I Thought I Was Doing Everything Right. Then I Got Breast Cancer. Twice.
My personal story about early detection, self-advocacy, and choosing to live life to the fullest.
Written with my whole heart,
Kristin Markey 💗
One in eight women in the United States will develop breast cancer in their lifetime.
According to the American Cancer Society, an estimated 321,910 women will be diagnosed with invasive breast cancer in 2026.
I knew breast cancer was common. I just never imagined I'd be one of those women. And certainly not twice.
I own a wellness company. I eat well, move my body every day, prioritize sleep, practice yoga and meditation, spend time in nature, and surround myself with wonderful friends and a loving family.
Sure, I've experienced my share of stress, anxiety, and life's curveballs. Haven't we all? But for the most part, I've always considered myself incredibly healthy. I rarely get sick. I honestly can't remember the last time I had a cold or the flu.
I thought I was doing all the right things.
And then, in 2024, I was diagnosed with breast cancer.
In 2026, it came back.
This is a story I've kept mostly private for two years. But October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and I've decided it's time to share it. Not because I have all the answers, but because I've learned something incredibly important about knowing your body, speaking up, and being your own advocate.
If sharing my experience helps even one woman, it's worth telling.
It Started With Something the Size of a BB
In March 2024, I was taking a shower when I felt something unusual in my breast. A tiny, hard lump just beneath the skin, about the size of a BB.
I wasn't performing a breast self-exam. I was simply washing myself.
My first reaction? Panic.
My second? There's absolutely no way this could be cancer. Not me. Not healthy Kristin!
I'd had my annual mammogram just four months earlier.
I scheduled an ultrasound and was reassured that there was nothing to worry about. My OB-GYN, who has essentially been my primary care physician for more than two decades, suggested I return in six months to have it checked again.
And so I did what most of us would probably do. I stopped worrying and got back to living.
That spring, we hosted our first yoga retreat in Todos Santos, Mexico. I traveled to Europe over the summer. I was feeling fabulous and having so much fun.
Then, at the end of August, I met an incredible man named John, and life got even more exciting.
That little lump? Barely crossed my mind.
But I kept my follow-up appointment.
Exactly six months later, the original lump had grown, and there was now a second lump.
A biopsy was scheduled and completed.
A few days later, I was in San Diego visiting my daughter Ella for family weekend at San Diego State University. We were driving around, enjoying our time together, when my phone rang.
It was the call no one ever wants to receive.
I had breast cancer.
I remember the fear and uncertainty of that moment so vividly. On that first call, you don't necessarily know how big the cancer is, how advanced it might be, or what comes next.
Your mind goes to the worst possible places.
Thankfully, my best friend Keri and her daughter Morgan were there with Ella and me that weekend. Their love and support helped carry me through one of the hardest days of my life.
The First Diagnosis: Let's Get This Over With
Back in Denver, I learned that I had Stage 1A invasive ductal carcinoma (IDC).
I immediately sprang into action.
Doctors. Appointments. Research. Decisions. Spreadsheets.
My wonderful circle of friends stepped up in the most extraordinary ways. They accompanied me to appointments, took notes, documented everything in a shared spreadsheet, brought meals, and helped coordinate my recovery.
I decided to have a double mastectomy with reconstruction.
My thinking was pretty straightforward: Let's take care of this, eliminate as much risk as possible, and never deal with breast cancer again.
I even jokingly framed it as getting a boob job.
On November 19, 2024, which also happened to be Ella's 21st birthday, I underwent six hours of surgery, a double mastectomy and reconstruction.
And then they sent me home.
With drains. Bandages. Restrictions on moving my arms. No showers. No elevated heart rate. And a whole lot of instructions.
Aside from a C-section when Ella was born, I'd never experienced major surgery.
The recovery wasn't exactly glamorous. The post-operative gastrointestinal issues were nearly as miserable as the surgery itself!
But my pain was manageable, my energy was surprisingly good, and I was surrounded by love. My mom and sons came to help, friends delivered meals, and John, who had only been in my life a few months, was absolutely incredible.
A little more than two weeks after surgery, my bandages came off.
And that's when something hit me that I had not prepared for.
I couldn't feel my breasts.
Or much of the area around my armpits.
Nothing.
I knew nerves could be affected, and I'd even requested nerve reconstruction during surgery. But somehow, I had not understood the extent of sensation I might lose.
I was shocked.
How had I missed this? Why hadn't I asked more questions? Why hadn't anyone explained it in a way I truly understood?
Nearly two years later, some sensation has returned, but my breasts are not what they once were.
And that's a loss. One I wasn't expecting and one that deserves acknowledgment.
Breast cancer treatment isn't just about removing cancer. It can change your relationship with your body in ways you never anticipated.
Cancer-Free. Time to Move On!
The good news was genuinely good.
My cancer was small. My surgical margins were clear. There was no evidence of cancer in my lymph nodes, and I did not need chemotherapy or radiation.
Because my cancer was hormone receptor-positive, my oncologist offered endocrine therapy, medication designed to reduce the risk of recurrence.
