A Love Letter to My Survivorship

The last few weeks have been triggering.

Two high-profile deaths linked to colorectal cancer. Headlines. Photos. Stories that hit too close to home. And James Van Der Beek — a young, on-set case. Originally Stage 3. Just like me.

I can feel the trauma responses trying to creep in. The spiral of “what ifs.” The survivor’s guilt.

Cancer is pain. But it’s also perspective.

And instead of letting fear narrate this chapter, I am choosing something else. I am choosing to continue the journey I started… to make my life a love letter to my survivorship.

This past calendar year, as a family, we threw caution to the wind.

We went to the Dominican Republic with our dear friends the Crofts and sustained ourselves on ice cream, fruity drinks, and sunshine. We crashed a wedding on the beach and laughed like people who understand that joy is not something to postpone.

We booked a spur-of-the-moment trip to Italy during this Jubilee Year. We ate gelato, pasta, and pizza without apology. We had dinner under lemon trees. We stood inside the Vatican and the Colosseum, wandered Pompeii, tossed coins in Trevi Fountain, swam off a beach in Sorrento, and took a pizza-making class overlooking a bridge in Rome built before the birth of Christ. It was impossible not to feel the weight of history. And also the quiet gratitude of simply being alive in it.

I went camping in Petoskey, Michigan. Yes, camping. Because I love being with my family, the Canfields, and the Gearys more than I dislike sleeping in a tent. We ate Jason’s famous goulash, watched a fiery pink sunset on the beach, and laughed hysterically telling old stories. Brian and I made rookie mistakes. We froze. And I decided that wasn’t the part worth remembering.

One football Saturday morning, I woke up and convinced Luke to take a road trip with me to South Bend. Two of my college girlfriends, Maureen and Laura, were there with their families, and I didn’t tell them I was coming. I had two precious hours to tailgate with them and squeeze my goddaughter, Juliet. Once the game started and campus grew quiet, Luke and I wandered around and took pictures in all my favorite spots — Badin Hall, Touchdown Jesus, the Moose Krause statue. We stopped at the bookstore and had ice cream for lunch. There was something about sharing a place I love so much with someone I love so much that felt especially meaningful that day.

On a whim, we flew to New York for my friend Rachel’s son’s bar mitzvah. We watched all the traditions unfold and all Alexander’s hard preparation put to work. I watched with a motherly sense of pride as he spoke about Jewish traditions around death and being named for the grandfather he never met, a legacy he bravely talked about carrying forward. There was something so special about seeing the boy of a friend I love so much carry himself in such a way. On that trip, we danced our brains out, played laser tag in dress clothes, wandered Times Square and Bryant Park, and even met Mike Myers.

We skied in Northern Michigan. We also gathered with the Hannons in Minneapolis and showed the boys our little stucco house on 17th Ave South where it all began. We rode a four-person bike at Minnehaha Falls, stayed in a dome house, and watched fireworks from a sunset cruise on Lake Minnetonka.

And yes, we brought home the GSP puppy because her Facebook photo was too cute to resist… and because we wanted an additional four-legged family member to pour our love into.

I know how privileged this all is. And, candidly, some of it was a stretch. Some of it was out of my comfort zone.

But tomorrow is not promised.

So, we are living in the moment…chasing the big, meaningful experiences, while not losing sight of the gratitude for the small, ordinary ones

When the headlines try to pull me, I return to this: I am still here.

And as long as I’m here, I’ll keep building this love letter the only way I know how… by living it.

XO,
Mary

Choosing Hope Again and Again

I am a Libra, and I fit that zodiac sign to a T. Balance. Peace. Justice… and yes, sometimes the inability to make a quick decision because I like to consider all the angles.

After a couple of heavy weeks in our country, I came into this weekend feeling anxious and unsettled. I boarded my plane to Salt Lake City for the Paltown/Colontown annual retreat in a complete funk. When I landed, I did my best to take a deep breath and be open to whatever the weekend would bring.

