I went for an ordinary eye exam and was told they thought I had cancer. I remember thinking: that is not what I came here to hear. At worst, I expected to leave with a prescription for bifocals. What I left with changed everything.
I was a school principal at the time—leading a building full of children and staff, making decisions and solving problems. Now, I sat in an exam chair hearing words I was not prepared for: ciliary body ocular melanoma—a rare form of eye cancer.
My first thought was not about me. It was about my two little boys—one in kindergarten, one in second grade—waiting at 
home, completely unaware their mother’s world had just shifted beneath her feet.
In the days that followed, I discovered something that broke my heart. My second grader had overheard adults talking. He went to school and told his class his mom had cancer—and she was going to die. He drew the only conclusion a seven-year-old could.
Having that conversation with my children was one of the hardest things I have ever done. Harder than standing in front of a 
student with a gun. Harder than leading through institutional corruption.
I sat down with my boys, looked them in the eyes, and said:
“I have cancer—but cancer does not have me.”
In that moment, I knew my words would either fuel their fear… or steady their faith.
I told them I was going to keep fighting—for my health, for our family, and for the strength to show them we could face anything together.
My husband and I believe the most important lesson we can 
model for our children is resilience. Strength does not come from avoiding difficulty. It comes from showing up—again and again— especially when it’s hard.
Ocular melanoma clarified everything. It deepened my gratitude for ordinary moments— homework at the kitchen table, bedtime stories, Saturday morning cartoons. It reminded me that leadership is not something you leave at the office. It lives in the hardest conversations, the quietest acts of courage, and the moments when the people who love you most are watching.
Today, twenty years later, we celebrate what once felt uncertain. My boys are now young adults, and watching them navigate their own challenges with resilience, courage, and integrity is a gift I do not take for granted.
To every woman reading this who has ever received news she was not prepared for—take a breath. The people who need you 
most do not need you to be fearless. They need to witness your courage to keep going.
You are not defined by the moment that shakes you.
You are defined by how you rise after it.
You Are Made of More.
