In 2018, I was 41 years old with two young daughters—just 6 and 8 at the time—when I was diagnosed with stage 1 triple-positive breast cancer. I had no family history. Honestly, I didn’t think it could happen to me. But I’d been vigilant about early mammograms, and that decision likely saved my life. The cancer was aggressive, but it was caught early
I received incredible care at Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, and after a partial mastectomy and radiation, I was fortunate to avoid chemotherapy and Herceptin based on my surgery results. I’ve now been in remission for seven years, and I’m so grateful for that.
Before I was a patient, I was a provider. I’m a physician assistant and had spent years working alongside a breast surgeon, caring for women with breast cancer. So when I got my own diagnosis, I had a deep understanding of what it meant—and let me tell you, that was both a blessing and a curse. I knew the research. I asked all the questions. I weighed every single option, probably twice. I even got a second opinion. But that knowledge also gave me strength. It helped me be an advocate for myself and make the best decisions I could.
But the biggest thing I’ve learned since then is this: knowledge matters—but community matters even more.
Breast cancer didn’t stop with me. In 2023, my sister learned she’s BRCA2 positive. Since then my younger brother and mother have also tested positive for BRCA2 gene. My sister had a partial hysterectomy and a bilateral mastectomy this September. And then, last summer, something happened that shook us all. My sister’s best friend and college roommate, Sarah Wilfert, passed away from metastatic breast cancer. She died on the very day my sister got married.
Sarah was so much more than her diagnosis. She was someone who connected people. At her Day of Remembrance which was held right here in Concord the thing that everyone kept saying was that Sarah brought people together. She created community wherever she went. So it’s incredibly fitting that I’m standing here today, surrounded by this amazing community, remembering her, and thinking about all the people—friends, family, survivors, supporters—who are touched by breast cancer in some way.
Sarah found incredible meaning and support through Runway for Recovery. She had gone on their spring retreat and was planning to model in their October 2024 show. It gave her something to look forward to. It gave her joy. And she continues to bring people together, even now.
This past August, I completed my 4th NH Fit for a Cause challenge in honor of Sarah, alongside my sister, my daughter, and my brother-in-law. It was there I meant other friends touched by breast cancer and connected to Sarah who encouraged me to dance the runway in her honor- and I did this past October. These events reminded me that we are stronger together. That showing up—whether it’s for a race, a retreat, or just to sit next to someone on a hard day—makes a difference.
And I can just imagine her now, watching me speak at a breast cancer event, probably shaking her head and saying, “Ugh, please don’t make everyone cry too hard.” So… in her honor, I’ll say this: cancer may have taken a piece of me, but it didn’t take my sense of humor. And if you’ve ever tried to wear one of those paper hospital gowns, you know—cancer treatment teaches you humility real fast.
I stand here today not just as a survivor, but as a sister, a friend, a mother, and a healthcare provider. I stand here as someone who’s seen the impact of this disease up close and knows the importance of community. For those who are fighting. For those who have fought. For those we’ve lost. For those who love them.
We are not meant to do this alone. And thanks to people like Sarah—and people like all of you—we don’t have to.
