Second Time Around

A pilot's journey through recurrence, resilience, and reclaiming purpose after Stage IV cancer

January 24 marked my Cancerversary. Over five years ago, in January 2020, at the age of 38, I was diagnosed with Stage 1 invasive ductal carcinoma (ER/PR+, HER2-). I underwent a double mastectomy and entered remission. And while the experience changed me in many ways, I carried a strange guilt for surviving something I often minimized as “only Stage 1.” I felt like an impostor.

People called me brave. They praised my strength. But truthfully, I was just doing what I had to do. As a pilot, my biggest concern was: How soon can I get back in the cockpit? I was grounded for a while, but eventually, I took back to the skies—believing I had left cancer in my rearview mirror.

For four years, I flew forward, rebuilding, healing, thriving.

Then in May 2024, during a routine checkup, a familiar fear returned. A lump was found—right where I’d been biopsied years earlier. I was irritated. Scar tissue, I thought. But my doctor insisted on a biopsy. The results shattered me: the cancer was back. A PET scan confirmed it had spread to my L3 vertebrae and sacrum. Stage IV.

Once again, I was grounded—not just professionally, but emotionally. My career, the one I had worked so hard to build over 13 years, was slipping away. But the fallout didn’t stop with me. My wife now carries much of the weight of our daily life. My children are too young to understand the doctor visits, the fatigue, the uncertainty. My mom wishes she could trade places with me. My friends offer help that I sometimes don’t know how to accept.

The condolences, the encouragement, the check-ins—all came pouring in again. But this time, I wasn’t ready to hear them. I wasn’t ready to accept this reality. It felt like Groundhog Day, waking up to the same terrifying loop of Stage IV cancer, of being unable to fly, of watching my world tilt out of alignment. I no longer felt like a fraud. I felt like I was drowning.

But somewhere along the way, I made a choice: to fight for presence. To wake up, even on the hardest days, and do something that grounds me in life. Whether it’s caring for my kids, writing, honoring my wellness routine, or just making it outside to feel the sun on my face—these are the things that tether me to hope.

That hope is also fueled by the people in my life—the ones in my “arena,” as a wise woman once said. The ones who cheer for me, hold space for me, and catch me when I fall. I'm learning to lean into their love. To trust their words. To believe that I’m worthy of their care.

Healing, I’ve learned, isn’t just about medicine. It’s about nurturing the mind, body, and spirit in harmony. I chose to undergo radiation and an additional surgery in hopes of shrinking the tumors. Those treatments are now behind me, and while I know there’s no cure, I also know there’s something powerful about a fresh start. A new year. A new chapter.

I may never fly a plane again. That grief is still very real. But just like I’ve always done, I’m learning to pivot. To adapt. And in that process, I’ve gained something I didn’t expect: clarity.

I no longer care about appearances or expectations. What matters now is connection—deep, real, soul-anchoring connection. With my wife. With my boys. With my friends. With nature. I’m learning to live slower, more intentionally, with both hands on the moment.

Cancer gave me an unlikely gift: awareness of time. Most people leave this world without ever getting the chance to reconcile their past or reflect on their life. In 2020, I didn’t fully grasp that lesson. But now, at Stage IV, I do.

Of course, I still think about the future. I still reflect on the past. But I don’t live there anymore. Because I know now that the only time I truly have is this one.

I’ve spent so much energy worrying about how much time I have left. But none of us knows. Not really. And while cancer may have changed the course of my life, it hasn’t stolen my ability to love deeply, to laugh, to write, to be here.

And so, I’m choosing to live—not in fear, but in fullness. Not in regret, but in gratitude.

Because no matter how long I have, I want to fill my days with meaning. I want to love well. And I want to be well—in mind, body, and spirit.

That’s the story I’m writing now. One day at a time.

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Thank you so much for reading. If this piece resonated with you, I’d be incredibly grateful if you’d take a moment to like, comment, share, or subscribe to stay connected. Your support not only helps my words reach others who might need them—it reminds me I’m not alone in this. We’re in this together. 💛