02/07/2026
There are moments in life that reveal just how deeply human beings are capable of loving one another.
This past year has been one of those moments for me.
When I look back over the last nine months, I don’t just remember hospitals, infusion chairs, blood draws, and scans. I remember every hand that reached toward me when I needed one.
You prayed for me.
You donated when you could.
You shared my story.
You sent flowers, meals, kind messages, encouragement, and love into some of the darkest days I have ever known.
There is no version of this story where I am here without all of you.
Your generosity did more than help me afford treatment. It gave me time. It gave me hope. It reminded me that even in the most frightening seasons of life, we belong to one another.
Thank you will never feel like enough.
Immunotherapy has been an incredible gift. My hair has begun to grow back, slowly and stubbornly, and every new curl feels like a quiet promise that my body is still trying.
I still have a long road ahead of me.
The cancer has not disappeared. I continue to live with metastatic spots throughout my body, and with them comes the pain that many of you know has become part of my daily life. My current treatment plan includes at least two more years of immunotherapy, and I carry the hope that somewhere at the end of this chapter I will finally hear the word remission.
This month brings another season of testing. I will undergo fertility assessments, full body MRIs with contrast, and what feels like countless vials of blood as my doctors continue mapping out the road ahead. Some of these tests and scans, particularly portions of the fertility workup, are not covered by my insurance, but they are important in helping us understand what my future may hold.
I try very hard to make the most of every day I am given.
Some days that means creating, writing, wandering somewhere beautiful, spending time with the people I love, and soaking in the ordinary moments that once felt so far away.
Other days, making the most of the day simply means allowing my body to rest. Some days healing looks like sleeping. Sometimes the only movement I manage is from my bed to the couch and back again.
I have learned that those days count too.
This past week has carried a great deal of anxiety and grief.
For so many months, survival left little room to process what was happening to me. Every ounce of energy went toward getting through the next appointment, the next infusion, the next scan.
Now that life has grown just a little quieter, my heart has begun catching up with everything these last nine months have held.
I suppose that is the strange thing about surviving. Sometimes the grief waits until you are finally safe enough to feel it.
Even so, I remain profoundly hopeful.
Hope isn’t always loud. Sometimes it is as quiet as new hair growing in. Sometimes it is taking another walk. Sometimes it is showing up for another infusion. Sometimes it is believing there are still beautiful things waiting for you on the other side of all of this.
Thank you for helping me keep believing.
Thank you for every prayer, every dollar, every share, every message, every kindness, and every moment you chose to carry part of this burden with me.
You have changed my life in ways I will spend the rest of it trying to honor.
For those who have asked how they can continue supporting me through treatment and the testing ahead, I will leave my GoFundMe in the comments. Whether you are able to give, share it with someone else, or simply continue keeping me in your thoughts, please know that every act of kindness has mattered more than I could ever express.
With all my love and endless gratitude,
LLAP
Lexi
