Jen Donovan Jen Donovan

Buy the Shoes

Taking a look (not that far back šŸ˜‰) through the archives.

This was the best way I knew how to celebrate my birthday after a cancer diagnosis ushered me directly into a global pandemic.

I called Dave Bigler at Saratoga Portrait Studio and Alayne Curtiss at Make Me Fabulous took the day off, and let myself forget how rapidly my world and the world around me had come unhinged.

Sometimes we need that.

Itā€™s not denial - itā€™s a healthy defiance. Celebrate big. Every chance you get.

And for the love God, just buy the shoes! ā¤ļøšŸ‘ 

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Jen Donovan Jen Donovan

All I Had

I was not expecting the calm that eventually rolled in like a fog this October. ā£
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I felt muddy. Trapped. I struggled to pray, to rally, to put up a fight. ā£
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And I think thatā€™s a mistake we all make sometimes - thinking we need to do more. ā£
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Thinking we can manifest a victory in our own strength. Thinking God is ignorant or indifferent to our plight. ā£
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Thinking it depends on us.ā£
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Instead, I called to mind something I felt God put on my heart the first time around. I meditated on it for a bit, and left everything else with Him.ā£
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If youā€™re wrestling with something you canā€™t see your way out of, might I suggest you stop for a moment?ā£
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You werenā€™t meant to shoulder it. ā£
You canā€™t overcome it on your own. ā£
And there is rest to be found in letting go.ā£
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Three weeks of waiting; a simple petition for help. It was all I had in me. And it was enough. ā£
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Because He is enough. ā£
He was already on the way. ā£
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And I felt it the strongest when I gave up the fight.ā£
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Matthew 12:21 - The mere sound of his name will signal hope.
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Jen Donovan Jen Donovan

October

October didnā€™t go as expected, but not much of this journey has.ā£ā£
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As a survivor, youā€™re always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Wondering if that dormant volcano will awaken and erupt once again.ā£ā£
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So when the nurse walked back into the room after my scans, shut the door and sat down, I didnā€™t need her to say that something looked suspicious and they wanted to biopsy as soon as possible.ā£ā£
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Iā€™ve been down this road before.ā£ā£
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And as much as you train your mind not to wander off; as much as you settle it on victory, the body keeps the score. ā£ā£
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In those first moments, it doesnā€™t care about breathing or waiting to see. Trauma cements a path through the brain.ā£
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The mere sound of the word ā€˜suspiciousā€™ signaled a threat to survival.ā£ā£
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But I am more than the limbo I lived these last three weeks.ā£ā£
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I am the sum of my resolve to show up for every test, march on through the wait, and advocate for myself and others with room to spare.ā£ā£
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I wrestle with the unknown until hope rises. I fall apart and carry on. I celebrate the wins, big and small, wherever I can get them.ā£ā£
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Itā€™s not just what a survivor does. Itā€™s who a survivor is.ā£ā£
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To that sweet soul of a nurse who sat next to me and rubbed my back without uttering a word while I sobbed, and then rearranged her schedule to squeeze the biopsy in on her shift - thank you.ā£ā£
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Your kindness in that moment was such a precious gift to me this Breast Cancer Awareness Month. ā£ā£
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This fourth anniversary of mine.ā£ā£
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That and finally hearing my two favorite words in the English language:

All clear.ā£ā£

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Jen Donovan Jen Donovan

Rest as a Rule

Cancer forced me into rest with an immediacy and a totality I had never experienced before. ā£ā£ā£ā£

More than just giving myself a break, it was a breaking. An all-systems shutdown. And I believe it was for more than just that season. ā£ā£ā£

Iā€™ve learned to experience rest as a rule, rather than the exception.ā£ā£ā£ā£

Itā€™s not laziness or apathy, and itā€™s not a disregard for purpose, but a knowing where control really lies - itā€™s not with me.ā£ā£ā£ā£

I donā€™t have all the answers and Iā€™m not supposed to. I canā€™t do everything, and I shouldnā€™t try to. I was never created to carry the weight of the world, or the weight of othersā€™ expectations, on my shoulders. Iā€™m not here to keep up with anyone else.

What todayā€™s culture says I should be obsessed with obtaining usually tastes like empty calories for my soul: good going down, but no lasting nourishment. ā£ā£

God sees every major turn of events long before the calendar turns a page. He is not sidelined or shipwrecked by the surprises of life, or by my fear of them, and since Iā€™m carried by Him, neither am I.ā£ā£ā£ā£

I can rest because He never does. ā£ā£ā£ā£

He leads with a gentleness and a kindness not otherwise known, but so often we run ahead to manifest solutions He already has - if we would just still ourselves long enough to listen. ā£ā£ā£ā£

So before we rush into the year like all our dreams and aspirations have caught on fire, letā€™s not forget the simple rhythms of rest Heā€™s trying to teach us. ā£ā£ā£ā£

He already provided the way. All we have to do is walk in it.