As I climbed onto the shuttle bus to my hotel, I immediately met another fellow Colontownie named Shannon. She was warm, full of energy, and we immediately struck up a meaningful conversation. The sun was shining, mountains surrounded us, and I felt like I could take another deep breath.

Throughout the weekend, I was in the company of Shannon and others from the Paltown/Colontown organization, people who have dedicated countless hours of their time, skills, and experience to help colorectal cancer patients and caregivers navigate an incredibly difficult journey. Many of them serve as neighborhood hosts, leaders, or members of the Board of Directors, and most have faced their own personal experiences as patients or caregivers.

Being with them reminded me that we have a choice about who and what we give our energy and passion to. I was struck by this group of individuals who have been fueled by their struggles, rather than left helpless and depleted. Many have been told they were going to die or that they weren’t candidates for certain therapies or surgeries. Yet they kept advocating for themselves. They kept going. And giving.

They did this despite the scary internet statistics and grim first opinions. This is living and surviving with purpose for TODAY, no matter what the eventual outcome. This is hope.

At one point during the retreat weekend, Shannon invited me to join her and three other Colontown members, Cat, Melisa, and Ken, to explore downtown Salt Lake and grab lunch. I had never met any of them before Friday. They came from New Jersey, South Carolina, Ohio, and Virginia. Our only common thread was our lived experience with rectal cancer. Yet we had so much fun and endless things to talk about. That is connection.

Coming out of the weekend, I couldn’t help but feel this Colontown retreat was exactly what I needed to put the current events of the world into clearer view.

We need hope and connection now more than ever. God put us on this earth to shine our light and use our gifts to help others and make the world a better place. Every day, we get to choose what we consume, what we say, how we act, and the example we set. Nobody else chooses that for us.

Call me idealistic. That’s the Libra in me. But I didn’t almost die of cancer to live my life in darkness, hate, or behind a screen. I will choose hope. I will keep showing up with balance, compassion, and a desire to understand rather than be right, even when the world feels messy and divided… and maybe a little bit like it’s lost its mind.

As the wheels of my plane are about to touch down in Grand Rapids, I feel grounded in my purpose and ready to keep moving forward. As we say in Colontown: Keep Fucking Going.

XO,
Mary

Lessons I Learned in the Little White Car… Continued

Preface

Today’s blog needs a bit of a preface…

Just after returning home from a dream vacation in Italy last week, I was met with the difficult reality, along with my family, that my Aunt Mary had passed away and would soon be laid to rest.

Some of you may remember an earlier blog post I wrote about Aunt Mary, an aunt with whom I shared a special bond from the time I was a very little girl, riding around with her in her little white car.

Yesterday, her family, friends, Father Paul, and the Dominican Sisters and lay associates gathered to honor her in a series of beautiful services. The day was sunny, hot, and still. But as we stood at her gravesite, saying our final prayers and goodbyes, a soft, gentle breeze suddenly stirred. In that breeze, I felt her peaceful presence all around us.

During her Remembering Service, one of Mary’s friends spoke of her love for thunderstorms and the anticipation she felt for what comes next. Fittingly, I was awakened last night by a loud clap of thunder, followed by soft rain throughout the day. Speaking with another friend today, we wondered if maybe Aunt Mary was giving us a sign.

Processing her loss has been difficult and anything but linear. Her health declined quickly, and until recently, I hadn’t fully realized how often I reached out to her to share a small story, a funny moment, or something inspirational. We were alike in our hunger for inspiration and ideas… things that fed our souls, spoke to justice, and reminded us of the connectedness of humanity. We fueled each other’s spirits, and now I will need to keep that energy going without her. There are half a dozen things alone today that I picked up my phone to text her and then remembered she wasn’t here.

At her Remembering Service, I shared a reflection on Mary’s impact on my life and faith. As I read it aloud, I became more aware of the gifts she instilled in me—gifts that will stay with me always. I’ll hold onto those, and I will be listening for her gentle whispers to remind me to use my gifts and stay open to what comes next.

I share it with you now to give you a glimpse at who she was and the wisdom she imparted on me in the little white car and beyond.

