Don’t Miss Your Shot: A Letter to My Newly Diagnosed Self

Dear Georgia,

"Look, if you had one shot or one opportunity, to seize everything you ever wanted in one moment — would you capture it or just let it slip?" These are lyrics from the song, "Lose Yourself," by Eminem.

This quote runs through your head in quiet, everyday moments — long before Lynch syndrome crashed into your life. It becomes a constant motivator as you raise your son, Nicholas. From the moment Nicholas is born, you feel a deep responsibility to make every moment count. You never take the ordinary for granted, especially after witnessing your brother Jimmy's battle with colorectal cancer.

You play this Eminem track while engaging in the most mundane activities, and it slowly becomes an integral part of your philosophy. This is your one shot — don't miss it. You may not know precisely what that means at the time, but it makes you a more present and conscious person and parent. It reminds you to listen closely, love fiercely, and prioritize the moments that truly matter.

Then Lynch syndrome arrives — and those lyrics, once motivating, become urgent. Suddenly, this is no longer metaphorical. It becomes literal: you have one shot.

You remember the moment in the genetic counselor's office when she says, "You have tested positive for Lynch syndrome,” and it will hit you like a lightning bolt and become a constant looming shadow in your life. You learn you have a significantly increased lifetime risk of several aggressive cancers. You know you'll need frequent screenings, regular colonoscopies and endoscopies, and, ultimately, prophylactic surgeries. You nod politely, but inside, you are incandescent with rage. Rage that this gene mutation stole your brother. Rage that it now demands precious pieces of your body as collateral. Rage that you have to make yourself sick and cut yourself open to stay well. But worse of all, rage about knowing your son may have this mutation, too.

You are angry about what you have to lose to gain your future. No one should choose between health and wholeness. Between peace of mind and hormonal hell.

But here's the thing: your anger doesn't paralyze you—it empowers you.

Because this isn't just about you — it's about Nicholas. You think of Eminem's line again: Would you capture it or just let it slip?

You choose to capture it.

You choose colonoscopies and vigilant surveillance. You select a prophylactic hysterectomy and oophorectomy — knowing full well that losing your uterus and ovaries will profoundly change you, but also knowing that not removing your reproductive parts could cost you and Nicholas everything. And for all the grief that follows — the brutal plunge into surgical menopause, the loss of control, the identity shift — you hold onto one truth: This is the cost of showing up for your life, and you pay it willingly.

Your brother Jimmy doesn't get the chance to prevent his cancer. By the time he is diagnosed, it's too late. He dies in his thirties, leaving behind a baby who will never know him. His death lights a fire in you. You won't follow the same path if you can help it. You have tools Jimmy never had: knowledge, time, and choice. You take that one shot — and every follow-up scan and surgery since is done in his name, too. Your advocacy, your writing, and your vigilance are threads in the legacy Jimmy doesn't get to leave behind.

And the best part? You're still here. Cancer-free. Alive. Thriving.

All of these wonderful things with your son by your side.

There's a strange paradox with a diagnosis like this: it makes the world feel more dangerous and more beautiful at the same time. You begin seeing moments differently. Things others take for granted — ordinary dinners, walks, conversations — you see them in high definition. Lynch syndrome shifts your tectonic plates, but through the cracks, light comes in. And that light shines directly on your son.

From his earliest days, you nurture Nicholas's curiosity by taking him to explore the wonders of science and history side by side. You spend countless hours in museums and outdoors together—hiking trails, wandering parks, watching the stars — instilling in him a love of nature and a sense of awe for the universe. These experiences spark his imagination and guide him toward his passion for astrophysics.

He grows into a thoughtful, brilliant, compassionate young man. His mind operates on a grand scale, but his heart is deeply rooted. Your relationship with him is extraordinary—honest, funny, supportive, real. The kind of bond that comes from not wasting time, from facing mortality head-on and choosing to live anyway.

And when you watch him walk across the stage at his college graduation with a degree in physics, you don't just feel pride — you feel triumph. You make it to that moment — and not by accident. That moment is bought with pain, resilience, and a refusal to let this chance slip away.

When you are newly diagnosed, you think being strong means pushing through without flinching. Now, you know better. Strength is crying before a colonoscopy and endoscopy and going through with them anyway. Strength is having difficult conversations with your doctors, your family, and your future self. Strength lies in letting people in and showing others the door. Strength is being terrified of what might come and doing the next right thing anyway. You live years now without a cancer diagnosis — because of what you choose to do before cancer shows up. You embrace that one shot, even when it costs significant parts of yourself.

You become a fierce advocate and a voice for others navigating this path. You write the words you once needed to hear. You share Jimmy's story so others won't have to live it. You open the door for others to understand that inherited cancer syndromes aren't just risks—they are whole-life changes that demand courage every single day.

And you continue to parent the way you always have: with intention, presence, and deep, abiding love — because you know, more than most, that this life isn't guaranteed.

You only get one shot.

You don't miss it.

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