Jeremiah 6:16ā£ā£ā£ā£

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Jen Donovan Jen Donovan

Cancer Days

Itā€™s been a rough couple cancer days. ā£ā£ā£

These are days marked by overwhelming emotions surrounding my diagnosis that I thought I had moved past.ā£

Sometimes they are triggered by a pending anniversary (like the day I was diagnosed), but most often they sneak up in unexpected ways.ā£ā£ā£

Either way, I am rendered useless.ā£ā£ā£

Holding space for these days can be hard, especially in a world constantly preaching that ignoring feelings = strength. ā£

Itā€™s vital to acknowledge these days and take steps to work through them, instead of pretending youā€™re fine when youā€™re not. ā£ā£ā£

It might look like this: ā£ā£ā£

ā¤ļøā€šŸ©¹ Taking breaks throughout the dayā£ā£ā£
ā¤ļøā€šŸ©¹ Cancelling commitments ā£ā£ā£
ā¤ļøā€šŸ©¹ Treating yourself (pictured @bluebirdhomedecor)
ā¤ļøā€šŸ©¹ Fasting social mediaā£ā£ā£
ā¤ļøā€šŸ©¹ Journaling (this post counts)ā£ā£ā£
ā¤ļøā€šŸ©¹ Reading scripture (Ephesians 1, Psalm 139)ā£ā£ā£

Many times, taking care of yourself will look like disappointing some people #ohwell.ā£ā£ā£

Courage isnā€™t always showing up for battle. Sometimes, courage is recognizing that you canā€™t. But youā€™ll try again tomorrow.ā£ā£ā£

A special thank you to @ohyouresotough @msmindymiller and @natashaaftercancer for being such lights in this community.ā£ā£ā£
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Jen Donovan Jen Donovan

Million Little Miracles

This morning I talked my sister through baking the 20 pound turkey she got for free. I canā€™t wait to see how it turns out. ā£

In a while Iā€™ll start the drive to my Grammyā€™s house in Utica. Sheā€™ll be 90 in April. I love how I feel when I walk in her house almost as much as I love her stories. ā£

Later weā€™ll FaceTime with my aunt and uncles. Weā€™ll laugh when Grammy tries to hold the phone to her ear. And then Grammy and I will head out to eat a delicious dinner neither of us has to cook. ā£

Tomorrow Iā€™ll probably eat cake for breakfast šŸ˜‰ šŸ° and then head over to see Katie Aiello at Character Coffee. Take note if youā€™re in the Utica area - itā€™s the best. ā£

Then Iā€™ll head home to the sweetest, floofiest boy I could ever hope to have. Heā€™ll be waiting at the door for me, just like he always does.ā£

When I was little I thought my life would look a lot different. I thought more would have happened by now. That I would never get sick until I was old. ā£

But something gets lost in the imagining of what could have or should have been. We miss the million little miracles all around us. Many we never could have imagined. ā£

Today Iā€™m grateful for my health, and grandmothers, and long drives, and free turkeys, and FaceTime with family, and coffee shops, and floofy fur friends, and cake for breakfast. ā£

And the God who saw fit to send them all to me. ā¤ļø #MillionLittleMiracles

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Jen Donovan Jen Donovan

These Three Years

October 2019.

They say nothing can prepare you to hear the words, ā€œyouā€™ve got cancer.ā€ It might have been the last thing I expected, but preparations were being made on my behalf.

Late that summer, I found myself dropped from commitments I had been looking forward to, suddenly and without cause.

Calendar cleared.

My direct report at work started two days after I was diagnosed. But planning for his arrival began almost exactly one year before.

Workload covered.

I traveled more in the several months before than I had in a long time. There were unexpected invites and last minute plans with good friends.

Joy stored up.

And the way I found it - when every doctor asked me to show them what I saw that led me to make the call, I couldnā€™t. Because it was gone. 

Sent as a messenger nudging me to take action, it disappeared as mysteriously as it arrived. 

There are still days, especially in October, I lose myself in the ā€œwhat ifā€™sā€ and ā€œwhy meā€™sā€. There have been countless tears, prayers, triggers, and seemingly missed opportunities.

Times I curse being so different from other women and I wonder what God could possibly be doing.

But God didnā€™t rush in halfway through the day I was diagnosed, like someone late to an emergency, scurrying around to put out fires.

Throughout countless days that bled into weeks I assumed counted for nothing, He was behind the scenes, aligning the miraculous. All I saw was the mundane.

The God who speaks galaxies into existence and balances the Earth on its axis and prevents it from pummeling into the sun, narrowed in on this girlā€™s life and with painstaking precision, paved the jagged terrain I would tread.

Who am I?

That you would go before me and lead me all the way to the end is my anchor in this wave-battered world.

I am Yours. I am Loved.

Before these three years and through all that is to come.

Isaiah 45: 2-3

I will go before you
and will level the mountains;
I will break down gates of bronze
and cut through bars of iron.
I will give you hidden treasures,
riches stored in secret places,
so that you may know that I am the Lord,
the God of Israel, who summons you by name.