My Reflection

For those of you that I haven’t met, I am Mary’s niece Mary Hannon. You may have heard her refer to me as “Little Mary”, though not so little anymore. On behalf of our family, I would like to thank everyone for being here today to honor Mary’s life and memory.

When I was a little girl, my Aunt Mary would often pick me up in her little white car. It was a simple ritual — just the two of us, cruising along the back roads to Grand Haven or Grandma Muffy’s house, windows rolled down — but to me, those rides were really special. I was a chatty, curious kid, and she was a great listener and companion. Together, we’d belt out Bruce Springsteen and the Rolling Stones, hum along with Peter, Paul, and Mary, and talk about everything under the sun.

She was a child of the 60’s so Lemon Tree and Stewball were particular favorites. We also shared a strong love for the Sound of Music, and all of the songs that come with it. I will miss her text message each December reminding me when it will be on TV.

For me, those drives in the little white car weren’t just about getting somewhere. They were about becoming someone. Aunt Mary had a way of bringing the world closer — through music, through conversation, and through the kind of honest, heartfelt dialogue that most grown-ups don’t have with kids. We talked about everything from Santa to becoming a woman. About faith and feminism. About justice and hunger and what it meant to be part of something bigger than yourself. I learned about her experiences as a volunteer with the Big Brother, Big Sister organization. And through our conversations, I came to know and admire some of her heroes – Mother Teresa, Gandhi, and Nelson Mandela.

Though our drives were less frequent as I got older, our conversations continued. When I was in my 30’s Mary joined the Dominican Sisters of Grand Rapids as a Dominican Associate and later took full time employment here at the Dominican Center. The Sisters became an instant extension of her family and provided so much love, support, and inspiration to Mary in the last decades of her life. And through all of this, I came to also love and respect the Sisters very much.

During her time at DCM, I saw Mary find a new purpose and her faith strengthen – she was on a journey inspired by the Sisters to explore her relationship with God, with Christ, and with the broader community. Mary could be stubborn to a fault, but her passion fueled her. It was not uncommon during the last years of her life, for Mary to email me or drop a piece of spiritual reading material at my doorstep – Ilia Delio, Laudato Si by Pope Francis, or a sermon delivered by Maureen Geary. How lucky I was to be the recipient of this wisdom… this invitation to strengthen my relationship with God and really think about my purpose in this world.

One of the pieces she dropped off at my doorstep a couple of years ago was called, “The Primacy of Love” by Ilia Delio, a Franciscan nun, brilliant scientist, and theologian. This piece really spoke to Mary, and in turn, it stuck with me. It broke down what it is to be a child of God in possibly the most simple and beautiful way I have ever heard to-date. I come back to it often, and I would like to share a little excerpt from it today (it’s a couple of paragraphs so bear with me… I promise it’s worth the listen):

Given the primacy of love, if we have only one choice to make today, let us choose to love, let us seek love in all aspects of our lives.

If love really is the truth of our existence and the truth of God, then may we not aim to meet the minimum requirements of love; rather, let us love to the point of tears. Let us breathe in the pain of the world and breathe out the goodness of love, letting go in love, from the simplest act of gratitude, to caring for another or perhaps risking our lives for a stranger – or better yet – loving our enemy.

For every act of love is a personalization of God and when God is born through our lives, heaven unfolds on earth. All that we long for and anticipate becomes a reality in this moment, in the here and now, in every particular act of love.

What more do we need than the power of love to turn the tears of this world into a heartfelt song that endures beyond time and space?

Where there is love, death has no power over us. It is love alone that sets us free, and in this freedom of love we can know unspeakable joy, for we see with the eye of the heart what remains forever closed to the finite mind.

Through the eyes of love, we see the face of God.

So, I leave this with you today. As we remember Mary, I invite you to take the gifts she bestowed upon you with you as you move forward. I also invite you to look for the love of God around you. It’s everywhere.