We discussed the benefits and potential side effects. Given my individual circumstances and the low recurrence-risk estimate we discussed, I chose not to take it, a decision my oncologist supported.
I had just been through a double mastectomy. The idea of taking a daily pill for five to ten years, potentially dealing with side effects like joint pain, hot flashes, and vaginal dryness, and being reminded every morning that I'd had cancer was more than I wanted to take on.
I wanted to move forward.
And that's exactly what I did.
Travel. Hiking. Another retreat. Time with friends. Growing my business. Building a wonderful life with John.
Living, living, living!
I also kept my cancer experience largely private.
As the owner of a wellness company, I worried about how people might perceive me. Would clients question my ability to represent health and wellbeing? Would they choose a younger, healthier-looking business?
Looking back, I realize how much pressure I'd put on myself to appear healthy, strong, and capable at all times.
I just didn't want cancer to become my identity.
And Then My Mom Got the Call
But there's another important part of this story.
While I was busy putting breast cancer behind me, my mom was about to begin her own journey.
My mom, who was 80 at the time, had come to Denver to help care for me after my first surgery. She is truly the epitome of health, love, kindness, and Florence Nightingale all rolled into one! She has spent her life taking care of everyone else, and now she was taking care of me.
During her visit, she casually mentioned that she hadn't had a mammogram in four years. Her appointment had been canceled during COVID, and she simply never got around to rescheduling.
I encouraged her to make an appointment as soon as she got home.
And thank goodness she did.
They found breast cancer.
Fortunately, it was caught very early. She underwent a lumpectomy followed by one week of radiation and came through it all with her signature positive attitude, incredible energy, and strength.
So there we were. Mother and daughter, both diagnosed with breast cancer within months of each other.
It was a lot to take in.
But I can't help thinking about what might have happened if we hadn't had that conversation. If my diagnosis hadn't prompted her to schedule that mammogram.
Sometimes, sharing our experiences and encouraging the people we love to take care of themselves can make all the difference.
And my mom is living proof of that.
Eighteen Months Later: Here We Go Again
In May 2026, I went in for my routine 18-month follow-up.
During the exam, the physician assistant said something that caught my attention.
"I don't really like the look of these spots here."
I assumed she was referring to the scars left behind by my original biopsies, which had not healed particularly well.
I pointed that out, and she seemed reassured.
"See you in six months, and we'll celebrate two years cancer-free!"
Great! Off I went.
But that evening, after my shower, I decided to take a closer look at those scars.
I touched one of them.
And my stomach dropped.
There it was. Another BB-sized lump. In exactly the same spot.
WTF?!
I knew that feeling. It felt exactly like my original cancer.
Coincidentally, I had my annual OB-GYN appointment the very next day. I showed my doctor, and she could feel not one, but two lumps.
She immediately recommended an ultrasound.
The radiologist reviewed the ultrasound and felt the lumps were likely scar tissue or a lymph node. Nothing to be concerned about.
But something didn't feel right to me.
I explained that the lump felt exactly like my previous cancer and asked whether we should biopsy it.
She suggested an MRI instead.
Fine. Let's do it.
The MRI also appeared reassuring, and once again, the recommendation was to move on.
But I couldn't shake the feeling.
I asked again.
"Don't you think we should do a biopsy?"
The radiologist consulted my breast surgeon, who agreed that a biopsy was appropriate.
There were two lumps, but the radiologist was confident the second was a lymph node and planned to biopsy only the first.
Before I left, she sat down next to me, put her hand on my knee, and said something I will never forget.
"Kristin, I promise, you are all good."
I cannot tell you how badly I wanted to believe her.
"Thank God!" I said.
I wanted nothing more than to put those stressful weeks behind me and get back to my life.
A few days later, the biopsy results came back.
Positive.
Breast cancer. Again.
Hormone receptor-positive invasive ductal carcinoma, just like before.
No. Fucking. Way.
How could this possibly happen? I'd had a double mastectomy! How could I have breast cancer again, in exactly the same place?
My mind immediately went to whether something had been missed during the first surgery.
But the original margins had been negative. Surgery can never guarantee that every microscopic cancer cell has been eliminated, and even after a mastectomy, recurrence is possible.
I didn't have the answers.
I just knew I was facing cancer for the second time in less than two years.
But strangely, this time I also felt a sense of calm.
I'd been through this before. I knew what questions to ask, I knew how to navigate the medical system, and most importantly, I had advocated for myself when something didn't feel right.
I didn't know exactly what lay ahead, but I knew I'd caught something that might otherwise have gone undetected for months.
And that gave me a sense of confidence going into round two.
This Time, I Wasn't Taking Any Chances
Because I'd already had a mastectomy, the next step was a smaller surgery to remove the suspicious tissue.
But remember that second lump? The one everyone believed was a lymph node?
I told my surgeon I wanted it removed, too.
I was not willing to leave it behind.
On June 16, 2026, I had surgery to remove both lumps.
The physical recovery was surprisingly easy compared with my mastectomy. Within a few days, I felt almost back to normal.
But the pathology results brought another shock.
The second lump was cancer, too.
The one we almost left alone.
The one I insisted we remove.
Both lumps showed the same hormone receptor-positive cancer pattern as my original diagnosis.