Psalm 139:5

You hem me in behind and beforeā€¦

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Jen Donovan Jen Donovan

Instead of Pink

ā€œGood heavens, woman! This is war, not a garden party!ā€

Dr. Meade snaps at poor Aunt Pittypat in this iconic Gone With the Wind scene that finds her seriously stressing over Scarlett being unchaperoned while bombs explode all around them. They were in the middle of the Civil War.

Read the room Aunt Pittypat.

Breast cancer blew up my life in October 2019, and when the dust finally settled I came to a harsh realization about Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

While I was at war, everyone around me floated through October like it was a garden party.

Donā€™t get me wrong, I had been there, too.

Prior to D-Day (diagnosis day), my Octobers were full of all things pink. I attended the brunches and bought the lipsticks. I wrote checks, but never questioned where the money was going or if it really helped anyone.

Supporting a colorful cause was fun. Living with breast cancer was anything but.

After my diagnosis, I could no longer view cancer through the lens of statistics or a cause. It had become my very messy and terrifying reality.

And I found myself challenged to help fellow survivors in ways that are meaningful to them.

Iā€™m committed to putting the focus back where it belongs: cancer patients.

In many instances, only a small percentage of your purchase or donation is actually benefitting patients. And even then, itā€™s most likely not in a tangible way.

In light of this, Iā€™m choosing to make my donations to the New York Oncology Hematology Community Cancer Foundation, and I hope you will consider doing the same.

Since 2000, the Foundation has been providing financial assistance to cancer patients in the form of necessities that meet their daily needs, such as:

  • Groceries

  • Gas

  • Rides to treatment

  • Medicine not covered by insurance

Thatā€™s just to name a few. The best part? 100 percent of tax-deductible donations go directly to patients right here in the local community.

Many awareness campaigns glamorize what is undoubtedly one of the most devastating events a woman can experience.

As a survivor who was diagnosed in the middle of Breast Cancer Awareness Month, I can tell you that seeing people wearing pink in October doesnā€™t make me feel more supported. And that little pink ribbon is just that - a little pink ribbon.

Letā€™s actively get meaningful assistance in the hands of those who need it.

Instead of buying things we donā€™t need. Instead of brunching for a cause.

Instead of pink.

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Jen Donovan Jen Donovan

What (Not) To Say To A Cancer Survivor

When you find out someone you know has cancer, there may be pressure to say the right thing. But sometimes, in an effort to be helpful, your words can have the opposite effect.

Iā€™ve gathered together some of the responses Iā€™ve heard that are better left unsaid, and also a few that felt like a warm hug in the midst of my pain.

#1. Everything happens for a reason.

This seems to be the go-to catch phrase when something happens that we didnā€™t want to happen. We live in a world obsessed with finding and assigning meaning. To everything.

Cancer didnā€™t have a role or a responsibility to accomplish something in my life. I wonā€™t give it that kind of power.

Saying there is a reason for it feels like itā€™s justified. That it ā€œhadā€ to happen. There is no justifying cancer for the cancer survivor.

#2. My cousin had cancer. She died.

I came face-to-face with my own mortality at 38. Iā€™ve never felt so scared. And Iā€™ve never felt so alone. The last thing I need (but unfortunately hear more times than I can count) is someone telling me that someone died from cancer. This just feeds the fear. Not helpful.

#3. Learn from it, grow through it, become better.

Cancer is a disease straight from the pit of hell.

It is not an enlightenment program or a life coach. Itā€™s not my teacher. Itā€™s not a gift.

From every appointment, to every new specialist, every scan, every memorized statistic, every agonizing call with an insurance company, every sense of overwhelm in the aftermath - the same aching urgency holds true: just get me through it.

Itā€™s not about becoming a better version of myself.

I donā€™t need the pressure to become stronger. Surviving is enough.

#4. Well, at least itā€™s notā€¦..(insert something you think is worse).

At least itā€™s not Stage 4. At least you still have your hair. At least youā€™re not my cousin who died. At leastā€¦.and the list goes on.

Please donā€™t ever compare traumas. And please donā€™t try to explain why I should be feeling differently. Allow me to share as I see it; as I lived it, without your speculation on how you think it should be.

There is no such thing as an ā€œeasyā€ cancer. And a diagnosis doesnā€™t need to be any worse for the survivor to be justified in how theyā€™re feeling.

#5. Youā€™re so brave. Youā€™re so strong.

I can tell you what I didnā€™t feel after my diagnosis: brave or strong.

I did what I did because I was given no other choice.

I felt weak, scared, tired, angry, sad, confused, lost, and overwhelmed. Sometimes all in the same hour. Iā€™ll let you in on a little secret: almost three years later, I still feel all these emotions at times. Thatā€™s what trauma does. Thereā€™s no need to prop someone up in this way. Itā€™s ok to not be ok. Let me be not ok.

So, what IS helpful? Read on.

#1. I hate that youā€™re going through this. I hate that this happened to you.

Even ā€œIā€™m sorryā€ can feel trite sometimes. Acknowledging you hate this experience for someone will make them feel seen. It makes me feel seen. Because believe me - I hate it, too.