One of the last times I saw Mary, she looked at me very resolutely and said, “No matter what happens, I will be ok.” This is a woman who knew that she was loved by all of you… and most of all by God.

XO-

“Little” Mary

Shine Because of It

Whoever said to love is to lose was tragically right.

Last week Thursday my good friend Howard Brown died of Acute Myeloid Leukemia.

Howard’s story was one of resilience and radiant purpose. After facing two separate cancer diagnoses—first Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, then rectal cancer—he could have pulled back. But that just wasn’t Howard. Instead, he stepped forward and chose to lead. His path led him to the heart of the COLONTOWN and PALTOWN communities, where he became a steady guide, a tireless advocate, and a trusted friend to so many, including me.

I met Howard, by chance, about 4 years ago when I joined COLONTOWN, but our friendship was sealed by our connection to Chelsea Boet and the work we were doing together on the Board of Directors for PALTOWN in supporting patients and caregivers around the world living with colorectal cancer.

From the time that I knew Howard, I can say with certainty that he loved his daughter, his twin sister, his parents, Babson college, and basketball. And along with his passion for supporting work in the cancer community, he was also very passionate about his Jewish faith and interfaith work.

Howard had this beautiful way of lifting others up with his wisdom, honesty, and unwavering hope. He poured that same spirit into Shine Brightly, a book that didn’t just tell his cancer story—it captured how he chose to live every single day: with courage, kindness, and light. Even in his last fight with leukemia, Howard never stopped showing up for the people he loved and the community he helped build. He didn’t just believe in shining brightly despite life’s struggles. He believed in shining because of them. That’s what I’ll remember most.

When I spoke with Howard on the phone three weeks ago, I had a feeling it was the last time I would talk to him. He sounded tired but resolute in what he had done on earth and ready to go be with his God. He and I laughed that he could also once again be reunited with Chelsea. I asked him if they could please look down on me. I didn’t say a final good-bye to Howard that day. I didn’t tell him how much his friendship and mentorship had meant to me. And honestly… I regret that. I am hopeful that he felt our connection and knew what it was that I really wanted to say, but didn’t have the heart to in that moment.

Remaining in the cancer support and advocacy world, means that I lose people. Again and again and again. It’s hard. But a good friend recently encouraged me to look for the things that God has to teach us in the struggles and challenges of life. I do not mean to place toxic positivity over the struggle, but I think she is right. I have probably learned more about myself in the last 6 years of my life than the other 39 combined. And it has made me a more inspired and intentional person.

So, I am going to take the next few days to be sad. And then I am going to make my way back to shining brightly because we have work to do.

Rest in peace, Howard.

XO-

Mary

PS – You can read more about Howard and his legacy on his memorial page here: https://paltown.org/howard/

The Crosses We Bear. The Light We Share.

I am thankful.

After five years, I have had all the scans and lab work to confirm that I am officially cancer-free and cured from Stage 3 colorectal cancer. I also technically graduated from regular oncology and surgeon visits, which is equal parts scary and amazing.

Just on the heels of this happy news, however, I had a bit of a scare. After a routine MRI, I received a call from the Comprehensive Breast Center at St. Mary’s that they found a very suspicious mass in my left breast that would need to be biopsied right away. As you can imagine, PTSD set in immediately.

The morning of my biopsy, I left a little early for my appointment and found my way up to the chapel at Lacks Cancer Center. The chapel was empty and quiet, which was exactly what I needed in that moment. Just me and God. I got down on my knees, folded my hands, bowed my head and told God that if this diagnosis was His will, I would bear it. There was great freedom in that moment.

Lucky for me, the mass turned out to be benign, and I could move on with my life truly cancer-free. Shortly after that day, I was on my daily (well mostly daily) walk. Sometimes when I walk, I listen to gangster rap and some days my Hallow App. This particular day, I turned into my Hallow App and came upon a sermon that felt so timely.

In this sermon, the priest noted that God’s power is made perfect in weakness, and that we don’t have to be healed to be whole. He continued on to say that God can be glorified in our thorns and broken hearts, and that we don’t have to wait to be fully restored… We can give off light now, even in the midst of trial and weakness.

