Nicole Boyd

I’m a single mom with chronic lymphocytic leukemia sharing how cancer tested me but revealed my resilience, hardship and the power of speaking up.

I never imagined I’d be writing something like this. Then again, I never imagined I’d be a 38-year-old single mom with cancer — exhausted, in treatment, juggling chaos with one hand and holding my life together with the other. But here I am at 41. Still fighting. Still standing.

If I could sit with the version of myself from day one — the nurse blinking under fluorescent lights, suddenly the patient, nodding at a diagnosis she couldn’t fully process — I wouldn’t give her a Pinterest quote or a pep talk. I’d take her hand and say, “You’re not broken. You’re about to find out how strong you already are.”

Cancer doesn’t hand out strength like a reward. It strips you down, shows you what was already there, and then tests you — again and again — just to see if you’ll still stand.

I found that out the day I heard the words “chronic lymphocytic leukemia.” I didn’t cry. I flipped a switch and went into nurse mode. Asked smart questions. Took notes like I was prepping for a board exam. Booked appointments like I was planning a vacation — except I was gearing up for war. And I told everyone I was fine, like someone trained to look okay no matter what.

I wasn’t fine. But managing everyone else’s emotions was easier than facing my own. I got through the first round of treatment and thought, “Okay. I’ve got this.” I started sketching out small, hopeful plans. Maybe even a celebration. Then — less than three months later — relapse. The universe came swinging back like, “Did you miss me?” It hit hard. I wasn’t ready to start over. Back in the chair. Back on the meds. Asking the same awful question: What now?

Then — because cancer apparently wasn’t chaotic enough — I lost my job and health insurance. I remember thinking, “How am I supposed to survive this?” I’m immunocompromised. Some days, I can barely stand. I can’t slap on a blazer and pretend I’m fine while applying for jobs like I don’t have a full-time disease. The stress wasn’t just emotional — it was logistical, financial, and brutally unfair. It felt like playing chess with the pieces on fire — every move urgent, every decision burning from both ends.

Cancer doesn’t always look how people expect. I’m not bald or hooked up to machines. But I live with chronic pain, swelling, rashes, and a fatigue so heavy it feels like gravity has doubled. My immune system is always compromised — I catch everything, and when I do, it hits hard.

And the exhaustion? It’s not just tired. It’s bone-deep, brain-fog, can’t get off the couch tired.

Then there’s the financial side. Scans, meds, labs — none of it’s optional, and all of it adds up. Every January, the deductible resets, which is a cruel reminder that healing is expensive. It’s like the system is built to ignore nuance — to overlook the people in the middle.

What saved me — eventually — was speaking up. First for myself. Then for others like me. The ones fighting invisible battles with quiet, relentless courage that rarely gets noticed. Cancer didn’t just attack my body — it cracked open my entire life. It changed how I move through the world. It taught me to slow down, to listen, to ask for help even when I hated needing it. It forced me to redefine strength.

Sometimes, strength is just taking your meds. Making it to an appointment. Getting out of bed. Answering a text. I used to think telling my story would make me look weak. Now I know it’s the strongest thing I can do.

One moment I’ll never forget happened in the ER. A nurse asked who to list as my emergency contact. I froze — my only options were my teenagers, and they weren’t old enough. Almost embarrassed, I said, “I’ve got nobody.”

She looked up and met my eyes. “Do you know why you think you have nobody?” she asked, calm and steady.

I didn’t answer. Then she said, “Because you’re enough.”

It hit like a punch wrapped in kindness. I didn’t feel like enough — not even close. But for a moment, she made me believe maybe I was.

Cancer has given me more than pain — it’s given me perspective. If you’re newly diagnosed, I’m not going to tell you to be strong. You already are. Even on the days you cry in the shower. Even when you feel like you’re disappearing. You’re still here. You’re still strong. I’m still in treatment. Still tired. Still fighting. But I’m also reclaiming my voice. Rebuilding my life. Learning to find joy in places I never thought to look.

Because healing isn’t always about going back to who you were. Sometimes, it’s about becoming someone new — and realizing she was there all along.

For more news on cancer updates, research and education, don’t forget to 

subscribe to CURE®’s newsletters here.

Articles

A 41-year-old single mother shares her journey with chronic lymphocytic leukemia, highlighting the emotional, financial, and physical challenges she faces. Despite the hardships, she emphasizes the importance of self-advocacy and finding strength in vulnerability. Her experience underscores the reality of living with cancer, which often defies societal expectations and involves invisible battles. Through her story, she redefines strength and healing, focusing on personal growth and resilience. Her narrative serves as a testament to the power of speaking up and reclaiming one's identity amidst adversity.

Nicole Boyd

Cancer Didn’t Break Me; It Revealed My Strength

Latest News