#2. What can I do to support you?

We often want to support people in the way that we want to - which isnā€™t necessarily what they need.

This places stress on the person youā€™re trying to help to appear grateful and make YOU feel appreciated.

Please respect boundaries.

Ask a cancer survivor what is helpful and how they would like to be supported. If itā€™s too much for you, itā€™s ok to say that or get someone to help you.

#3. I donā€™t know what to say, but Iā€™m here for you.

If you donā€™t know what to say, itā€™s ok to say that. I appreciate when people donā€™t try to ā€œmake sense of it allā€ or share their Hallmark version of wisdom. Just knowing they are there if I need them is comforting.

#4. Be still. Listen.

Show up.

Mail a card.

Be available.

Learn how to sit with someone in their grief without trying to fix it.

Itā€™s not over when treatment ends.

Imagine a marathon runner.

Their body is being pushed to the limit. Theyā€™re mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausted. When the race starts, they are surrounded by people cheering them on.

But then imagine they round a corner to cross the finish line and no one is there because everyone went home.

They are at their weakest, most vulnerable, and most out of breath. Isnā€™t this when they need the most support?

Cancer is a marathon, not a sprint. And it changes you forever. Thereā€™s just no way around that.

You donā€™t ā€œgo back to normalā€ when cancer treatment ends any more than a marathon runner strolls down the street to pick up their dry cleaning after they cross the finish line.

In my case, my appearance never changed, and it was easy for people around me to assume I was fine and that my life went back to normal.

It didnā€™t. It still hasnā€™t.

A cancer survivor still needs community even after (especially after) treatment is complete.

They are lost and hurting and they are rebuilding themselves from scratch - trying to figure out who they are and where they go from here. In my case, that was happening at the start of a global pandemic. And for many, it means a new phase of treatment and medications.

The end of treatment is not ā€œthe end,ā€ itā€™s just another phase of the journey.

Cancer and its aftermath has a ripple effect on survivors of all ages, but especially young survivors.

Donā€™t stop asking how we are doing.

Donā€™t pretend that it never happened.

Continue to show up in whatever ways you are able.

Understand that because cancer affects nearly every aspect of life, itā€™s bound to come up in conversation at some point. Yes, even after you think the time for that has long passed.

Keep in mind, weā€™re not looking for the perfect answer or something that will calm all our fears - we recognize that doesnā€™t exist.

But, with the right kind of support and gestures, you can bring much needed comfort when itā€™s needed most.

No answers required.

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Jen Donovan Jen Donovan

Cancer Screenings and Good Friday

ā€œIf you or anyone in your family has had any of these types of cancers, write down the age at diagnosis.ā€

I check the box labeled ā€œYOUā€ and write 38.

And Iā€™m in tears in the waiting room ahead of a non-cancer related appointment, all because of one now standard cancer screening form.

This is grief folks.

It sneaks up and backs me into a corner with memories Iā€™d rather forget. Fear and frustration are its foot soldiers.

But today also happens to be Good Friday.

And itā€™s got me thinking a lot about tension.

The tension between the now and the not yet. Between what we have and what we long for. Between what was and what might have been.

The dictionary defines tension as the act of stretching or straining. As a verb, it means to subject to tension, especially for a specific purpose.

Thereā€™s a tension between Good Friday and Easter Sunday. That first Saturday was shrouded in sadness and confusion - mourning what was lost and wondering what was next.

But wait. We call that Friday good.

Not the day Jesus rose and rolled the stone away and buried death forever, but the day that he was tortured and torn to shreds.

The day that appeared to collapse the future is the one called good.

But I bet it wasnā€™t called good the day after, and it definitely didnā€™t feel good to the people Jesus left behind.

It was eventually called good.

Because of what came from it. Because of what was accomplished through it. Because God breathes life into what the world has reduced to dust. Because He doesnā€™t waste anything and this was no random sacrifice.

Iā€™m two-and-a-half years out from a cancer diagnosis that collapsed my life. I will never call it good.

But I live in the tension.

Between what I know of God, and what I canā€™t begin to comprehend. Between what I can feel and sense and whatā€™s just behind the veil. Between what His word says and what I see in my life.

Iā€™m willing to accept the fact that I donā€™t know where this new road I find myself on will lead me.

But maybe - if I submit myself to the stretching, if I subject myself to the tension, knowing His purpose will ultimately prevail - just maybe, I will see the good He intended to come from it all along.

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Jen Donovan Jen Donovan

Seasons

March 20 - the first day of spring. This date will forever hold a space in my heart.

Two years ago I walked away from my final cancer treatment, certificate of completion in hand.

What exactly had I accomplished?

Surviving.

Itā€™s surreal to be acknowledged for this.

Little did I know that two days later the whole world would shut down. Or that the end of treatment is when the real work begins.

When the dust finally settled, I was faced with sorting through what was left.

Who am I and where do I go from here?