This got me reflecting on the ways in which cancer has caused me and many of the others I know in the cancer community to find their voice, their spark, and their tribe (or sweet wagons 😉). Top of mind are my friends John E. and Howard B., but there are COUNTLESS others. It was a reminder to me that we are not expected to be perfect. We are expected to keep trying our best. There is great power and inspiration to be found when we show our vulnerability and our humanity.

I am still figuring out life after cancer, but I know that a spark has been lit in me, and I am going to be open to where it leads me. Because in the dark seasons, others need our light.

XO-

Mary

World Cancer Day

Today is World Cancer Day, and it has me in a reflective mood..

Throughout my life, especially, during my own cancer journey, I have met so many amazing cancer patients and caregivers. These are people who, in the midst of very trying circumstances, have put one foot in front of the other day after day, treatment after treatment, disappointment after disappointment, challenge after challenge.

I have also been able to bear witness to amazing acts of support and kindness by family, friends, and co-workers who have risen to the occasion for these people in the midst of their suffering. Meals, cards, flowers, phone calls, prayers, childcare, blankets, cozy socks, encouragement, Ensure, coloring books, races run, or a kind look even if they don’t have the words… You get the point. For those that have helped me and continued to support me, you know who you are, and I can tell you that I haven’t forgotten any of it.

All of this reminded me of a passage I recently read in a book by the poet Amanda Gorman. This particular poem was written about COVID, but it fits so beautifully with the cancer struggle as well. In the Miracle of Morning she says:

So, on this meaningful morn, we mourn & we mend.

Like light, we can’t be broken even when we bend…

We ignite not in the light, but in lack thereof.

For it is in loss that we truly learn to love.

In this chaos, we will discover clarity.

In suffering we must find solidarity.

For it’s our grief that gives us gratitude.

Shows us how to find hope, if we ever lose it.

So ensure that this ache wasn’t endured in vain:

Do not ignore the pain. Give it purpose. Use it…

From these waves of woes our world will emerge stronger…

We’ll observe how the burdens braved by humankind

Are also the moments that make us humans kind;

Let each morning find us courageous, brought closer;

Heeding the light before the fight is over.

When this ends, we’ll smile sweetly, finally seeing

In testing times, we became the best of beings.

On this World Cancer Day, we support the fighters, admire the survivors, and honor the taken… along with all those walking beside them. THANK YOU to all of you who have walked with me and inspired me in your own journeys. In the chaos. In the pain. In the fight. In the dark. And in the light.

XO-

Mary

The Best Is Yet To Be

This month marks five years since my colorectal cancer diagnosis.

The last five years have been a lot. Cancer, COVID, craziness at work, doing all the mom things. Rinse. Repeat. Barrel forward. Try to keep up.

Then, things came to a bit of a screeching halt when a restructure at work impacted my position with Aspen Surgical, causing me to have an unplanned career change that will take place this Spring. Initially I felt pretty lost. After 16 years at Aspen, I felt like I was leaving behind a big piece of my identity. At 43, the idea of starting over with my career was pretty daunting. I kept thinking that so many of the greatest achievements and milestones of my life had already been met… choosing a spouse, working through infertility to finally having a family, working for Target Corporation, living in a big city, moving home and rejoining Aspen in 2008 and helping grow it by more than 7 times revenue, and probably most notably, beating cancer.

I was left thinking, “What now?” I received lots of counsel to allow myself time to decompress, grieve, be patient, and remain open. In many ways, I am still working through that. But a really amazing job opportunity did come my way… and much quicker than I anticipated. I can’t wait to tell you all more about that in future blogs. What I will say is that in one of his emails to me, my future employer closed it with the phrase, “The best is yet to be.”

That phrase caught my attention and changed my frame of thinking. I have been given the gift of more life to live than just the past 43 years. It’s an invitation worthy of my exploration. I can firmly say that I want to be a more present parent, spouse, and friend, a more inspiring leader at work, and continue to advocate for the cause of colorectal cancer through my work on the Board of Directors for COLONTOWN.

