that I won. I did nothing and had so much taken from me. All I did was sit there—the medicine did it. The same medicine that led to being told, at twelve, I would never have kids.
I lost the ability to just be. Anxiety became a wave crashing over me. And who was this “me,” anyway? I was no longer Briana. I was the girl who had cancer. The pity in everyone’s eyes hurt worse than the surgeries. The loss of me—that was the real disease. And man, was it ever fleeting. I questioned everything. I questioned God. Did He not want me here?
As I was questioning Him—my faith, the point of life—He did it again. At fifteen, on September 18th, I found out I had relapsed. Stage 4B Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. I was in awe, to say the least. Cancer was a ghost I couldn’t outrun. I had to face it. I had to go through it again. And on my first day of treatment, I almost died. I had an allergic reaction to the chemotherapy and my throat closed. I was out for hours. But by the grace of God—and some overtime from the universe—I didn’t.
That moment changed my life. It shifted the tone of everything that came after. Suddenly, it all started to click. I didn’t get cancer to be punished. I got it—and got it again—to be blessed. Crazy to say, I know. But hear me out. My second diagnosis gave me all the answers I had been struggling to understand. The answer lies in the contradiction of it all—the act of living while dying, and the beauty of it.
The beauty that lies in the struggle. The wisdom that comes from battling something alone. My diagnosis affected everyone deeply, but at the end of the day, it was just me—faced with the reality that I might die. The questions that come with that are immeasurable. What do you think? What do you believe? Where am I going to go? The craving to know, to try and have control over everything, while knowing damn well you’re in a situation where you have none.
That’s when I realized the weight of mind over matter. The genuine freedom that comes with letting go. The strength that seeps out of you when you find the will within yourself. I had to mourn my childhood, my teenage years, and at times, the ability of my limbs—but I got to celebrate my strength, my perseverance, and I found my thirst for life again. I was able to learn. To grow.
The reality is: there’s nothing in this world without shadows. Even the most dazzling sights around cast them.
There’s life in death, and death in life.
And somehow, that contradiction made everything make sense.
It reminded me that even in the middle of pain, something sacred can still exist—hope, laughter, love, the smallest acts of trying. I was dying, and yet I was more alive than I had ever been, because I was finally awake to what living really meant. I began to see miracles in ordinary moments: the way laughing with my friends felt, the way my body kept showing up for me even when it was breaking, the way people loved me without needing to understand the weight I was carrying.
That realization carried me—through treatment, through grief, through life. Even now, when things are hard, I go back to that truth: that everything is worth trying for, that every breath is worth being here for, and that there is a strength buried deep inside us, waiting to rise.
No matter how dark the road ahead seems, we hold the fire within us to push through. It’s not always easy, and it’s not always clear how we’ll get to the other side. But in the face of adversity, we are given the power to rise. There’s a strength in us that’s greater than any diagnosis, greater than any setback. Life might feel overwhelming at times, and the end may seem out of reach, but we must never forget: miracles happen every day. They told me it would take years for me to walk after treatment left me basically paralyzed, and yet I walked within the first year. They told me I’d never have children, and now I have three beautiful ones.
These experiences remind me that nothing is impossible, and even in our weakest moments, we carry the potential to defy the odds. When we face our darkest days, we are often standing at the cusp of our greatest breakthroughs.
I spent the last ten years allowing others and even myself to define me based on something that happened to me, but not based on my beliefs, my soul, my morals—not the core of who I am. We are not what happened to us. I was not being punished. My pain and struggle can bring light insight.
We can rise through it all. We will be resilient. We will have the life we deserve: a life that is calm, a life that is healthy, a life filled with peace and joy. We have the power within us to redefine our narrative, to rise above the things that once seemed impossible, and to create the future we’ve always dreamed of.