How do I get beyond ā€œno evidence of disease?ā€

Some seasons are harsher than others. Some linger longer than they should. And some, like cancer, I wish could have just passed me by.

Most days, I donā€™t look any different than I did two years ago, but Iā€™m learning a lot can shift during those seemingly dead seasons.

Just like you would never guess from these photos that it was spring. You have to take someone at their word that it is. And yet, there is so much hovering beneath the surface, preparing for its time.

Iā€™ve come farther than most people recognize on the surface, farther than I usually give myself credit for.

Iā€™ve caught glimmers of a purpose that is greater than the sum of these dark seasons.

I just donā€™t have a visual on it yet.

This is where faith steps in and bridges the gaps. Itā€™s our handle on what we cannot see (Hebrews 11:1, MSG).

That when God says heā€™s still writing my story, I take him at his word. His fingerprints will be all over it - they already have been.

And Iā€™ve never read a story of his that ends in ashes.

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Jen Donovan Jen Donovan

Nightbirde

Jane Marczweski - known as Nightbirde to the millions she captivated on Americaā€™s Got Talent - died on February 19, 2022. 

She was 31 years young.

Most people know her as a singer, but I connected to her writing.

She was everything I aspire to be as a writer - honest about what hurts, hopeful in the dark. She knew that sometimes in order to find God, we have to get low, as low as the bathroom floor. She wasnā€™t afraid to ask the questions even if silence echoed in response.

Most people know how it ended, but it started with breast cancer.

She was on the same road I was - a fellow soldier in this army. When one falls, we all feel it. Her story reminds me I have one of my own. A layer thatā€™s as much a part of me now as my own name. 

Most people felt a moment of sadness at the news that she passed. I lost half a day to it. 

Her smiling face staring at me from my laptop screen pulled me back to those first days when it was hard to breathe and I didnā€™t know where to put myself. As is the case whenever there is news of someone passing from cancer, I feel guilty to be alive.

She carried the tension that cancer brings with such grace, reminding us that you can grieve and be grateful. You can be sad and still have hope.

Iā€™ve always been as fascinated by what God doesnā€™t say as I am by what he does say.

In the Bible story of the king who tosses three men in the furnace because they wonā€™t worship him, I read the details from a certain point of view - maybe from a bystander, someone on the outside. One who could smell the smoke, but never got near enough to put their hand in the fire.

But I never hear from the three men themselves. I never know the thoughts of the ones who were soaked in the flames with God walking amongst them.

I know why their voices remain silent. Itā€™s the same reason mine does.

Bystanders and outsiders canā€™t understand the scorch of a fire theyā€™ve never been consumed by.

You have to live it to know.

And because itā€™s there in the epicenter that God Himself whispers my name - the name Heā€™s given me - and then comes to walk beside me. 

And no matter how much you wish you could let someone into that, you canā€™t. Skin seared by fire; a life branded by a touch from God. Itā€™s an experience He means just for you. 

No writer has the words yet. 

Jane and I never knew each other, but we both had cancer. In our own ways, weā€™ve both met God on the bathroom floor.

All of us live in that sacred space between the now and the not yet. Jane gave us a song to sing there.

Fly high Nightbirde.

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Jen Donovan Jen Donovan

What I Would Say to Cancer

Breast Cancer Awareness Month has ended. My fundraiser for New York Oncology Hematologyā€™s (NYOH) Community Cancer Foundation has ended as well.

As I look back on the last two years, I canā€™t help but think about the day this all started. I donā€™t remember much, but I know exactly where I was on the road when I called my mom and repeated over and over,

ā€œI donā€™t understand.ā€

The journey that followed took me through breast cancer and a global pandemic, but also brought opportunities for me to be a voice for others.

Itā€™s not lost on me that I was diagnosed in the middle of Breast Cancer Awareness Month - so the opportunity is two-fold. Itā€™s in the giving, but itā€™s also in changing the narrative around how we give and, more importantly, who we give to.

And Iā€™m reminded of one of my favorite Bible stories about a man named Joseph. He was given an opportunity as well, but thatā€™s not how the story started.

It started when his brothers, jealous of him, decided to kill him, but changed their minds at the last minute and sold him instead.

And you think youā€™ve got family problems.

He was sold into slavery and then accused of a crime he did not commit and thrown in prison. It was one thing after the other for Joseph.

But after every catastrophe, the story says that God was with Joseph and caused him to have favor.

And then there was Josephā€™s gift - he could interpret dreams.

One day, a couple of the kingā€™s top guys got tossed into prison with Joseph and after he accurately interprets both their dreams, one of them tells him, ā€œDonā€™t worry, Iā€™m going to remember you. When I get out of here, Iā€™ll put in a word.ā€

He forgot about the Joseph the minute he was released. Joseph sat in that prison for years after that.