I can't stop thinking about how differently this might have unfolded if I hadn't spoken up.
What if I'd accepted the initial reassurance? What if I'd waited another six months?
I don't know the answers, and I never will.
But I do know this: I am incredibly grateful that I listened to my body and continued asking questions.
Four Weeks of Radiation. Every Damn Day.
About a month after surgery, I began radiation treatment.
Monday through Friday. Four weeks.
Did it hurt? No, not during the treatments themselves.
Was it emotionally exhausting? Absolutely.
Every day was another reminder that I had cancer. Again.
I would swing between "I've got this!" and "How on earth could this happen to me twice?"
There were moments of gratitude, frustration, sadness, and anger. Sometimes all in the same day (or hour).
And, of course, life and work didn't stop.
Running a business while blocking out roughly 90 minutes every afternoon for radiation, plus weekly physical therapy and other medical appointments, was no small feat.
I powered through.
At the end of August, I rang that bell.
What a feeling!
Living, Living, Living. Until It All Caught Up With Me.
Radiation ended. I moved houses. And then John and I headed off on an incredible adventure through Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand, and Hong Kong.
A trip of a lifetime.
We explored, hiked, swam, practiced yoga, met wonderful people, ate amazing food, and soaked up every moment.
I was doing what I love most.
Living!
But on the flight home, something unexpected happened.
It all hit me.
Two cancer diagnoses. Two surgeries. Four weeks of radiation. Countless appointments. The uncertainty. The fear. The changes to my body.
I'd been so busy moving forward that I hadn't really allowed myself to process what I'd been through.
And suddenly, there it was.
A wave of emotion I'd been avoiding for months.
I realized that being strong doesn't mean you aren't scared. Being optimistic doesn't mean you don't feel sadness. And living a full, joyful life doesn't mean you have to pretend the hard things didn't happen.
This has been a lot.
I am deeply grateful for my family, John, my friends, and the extraordinary community that has supported me.
And I'm learning that it's okay to make space for the harder emotions, too.
The Next Chapter: Choosing Science, Choosing My Future
At a recent follow-up, I met with my oncologist to discuss the next steps.
This time, we revisited endocrine therapy.
Because my cancer is estrogen and progesterone receptor-positive, hormones can help fuel its growth. Endocrine therapy works by reducing estrogen levels or blocking their effects on cancer cells.
When I was first diagnosed, I chose not to take these medications.
Today, after experiencing a recurrence, I see that decision differently.
I really, really don't want to go through this again.
Beginning in November, I'll start taking anastrozole, an aromatase inhibitor that lowers estrogen levels.
Am I concerned about potential side effects? Absolutely.
Am I hoping they're minimal? You bet.
But I'm willing to try, work closely with my healthcare team, and make adjustments if needed.
I believe in science. I believe in asking questions. And I believe in making informed decisions with the best information available at the time.
My first decision was right for how I understood my situation then. My decision today reflects what I've learned and experienced since.
Treatment will be part of my life for a long time.
And that's okay.
Because I want to be here for a long, long time.
If You Take One Thing Away From My Story...
Please, please be your own advocate.
Get your recommended mammograms. Know what's normal for your body. Pay attention when something changes.
And if you notice something that doesn't feel right, follow up.
Even if you recently had a normal mammogram.
Even if you're told it's probably nothing.
Even if you're incredibly healthy and can't imagine that cancer could happen to you.
That doesn't mean ignoring medical expertise. It means partnering with your healthcare providers, asking questions, understanding your options, and seeking further evaluation when concerns remain unresolved.
I have enormous respect and gratitude for the doctors, nurses, technicians, and other healthcare professionals who have cared for me.
But I've also learned that no one knows my body quite like I do.
And one more thing.
Being healthy doesn't mean you'll never get sick.
I still believe deeply in the power of movement, nutritious food, restorative sleep, meaningful relationships, stress management, and all the things we promote every day at Nest Health Connections.
Those habits matter. They support our health, improve our quality of life, and help us navigate whatever life brings.
But wellness is not a guarantee against disease.
And experiencing illness doesn't mean you've failed at being healthy.
If anything, these past two years have deepened my commitment to helping people live healthier, happier lives. Not because we can control everything that happens to us, but because there is so much we can do to care for ourselves and each other.
Why I'm Sharing This Now
For two years, I kept my breast cancer experience within a relatively small circle.
I didn't want sympathy. I didn't want cancer to define me. And frankly, I didn't want to talk about it.
But this October, during Breast Cancer Awareness Month, I decided it's time.
If you're going through breast cancer right now, please know that you are not alone.
If you have a friend, family member, colleague, or even a friend of a friend who could use someone to talk to, I'm here.
I'm not a medical expert. I'm simply a woman who has now been through this twice, who has asked a lot of questions, cried a few tears, laughed through some absurd moments, and learned the incredible value of community and self-advocacy.
I'm still processing it all.
And I'm still living. Fully, joyfully, and with more gratitude than ever.
Know your body. Get your mammogram. Ask the questions. Trust yourself. And don't be afraid to speak up.
You are worth advocating for. 💗