Love Them Now

One of the best things about having metastatic breast cancer (mBC) is the people.

One of the hardest things about having metastatic breast cancer is the people.

That may sound strange, but if you're part of this community, you probably understand exactly what I mean.

When I was diagnosed, I wasn't looking for support groups, conferences, retreats, or new friendships.

In fact, I didn't want any part of this “club”.

Like many people, I had my own ideas about support groups. Sitting in a room talking about cancer with complete strangers just didn't sound like something I wanted to do.

But mBC has a way of teaching you that you should not do this alone.

So, I took the leap.

Actually... if I'm being honest, I essentially dated support groups.

I joined every one I could find. Social media groups. Online meetings. Conferences. Retreats. If there was a place where people with metastatic breast cancer gathered, I probably signed up.

Some were wonderful. Some... well... let's just say we weren't a match.

I may have even ghosted a few.

Because, like dating, I had to meet a lot of people before I found my people.

Looking back, I'm so grateful I pushed past my own assumptions. If I hadn't, I would have missed out on some of the greatest friendships of my life.

My first retreat was in 2022. I signed up hoping to learn how to better share my story, but getting there felt like the universe was testing me.

Weather delays and canceled flights nearly convinced me to turn around and go home before I ever arrived.

I'm so grateful I didn't.

I had no idea that one exhausting trip would introduce me to people who would become some of the most important friendships of my life.

When I finally arrived, I walked into a house full of complete strangers.

And somehow... We were sharing bedrooms AND even beds.

Under any other circumstances, I probably would have laughed and said, "No, thank you."

But something different happens in this community. The walls come down quickly because they have to.

You don't spend weeks making small talk. You talk about scans, treatments, fears, hopes, and all the things that only someone with mBC truly understands.

Somewhere between those conversations, the laughter, and the tears, those strangers became friends.

Then they became family.

One of the greatest surprises of this journey has been the friendships themselves.

Before cancer, our lives looked nothing alike. We came from different backgrounds, different corners of the country, and probably never would have crossed paths.

I'm a 5'1" spicy Mexican-American queer rainbow unicorn.

Some of my closest friends are people I never would have met had we not all been looking for the same thing, someone who truly understood.

Cancer introduced us. But it's never been the reason we stayed friends. We stayed friends because of who we are.

We celebrate birthdays, stable scans, new grandchildren, and ordinary Tuesdays that get to be lived. We check in before appointments, send ridiculous memes when life gets heavy, and somehow become part of each other's families.

Some have referred to the mBC community as "the worst club with the best members."

They're right.

None of us wanted membership.

We joined because we had to.

Because we were trying to survive.

Because we were trying to find someone who could simply look at us and say,

"Me too."

Sometimes people ask me how someone can go on with a Stage IV diagnosis.

This is part of my answer.

We don't make it through the hard times by isolating ourselves.

We make it through the hard times by finding each other.

And yes...

That comes with a cost.

The very thing that helps us survive also has the power to break our hearts.

The people who help carry the weight of this diagnosis are operating under the same uncertainty that we are.

When one person celebrates a stable scan, we all celebrate.

When someone starts a new treatment, we cheer them on.

When someone needs encouragement, there is always someone ready with a phone call, a text, or a simple, "I'm thinking about you."

That's what makes this community so extraordinary.

But it's also what makes it so hard.

Over the past few weeks, I've found myself sitting in a quiet that felt almost impossible to describe.

The group chats slowed down.

Social media became quieter.

People who are usually the first to check in suddenly didn't have the words.

It wasn't because anyone stopped caring.

It was because everyone was carrying the same heartbreak.

I've realized that grief in the metastatic breast cancer community doesn't always sound like crying.

Sometimes...

It sounds like silence.

It's so loud even though it's been so quiet.

That silence has stayed with me.

Not because I personally knew every person we've lost, but because when you navigate metastatic breast cancer long enough, you begin carrying each other's stories.

You celebrate people you've never met because they matter to someone you love.

And when they're gone...

The loss ripples through all of us.

Sometimes people ask why we'd willingly open our hearts to friendships that come with this kind of uncertainty.

The answer is simple.

Because the alternative is trying to carry this diagnosis alone.

Yes, it's scary.

Every loss reminds me that I'm moving forward with the same diagnosis.

Every goodbye leaves me thinking about my own future.

I'd be lying if I said it didn't.

But if I've learned anything, it's this:

The possibility of heartbreak is never a good enough reason to miss out on extraordinary love.

If I had turned around after those canceled flights...

If I'd listened to the little voice telling me to just go home...

I wouldn't have the friendships that make me laugh until I cry.

I wouldn't have the people who celebrate my victories as if they were their own.

I wouldn't have found family in places I never expected.

Knowing everything I know now...

I'd get on that plane every single time.

Metastatic breast cancer has taught me a lot of things I never wanted to learn.

It's taught me how resilient people can be in the face of terrible uncertainty.

It's taught me that family isn't always the one you're born into, but it can be the one you find when life falls apart.

It's taught me that some of the most extraordinary friendships can begin in the most unexpected places.

And it's taught me that loving people so deeply also means risking heartbreak.

Would I choose the heartbreak? Never.

Would I choose metastatic breast cancer? Not for a second.

But would I choose these people? Every single time.

Because they have laughed with me, cried with me, celebrated with me, and carried me on days when I couldn't carry myself.

They've shown me what courage looks like.

They've reminded me that hope can exist alongside fear.

They've left little pieces of themselves with me, just as I hope I've left little pieces of myself with them.

So, I'll keep saying yes.

Yes to the support groups.

Yes to the retreats.

Yes to opening my heart.

Yes to friendships that don't make sense on paper but somehow become family.

Because the possibility of heartbreak is never a good enough reason to miss out on extraordinary love.

If this community has taught me anything, it's that tomorrow is never promised… but today is.

So send the text.

Make the phone call.

Take the picture.

Book the trip.

Tell your people what they mean to you.

Don't wait for the perfect moment.

Love them while they're here.

Love them loudly.

Love them completely.

Love them NOW.