I wonder if Joseph ever looked around and whispered to no one in particular,

ā€œI donā€™t understand.ā€

Then one day the king has a couple dreams, and no one knows what they mean, until his right-hand man thinks of Joseph, ā€œHey boss, remember when you got mad that one time and threw me in the dungeon? There was a guy down there and he told me exactly what my dream meant, and he was spot on.ā€

ā€œGet him up here!ā€

In an instant Joseph goes from the dungeon to the courts of the king and accurately interprets whatā€™s to come. The land was about to embrace seven of the most abundant years they had ever seen, but immediately following would be seven years of famine and the loss of life would be catastrophic if someone didnā€™t come up with a plan.

ā€œOk, youā€™re in charge! Go figure that out!ā€

And just like that, Joseph goes from the pit to being the most powerful man in the nation, second only to the king.

And the kingā€™s dreams came true.

During the bountiful years Joseph stockpiled food like it was going out of style so when the famine hit, they were prepared. Now everyone in the nation had to come to Joseph for food.

And then one day, in walk his brothers.

Suddenly, what happened to him at their hands feels like a lifetime ago.

And they donā€™t recognize him. Heā€™s changed.

His experiences up to this point have molded him ā€“ heā€™s walking with a new sense of purpose.

He has come out the other side on a mission.

Joseph doesnā€™t reveal his identity right away, but when he does, his brothers immediately start groveling, worried about what they did, fearing the worst, offering to be his slaves in exchange for their lives.

And I love what Joseph says to his brothers.

Because he recognized they were just one chapter of his story, the same way cancer is one chapter of mine.

And while they may have done what they did, in the end God placed him there - on purpose, for a purpose.

Itā€™s the same thing I would say to cancer.

ā€œYou meant what you did to destroy me. But God used it for good, to get us to this point and whatā€™s being accomplished today, the saving of many lives.ā€

Iā€™m not sure Joseph ever fully understood the hardships he suffered before stepping into his new role, the same way Iā€™ll never understand cancer, but after recognizing that God carved out a destiny uniquely designed for him, after grabbing ahold of his new purpose with both handsā€¦

Did he still need to understand?

With your help, I raised more than $3,000 during Breast Cancer Awareness Month for NYOH and local cancer patients. It may not physically save anyoneā€™s life, but itā€™s going to bring much-needed assistance to many people. And I think this is just the beginning of the opportunities I will have to lessen the burdens of cancer survivors.

Thank you for partnering with me on this. Youā€™re part of the new chapters God is writing in this story.

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Jen Donovan Jen Donovan

Courage Doesnā€™t Always Roar

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Scan Day. Waiting room 2.

My second set of scans since D-Day (diagnosis day).

I did all the ā€œrightā€ things leading up to it.

I cleared my calendar to give myself some breathing room.

I talked to a friend.

I talked to God.

I listened to worship music on the drive to my appointment, reminding myself of all the things everyone always reminds me of:

I am never alone.

Godā€™s got this.

It will be fine.

And after all that, when I got to the doctorā€™s office, I broke down. Full blown panic attack.

Iā€™ve heard it said that scanxiety - or the anxiety that comes with cancer-detecting scans - is not about what might happen; itā€™s about what did happen. For a survivor, itā€™s not so much about worrying; itā€™s about remembering.

Memories that hadnā€™t surfaced in a long time triggered the flood gates and in an instant I was drowning.

I cried before. I cried during. I cried after.

And guess what? I donā€™t feel bad about it.

The old me would have told myself I should have somehow tried harder to act like it was no big deal.

I guess thatā€™s one thing cancer gives you: a release valve on the pressure to perform.

Iā€™m done with the toxic positivity that says Iā€™m only successful if I make it through with no reaction. Or act like Iā€™m ā€œover itā€ when Iā€™m not. This is not something you get over. Itā€™s something you live with, as it changes over time.

Grief doesnā€™t come with directions. There is no map to get to the other side. No itinerary of how you will feel and when. And while scanxiety is very much about remembering, fear of what might be lurking in those scans is very real, too.

Sometimes having courage means showing up with whatever we have, even if itā€™s falling apart.

And how does courage (or the lack of it) fit with faith? Does God become deaf to my prayers or blind to my plight because Iā€™m too upset to speak?

Quite the opposite actually.

My weakness is the stage where his power shines all the more brilliantly (2 Corinthians 12:9).

In other words, when I fall down in my grief, His kindness steps up to take my hand.

Heā€™s holding me, my scans, and every thread of my faith unraveled.

The nurse I worked with when I was first diagnosed happened to walk by, recognized me beneath my mask, and sat with me for a moment.

A familiar face in the crowd.

Another nurse watching this unfold quietly ordered the results be given same day.

Very present help.

Which means I only had to wait about 10 minutes to hear those two words I never dreamed would come to mean so much:

All clear.

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Jen Donovan Jen Donovan

Changing the Narrative of Breast Cancer Awareness Month ā€“ A Different Call to Action

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In October 2012, I attended a brunch in Saratoga Springs, NY to raise money and awareness for breast cancer. The tables were draped in pink. I wore a pink outfit, pink nail polish, and even flashed a giant pink ā€œdiamondā€ ring.