The month of February was forever tainted for me five years ago upon my cancer diagnosis, but I am one of the lucky ones. All of my scans, colonoscopies, and blood work up to this point have been clear, and if things remain on track, in September, I will be deemed CURED. Every once and awhile I get caught in the minutiae and lose sight of that. So I am very glad for this new set of circumstances to bring me back and help me see things in a different light.

The best IS yet to be.

More to come on that…

XO-

Mary

For Her

On this night before Thanksgiving, I have had all these thoughts about gratitude swirling around in my head, so I decided to come back to the blog and work it out on paper.

I have so much that I am truly grateful for…

As you know by following me on this blog, I am infinitely grateful for my health.

I am also grateful for Brian who is the absolute best partner in life. He understands all the crazy things about me and loves me anyway. He supports me steadfastly and balances me out beautifully.

I am grateful for Luke and Noah, who came within 16 months of each other after 10 years of struggling with infertility. They are both extraordinary gifts for two very different reasons.

But this particular year, I am reminded how grateful I am of my 6 girlfriends from college, famously nicknamed “The Badin Boots” – Molly, Laura, Nicole, Tiffney, Maureen, and Carolyn.

Recently one of the Boots lost her mother to lung cancer. The visitation and funeral were this week in Kentucky. Without hesitation, Brian urged me to go even though it meant he would have to drive with the boys to Kansas for Thanksgiving 12 hours by himself. And every single one of the other girls showed up to the funeral services. Despite distance, work schedules, childcare demands, and Thanksgiving prep, EVERY BOOT SHOWED UP. But as I think about it, that’s what we have been doing our best to do since 2002 when graduated.

Since the era of texting, there has literally not ONE day that we haven’t talked on our text thread. Sometimes its talk about politics, current events, or the latest T. Swift album, but often it’s for support. Sometimes one of us (me) is locked in a bathroom in tears questioning her parenting skills. Other times, one of us is venting about balancing life and work, looking for encouragement to get mental health support, sharing fears about a new diagnosis, expressing frustration with infertility, struggling to manage life in a pandemic, trying to find ways of weaning a baby from breastfeeding, coping with parents facing serious illnesses… The list goes on, but I guess my point is that the shit gets real on this thread, but we approach it with both honesty with love.

This brings me to a plot twist in the week. After I returned to my hotel room after the visitation on Monday night, I came down with the worst case of the stomach flu I have had in years. I ended up having to miss the funeral as well as my flight to Kansas to meet up with Brian and his family for Thanksgiving. My friend was so gracious and understanding that I was unable to make the service for her mom. Brian was also very understanding of this change in plans, which would leave him going it alone again with the boys on the drive back from Kansas to Michigan.

When I as at an all-time low yesterday, the Boots dropped by my hotel room to bring me Gatorade, Sprite, soup, Saltines, Pepto Bismol, and pj pants. It was pure love in a Target bag. I looked like complete death, and I sobbed for a minute while they looked at me from the doorway with the sympathy I needed in that moment to power through the rest of my stomach flu day.

So when I got on the plane to make my journey home tonight, I started my playlist with For Her by the Chicks (A Boots favorite and anthem). For all the times my girls have stood up, shown up, shown love, and reminded me I was a fighter, I am so grateful. What we have is special.

XO-

Mary

PS – For a listen to the whole song… https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IMLDRXDcpX4

A picture of all the Boots (but me – LOL) at the funeral luncheon.

World Mental Health Day

I recently shared this reflection on mental health with all our Aspen team members, and on this World Mental Health Day, I wanted to share it with you also. XO- Mary

Dear Aspen Team,

When we kicked off Mental Health Awareness Month in early September, we shared a statistic that approximately 1 in 4 Americans suffer from a mental illness. In the spirit of transparency, I am one of those people.

