I'll never forget the day after my surgery, when I still had the catheter in and was hooked up to what felt like every machine in the world. I was exhausted, scared, and trying not to cry in front of anyone. My nurse, Tanya, walked in with this calm energy that instantly softened the room. That first night I couldn't sleep, I kept spiraling in my head about what stage 3 meant for me.

I'll never in my life forget what happens next, Tanya comes in sees me crying and she pulls up a chair next to my bed, she didn't try to sugarcoat anything or give me false hope, she just listened. I remember telling her, "I'm afraid of losing my hair and most of all dying." Words cannot describe how Tanya reassured me that I am so loved and everything is going to be okay. The moment that really showed me how much she cared happened the next morning. I was supposed to get up and walk for the first time after surgery, but I felt weak and embarrassed that I couldn't even stand straight. Tanya didn't just tell me “You need to walk," she literally held my IV pole in one hand, supported me with the other, and walked slowly beside me down the hallway, step by step.

Every time I said, "I can't," she said, "Yes, you can. I'll be right here." We didn't even make it very far, but I remember feeling like I'd just climbed a mountain because she believed in me more than I believed in myself. Looking back, Tanya made a difference not just with medical care, but by seeing me, the 24-year-old girl who loved music, who was scared of chemo, who needed someone to remind her she wasn't just a diagnosis. That kind of presence, the way she treated me like a whole person, gave me a strength I didn't know I had.