Pink decor oozed from every crevice of the room. The caption under my Instagram photo said, ā€œPink champagne toast for all the brave ladies fighting and surviving breast cancer.ā€

I shopped and ate and drank without the slightest awareness of what it was really for.

Fast forward to the same month seven years later. I had no idea I would be one of those ladies fighting and surviving breast cancer. And I didnā€™t feel even the slightest bit brave.

I was diagnosed in 2019 in the middle of Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and thatā€™s when my perception and understanding of awareness months forever changed. At the lowest point in my life, while I was facing the unknown and grappling to cope it seemed everyone around me was selling and/or buying something pink and going to brunch.

For me, this was hell. For them, this wasā€¦. fun.

Culture has glamorized this month while propping survivors up as warriors and at the same time, forgetting all about the war.

Cancer is destructive and exhausting and there are winners and losers. Not every soldier stands up stronger in the end. And many survivors just want to keep their heads down and get through it.

Fighting isnā€™t always pretty in pink.

But I noticed that much of this is overlooked as I saw ads for ā€œ10% of every pink lipstick sold this month goes to breast cancer researchā€.

Ok.

Iā€™m not saying we donā€™t need research. Research has brought us a long way in fighting cancer, but often that ā€œresearchā€ money from your donation is spent on administrative costs or to pay for someoneā€™s salary.

I remember sitting in the waiting room during my own treatment and speaking to or hearing about folks who didnā€™t have much to begin with. Cancer expenses would be taking the rest. A 2018 study from the American Journal of Medicine found that 42% of cancer patients drain their life savings within two years because of treatment costs.

Research doesnā€™t go too far to help someone who isnā€™t sure how they can afford food when they leave their appointment.

Thatā€™s why I was thrilled to learn that New York Oncology Hematology (NYOH) where I was being treated, has something called the Community Cancer Foundation. It started over 20 years ago when some doctors, nurses, and staff got together and decided to meet immediate needs of low-income patients.  

What I love even more is that 100% of donations go directly to help cancer patients in the local community in the form of groceries, gas, medicine, rides to treatment, etc. Real cancer patients, maybe even someone you know, getting real help in their time of need.

This Breast Cancer Awareness Month, I challenge you to give with community in mind. As I think on the word ā€œcommunityā€, it invokes a higher call to action than the word ā€œcharityā€.

Charity is when I go to the brunch and buy the pink things and canā€™t trace the path of where my money goes. Thereā€™s no connection.

Community is when I come alongside and offer to help in a way that makes a difference for someone today. Iā€™m connecting to an immediate need, even if I donā€™t know the person.

People over programs.

Before you buy another pink lipstick you donā€™t need or pink tie that you will wear once and throw to the back of your closet, consider if thereā€™s a more meaningful way you can assist.

And if youā€™re struggling to put a face to cancer, struggle no more, because you have my face. I speak for those who canā€™t.

Throughout the month of October I will feature a link where you can give directly to the NYOH Community Cancer Foundation and know every single dollar provides for a local cancer patient in need.

Help me change the narrative around Breast Cancer Awareness Month. And letā€™s get help where itā€™s needed most.

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Jen Donovan Jen Donovan

My Two-Year Cancerversary

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Labor Day weekend.

The unofficial end of summer and the start of a new season.

For most people, it means back to school and pumpkin spice.

For me, it signals my pending anniversary ā€“ this October will be two years since I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

Iā€™m asked if I will have a hard time when it arrives. Iā€™ve been having a hard time since August.

The date hovers in the air. The anxiety leans into my chest. Sometimes itā€™s hard to breathe.

The pain of that day bobs on the surface of the everyday as if to say, ā€œDid you forget something?ā€ When you were getting dressed or reading emails or feeding the cat, did you forget that you arenā€™t like other people anymore?

Ignorance was bliss. I donā€™t feel free.

I try to push the fears to the back of my mind ā€“ to the space in my head Iā€™ve reserved for them. But it gets crowded there and they quickly spill out onto everything else.

That ache or pain is probably from my workout, but what if itā€™s not?

Could I carry this with me into a date? Would he still want to be there if he knew?

I draw fresh boundary lines around myself in the weeks leading up to my mammogram and people donā€™t understand why. This time is sacred. Iā€™m selective in how itā€™s spent.

The tests will most likely be clear, but Iā€™ll tremble in the waiting room until they read me the results.

Thereā€™s a new weight to decisions now, almost like Iā€™m supposed to live every moment on purpose - as if that somehow honors those who lost their battles with cancer.

Some days I just want to hide.

I still have a shopping bag overflowing with papers, resources, books the doctors gave me on symptoms to watch for, how to cope. Pamphlets for support groups and classes on reducing stress. They will sit there until I make sense of them all - or maybe just make peace with them.

I read the story of a woman whose cancer has returned with a vengeance. But several years ago, she was just like me - same stage, diagnosed at the same age. 

I tell myself thatā€™s not me and try to shut the story down in my mind, but thatā€™s the thing about cancer - once the floodgates have opened, you canā€™t put the water back. 

The old me who could power through and suck it up and figure it out is gone.

