I Didn’t Just Get Up—I Rose From the Damn Ashes

 

Or, why I'm such a demanding witch. 

Some folks talk about “getting back up” like it’s a motivational poster. Cute little mountain silhouettes, sunrise colors, all that Pinterest nonsense.

Me?
I got back up after being drop-kicked by two different cancers.
In three years.

Not in a “delicate warrior goddess” way.
More like: “Oh, you want to take me out? Line up. I’ve survived worse before breakfast.”

Let’s rewind.

2020 — Stage 4 Lung Cancer

Yeah. That one.
The big, terrifying, movie-script diagnosis nobody wants to get.

Stage 4 lung cancer.
With the EGFR mutation.
The kind of thing that makes doctors sigh through their masks.

But here’s the twist:
EGFR meant I had a targeted therapy option—Tagrisso.
And Tagrisso?
Tagrisso looked my cancer dead in the eye and said:

“Sit your ass down.”

And it did.
Eradicated every bit of it in my lungs and lining.
Gone.
Handled.
Cleared out like a bad tenant who finally got evicted.

Done within 7 months. 

I kept breathing.
Kept living.
Kept witching.

And life—being the trickster it is—looked at me and said,
“Oh, you survived that? Cool. Try this on for size.”

2023 — Stage 2B Breast Cancer

Because apparently I was collecting them like Pokémon.

BRCA mutation.
Chemo.
The kind that takes your hair, your eyebrows, your eyelashes—your whole damn identity if you let it.

And yes, Ma’am, I lost the hair.
The whole mop.
It wasn't graceful.
It wasn't “rebirth in progress” like Instagram wants you to believe.

I looked in the mirror and thought:
“Welp. This is a vibe. Not a good one, but it is definitely a vibe.”

I looked like Uncle Fester. 

Then I lost my left breast. 

But I kept going.
Because what else was I going to do—politely decline?
My cells were staging a revolution.
I responded like a monarch with a sword.

Chemo did its job.
Surgery did its job.
Radiation, the whole nine miles of misery.

And now?
Now I take anastrozole every day—my tiny hormonal bouncer—making sure nobody uninvited tries to set up shop again.

And here’s the important part:

I. Am. Cancer. Free.

Not in remission.
Not “watch and wait.”
Not “stable disease.”

CANCER.
FREE.

Twice over.
From two different primaries.
In three damn years.

People like to say I’m strong.
Inspirational.
A fighter.

Nah.
I’m stubborn.
I’m old-school Appalachian witch stock.
I’m the woman who looks at death, cracks my knuckles, and says,
“Not today. I’ve got shit to do.”

Cancer pushed.
I pushed back harder.
Magic, medicine, grit, tears, fury, humor—whatever tool was closest got used.

And now?
Now I talk about it because witches don’t hide their scars.
We tell the truth so someone else in the dark knows they’re not alone.

If you’re struggling to get up—physically, spiritually, magically—remember this:

I got up after cancer tried twice to knock me into the Otherworld.

You can get up today.
Maybe not perfectly.
Maybe not gracefully.
But you can get up.

And if you need a sign, y'all, here it is:

You’re still here.
So act like it.