By: Taylor Carlson, Blood Cancer
In 2023, my life changed with a single word: cancer.
I was in college, studying Human Biology, and working as an EMT. My days were packed with responding to emergencies, studying late into the night, and imagining a future in medicine. Then, one day everything I thought I knew about myself and my plans shattered the moment I was diagnosed with a rare blood cancer.
Cancer wasn’t on my radar. I was young, active, and determined. Suddenly, instead of running between class and work, I was running between hospital rooms, oncology appointments, and scans. Conversations about chemotherapy, fertility, and clinical trials became my new reality. And in what felt like an instant, I had to learn how to live in a body I could no longer fully trust.
Treatment has been grueling. I am still in it — the infusions, the side effects, the fatigue that makes something as simple as showering feel like climbing a mountain. Hospitalizations interrupt my “normal” life, though at this point, I’m not sure what normal even means anymore. I’ve had surgeries. I’ve traveled out of state to meet with oncologists, determined to find the best path forward. Each trip is both exhausting and hopeful — proof of how far I’m willing to go to fight for my future.
On my 21st birthday, instead of celebrating with friends, I was freezing my eggs. That milestone felt both heartbreaking and empowering. At an age when most people my age are thinking about careers, adventures, or relationships, I was forced to think about my fertility and the possibility that treatment might take away my chance to become a mother. Preserving that piece of my future was a decision I’ll never regret, even though it’s one I never thought I’d have to make so young.
My mom’s cancer journey began before mine. She was diagnosed with breast cancer during my first year of college. Watching her face her diagnosis with such ferocity— even lacing up boxing gloves while in treatment— showed me what resilience looks like. To this day, her strength doesn’t erase the pain, but it reminds me that courage is choosing to show up every single day, even when the odds feel impossible.
Living alone has been one of the hardest parts of this journey. Cancer doesn’t pause just because there’s no one in the next room. The fevers, the bone pain, the terrifying moments when my body feels like it’s betraying me; I face them head-on, often alone. But solitude has also revealed a kind of strength I never knew I had. I’ve learned how to advocate fiercely for myself, how to push for answers, and how to keep going when every fiber of my being wants to stop.
Being both an EMT and a patient has given me a unique perspective. I know what it feels like to be the one rushing to save a life, and now I know what it feels like to be the one waiting on the stretcher. The tables turned quickly, and that shift has deepened my empathy for patients in a way textbooks never could. It has also solidified my dream of becoming a doctor. I want to take this lived experience —the fear, the vulnerability, the resilience— and channel it into how I treat others one day.
Cancer has stolen things from me: time, energy, and a sense of certainty. But it has also given me perspective. I don’t take my future for granted, even as I fight to hold onto it. I’ve learned to celebrate small wins: a good lab result, a day without pain, the simple joy of making it through a lecture or a shift.
My story isn’t tied up neatly with a bow. It’s messy, ongoing, and filled with both setbacks and small victories. But it’s mine. And I share it because I know there are others out there who feel the same fear, the same exhaustion, the same determination to keep going despite it all.
Cancer may be part of my story, but it isn’t the end of it.