Iā€™m told thatā€™s what trauma does, and that most cancer patients experience some form of PTSD. 

The new me doesnā€™t feel quite so steady, takes a little longer to decide, moves at a slower pace, none of which are bad - just not how I ever remember being. 

Mourning the loss of yourself may be one of the most difficult things to grieve. 

I thank God for what heā€™s done; what he continues to do in this season even as I lament. 

I stopped wrestling with the idea that thereā€™s no way to experience gratitude and all these other emotions at the same time. 

They can and they do co-exist. 

I take each day as it comes and allow myself the space to feel what Iā€™m feeling ā€“ no apologies. Some days are easier than others. Maybe one day they will all be easier.

But for now, this is two years.

 

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Jen Donovan Jen Donovan

Finding My Voice - A Journey Through Cancer

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I remember truly little about the hours and days that followed my cancer diagnosis. The mind has a beautiful way of shielding us from what is too much to bear.

That Breast Cancer Awareness Month in 2019 was different from all the others. I was alone the October afternoon I learned I had breast cancer.

It was one month before my 39th birthday.

I remember one doctor reviewing my medical history and telling me I was one of the healthiest people he knew. Evidently not, though.

Isolation rushed in.

If I got engaged, married, or became pregnant at 38, there were a dozen friends I could call to ask for advice. Those who had been there before.

I had no one to call about cancer.

No one my age who knew what this was like. This was a road I had to walk alone, fighting to carve out a crooked path through the wilderness where no one had gone before me.

Some days.

On other days, it felt like I had been drop-kicked over a cliff.

I caught cancer early when I noticed some changes in my skin. It was also not aggressive, both of which can be rare for someone under 40. Short of not having it all, I was told I had the best possible scenario.

I ached for something better. A different story.

Not only was I alone amongst my friends, but I felt alone even in this new community of survivors. I was not about to join a support group and spew my raging emotions over my diagnosis amongst a group of twenty- or thirty-somethings with more advanced stages than me.

I finished treatment two days before the whole world locked down. Fighting cancer was hard. Processing the fight against the backdrop of a global pandemic was just as hard.

Trauma on top of trauma.

During the many months I battled this, every day had its agenda: a doctor to see, a treatment to follow, a plan to attack. I was under the watchful eye of an expert. I felt looked out for, not so alone.

But when it ended, I was released back into the world - a world I didnā€™t recognize - with no experts constantly checking in, no action to take. Everyone around you moves on, assuming you are done, but youā€™re never really done. This is when the real works begins.

What comes next? I found myself alone on that road again.

Now, more than a year-and-a-half later, these are some things I would tell the me who just got diagnosed, the woman who is just starting her journey, and the friend or family member who would like to better understand:

There is no ā€œeasyā€ cancer. Each instance is as unique as a fingerprint. And each diagnosis brings with it struggles and changes that can alter a life forever. Countless as the stars in the sky are the nuances to a cancer survivorā€™s experience. Survivorā€™s guilt is real, but donā€™t let it stop you from processing the way you need to. If someone you know has been diagnosed, throw out the ā€œeverything happens for a reasonā€ and ā€œit could be worseā€ cliches. Youā€™ve entered unchartered territory and itā€™s best to leave reasons and comparisons at the door.

Be kind to yourself. A cancer diagnosis brings a whole new meaning to the ā€œself-careā€ trend. Now, more than ever, give your body what it needs: rest and love, healthy food and, where possible, less stress. Maybe thereā€™s some deep emotional healing that needs to occur or boundary lines that need to be redrawn. I leaned on my faith in a way I never had before. It proved sturdy when everything else felt uncertain. The reset button has been hit for you. Take advantage and take a look at any unhealthy habits; the things that are within your power to control - mind, body, and soul.

Grief is not linear. One day youā€™re fine, the next youā€™re not. It may feel like youā€™ve rounded a corner towards emotional wholeness, and then youā€™ll spend a week thinking things will never get better. There is no straight superhighway through grief. And itā€™s not a race to see who can reach healing the fastest. If you need to cry, do it. Feeling angry? Feel it. And if youā€™re supporting someone going through cancer, just know it takes time.

Be your own advocate. Speak up where you need to. Ask questions when it doesnā€™t make sense. Explore other options when the ones presented donā€™t fit who you are. This is how I learned a better way to take care of myself. Some of these conversations will be really hard, but not as hard as having cancer and youā€™re already doing that. No one knows your body like you do and you will be faced with choices that will affect the rest of your life. Honor what you value when it comes to your health.

The only way out is through. I wish I could snap my fingers and magically transport you to the other side of this where you are better and happier. Free from constantly looking over your shoulder with every ache and pain. Less bruised and scarred. But I canā€™t. You will be brought to the edge of yourself and back again. You will lose a lot. You will gain some things, too. You will find what matters and discover new passions. You will raise your voice - for yourself and for others - and learn to live intentionally because thatā€™s what matters in the end. But it wonā€™t happen overnight.

Be gentle. Itā€™s a journey.

The only way out is through.

 

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