One year (and one day)

One year (and one day) since her diagnosis.

It’s like my life split without warning and I was forced onto a road no one would ever choose. A journey full of bumps, roadblocks and detours. We’ve seen some scary shit along the way and moments of so much beauty, too. It’s like being on a road trip with her that I never want to end but I’d be lying if I said it’s been anything but a miserable vacation.

I wanted to write something on this anniversary but I didn’t have the energy to finish it yesterday. I thought maybe if I slept on it, I could conjure up something inspiring. But this is the kind of exhaustion sleep doesn’t fix. Lately, even sleep doesn’t feel restorative perhaps because the quiet before it feels maddening.

My constant prayer is that she won’t feel any pain. And then I feel foolish, because who am I kidding, we're dealing with pain now.

I spent the last two weeks waking up next to her. She opens her eyes with her usual joy and then, seconds later, a sadness washes over her as reality sets in. I did that same thing for months waking up, those first few seconds blissful before the truth caught up. Now I can't seem to ever escape it. If I think it’s awful now, I don’t even want to imagine how much harder this will become. I try so hard to avoid that thought that while boarding the plane home, I caught myself thinking maybe He would spare us and take us together on this flight.

I regret thinking it. I regret typing it here. I’m not writing this for shock or pity or to concern anyone... I’m just telling you what's real.

On a more practical note, our second week in Florida went much better. The recliner was a game changer for her comfort. Roger suggested lifting the head of the mattress so she could sleep slightly elevated, which helped a ton. I eventually realized she wasn’t refusing to drink, she was avoiding the toilets because they were too low. When she cried trying to sit down and screamed, “I can’t do this!” I went straight to Walgreens and bought a raised seat with handlebars. The relief on her face when I installed it was worth every penny.

The real turning point came with a low-dose steroid prescription. Within 24 hours, she was back to her happy self. At one point she asked me, “What’s happening to my body?” and it crushed me. She can’t understand why she never really feels better and truly my own brain can’t reconcile it either.

We had a beautiful visit with Uncle Don and Aunt Carol. Our friend Ashlee and her parents flew down from Nebraska. And then Papa Joe and Nonna Mary hosted the most special Christmas celebration I have ever been to. Not flashy. Not overwhelming. It was intentional and full of care. Kara smiled ear to ear the entire night. It made me wish all gatherings could feel like that... where nothing is expected except presence and everyone leaves feeling held. It’s an evening I’ll never forget. It made the entire trip worth it in my mind.

I put together a short video capturing some of those moments.

There is one thing I keep coming back to, even on the hardest days and it's the friendships that have shown up and refused to disappear.

The people who message Kara just to let her know they’re thinking of her. She may be very selective and very Kara about who or how she responds but she loves every single message she gets. And the people who love her understand that. They don’t need constant replies or reassurance to stay present. They show up anyway. That kind of care is rare and I see it now in a way I never fully did before.

I think about Ashlee going out of her way to meet us in Florida, not because she had to but because she wanted to. I think about how she, Mitch, Lisa & John, made the trip to Alternating Currents this summer and spoke so highly of their experience. It speaks volumes to have people show up in that way. I don’t think I fully understood the weight of that kind of effort before this year. It all matters. Being seen matters.

I also know that many people are carrying their own heavy things. Some are busy surviving in ways I can’t see. Some don’t reach out because they’re afraid of saying the wrong thing or because they worry they’ll be bothering us when we're already carrying so much. I hold real grace for that. Truly.

Even with that understanding, there has been sadness in the quiet. Some relationships look different a year later. Not because of indifference or lack of care but because trauma reshapes proximity and capacity. Both things can be true at once.

I went to Florida desperate for healing. I thought the sun might help. I spent thirty minutes alone on the beach and sobbed the entire time over how unfair all of this is. How the sun used to ground my soul and now it can’t come close to competing with Kara’s radiance. She will always be my everything: the sun, the moon and the stars.

So I walked back through the sand and sat beside her, trying to hold the best of both worlds, the ocean in front of me and her next to me, sheltered inside the condo.

On the very last day of the trip, we spent the afternoon together on the beach with all of our friends and that was magical. That was a moment that last year we were not promised, actually if you go by what the doctors at Mayo said, we would have never made it there. And despite my misery lately, I am filled with gratitude that we are still making memories... especially on the beach. Kara is such a damn fighter.

I wish I had something more reflective or hopeful or brave to share on this anniversary. I think I will share more beauty from this trip on a better day. But today, I’m stuck on the unfairness.

Unfair that surviving hasn’t meant relief in her story, only endurance.

Unfair to carry vigilance like it’s muscle memory.

Unfair that, for my own sanity, I have to pretend this is something we’ll “get through,” when I know this trauma will stay with me forever.

A year later, the impact of the news is still constant. I’ve lost count of the quiet moments of fear or the way joy now comes with an asterisk.

I don’t have clarity. I don’t have lessons wrapped in a bow.

I just have the truth: this changed me and it’s still changing me. And while so many of you see strength in both of us, I’m afraid of the person this has made me.

Today, none of this feels inspiring.

The photo of her heading into surgery showed up in my Facebook memories and I felt sick thinking about revisiting everything I’ve shared this past year.

It just feels heavy.

And unfair.

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If You're New Here

Hi, I’m Alisha, Kara’s sister and biggest advocate. Kara was diagnosed with Stage 4 Triple-Negative Invasive Ductal Carcinoma (TNBC) in December 2024. Her cancer spread to her bones, liver and other areas, making this an incredibly difficult and uncertain journey.

Despite it all, Kara’s light still shines so brightly. She’s full of love, giggles and endless positivity. This blog is where I share updates on her fight, the highs and lows and the incredible community rallying around her.

Thank you for being here, for your love, support and prayers. We need them more than ever. 💛 And of course, Go Hawks!

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