Many of you know that just after Valentine’s Day in 2019 I woke up from a colonoscopy to learn that I had Stage 3b colorectal cancer. For the next nine months, I put my head down and barreled through chemotherapy, radiation, and two major live-saving surgeries. During that 10-month timeframe, I also lost my grandpa and uncle, my brother got married, and Aspen sold to Audax and broke off from Hillrom. It was a lot… to say the least.

By Christmas of that year, I had completed my last surgery, and the reality of what I had just been through came crashing down on me all once. Before I really had a chance to process all of that, COVID-19 hit and turned life COMPLETELY upside down. Then a fellow colorectal cancer patient and friend of mine died. She was a person I considered to be my “cancer whisperer”, someone that was fighting alongside me and who knew that being a professional woman with two little kids AND cancer is REALLY hard.

The survivor’s guilt and gravity of her death on top of everything else I had been through became incredibly heavy. Previously I thought I could manage it on my own, trudging through minute by minute and putting a smile on my face hoping that the one day I would wake up and just magically feel better. But the truth is that didn’t happen. I woke up day after day feeling like I was suffocating under the weight of the last two years.

One night, while with some close friends, I confided in them that I was having a very hard time managing my feelings and anxiety. I was crying every day. With tough love, they urged me to seek out a mental health professional. They sat with me and helped me to find some potential resources but made me accountable to report back within two weeks to confirm I had made an appointment with a counselor.

I did hold myself accountable. I made the appointment. And more importantly, I showed up for the appointment. I talked to Sandra Boland in HR and Jason Krieser about the situation, and they were incredibly supportive and encouraging. To be honest, I don’t know what I was waiting for… Or what I was afraid of… Maybe it was making time for it. Maybe it was shame. Or maybe it was worry over having to tell a stranger about my feelings. But when I walked out of my counselor’s office that day, I felt 100 times lighter. I have shared a lot of feelings, stories, and worries with my counselor since that day. She has been so helpful as I work to sort through them, providing me with tools to help me better manage my anxiety and depression.

Everyone’s story is a little different. You certainly don’t need to have major events like cancer and COVID to bring about struggles with mental health. And, similarly, not everyone will find the same strategies and tools helpful in working through mental health challenges. Taking the first step might feel very hard, but it could be as easy as utilizing our EAP resources at Aspen, talking to your family doctor, or asking a friend or family member to help you identify potential mental health care providers in your area.

If nothing else, in sharing my story, I want to impart on you that if you are struggling, you are not alone and you don’t need to struggle alone. You also don’t need to be ashamed to reach out for help and support because mental health is vital to overall health and the wellbeing of ourselves, our families, our workplaces, and the communities in which we live.

Sincerely,

Mary Hannon, VP Marketing and Communications

The Story of Tonight

Three years ago today, I woke up from a colonoscopy to find a surgeon in the room with me. That didn’t seem like a good sign. I was in a sedated stupor, and Dr. Dujovny in the kindest most gentle way began to tell me that they found a mass during the procedure and that he wanted me to be prepared for a colorectal cancer diagnosis in the next couple of days.

That moment and the next nine months that followed were, and still are, a complete blur. I put my head down and barreled through a port placement, chemotherapy, radiation, two major surgeries, a lung biopsy, and pelvic floor physical therapy. The girl that went to sleep the morning of that colonoscopy on February 20^th, 2019 had no idea what she was in for… but also no idea what she was made of.

And three years later, I am lucky enough to be here. To have had my life spared. To be spending a long President’s Day weekend seeing Hamilton with Brian, watching Premier League soccer with Luke, and taking the boys skiing up North. To have the privilege to be a little lost in trying to determine what I was meant to do in the rest of this life. To see the opportunity in every day to pay it forward and make people feel loved and supported the way I felt so loved and supported. To submit to the fact that I have all the control, and yet, none at all. To feel all the feelings…

Last night in the closing act of Hamilton, I was struck with so much emotion as the cast sang Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story. Tears streaming down my face, it was like the message was meant for me in that moment on the eve of this cancerversary. I was overcome by the gratitude to be in the narrative… to be here to tell my own story and to have the gift of time.

Three years and counting…

XO- Mary