When the Diagnosis Comes

Three Years Later, I’m Still Breathing

“Fear not, for I am with you. Be not dismayed, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”
— Isaiah 41:10

Three years ago, a note from my 11 year old daughter landed in my hands as I walked into the ER thinking I had lingering COVID. Isaiah 41:10 jumped off the page and into my heart in her sweet handwriting. At the time, I didn’t know that verse would become my anchor for the next year. I didn’t know I’d carry that slip of paper with me into the hardest season of my life.

I didn’t know I had leukemia.

The Day Everything Changed

When the words Acute Myeloid Leukemia left the doctor’s lips, time stopped. The room didn’t spin—it silenced. What had started as a quick blood draw spiraled into bone marrow biopsies, hospital transfers, and a crash course in a language I never wanted to learn.

There’s no manual for being told you have cancer. There’s no script. There’s just a moment when your old life ends—and the next chapter thrusts itself into your new reality.

For me, it was grief, disbelief, faith, and hope crashing into each other all at once.

I’ve always been the strong one, the “I’ve got this” girl. The CrossFit mom who packed snacks, wrangled four kids, and didn’t ask for help. But nothing—no workout, no mindset, no planning—could prepare me for that moment.

And yet, even then, I wasn’t alone.

God in the Room

I used to think I understood God’s presence. I believed He was there. But when the diagnosis came, all the illusions of control shattered, and His nearness became more real than the beat of my own heart. Not in the cliché way people say “God is with you,” but in the way a child feels their Father kneeling down to look them in the eyes, steadying them.

That note from Kayla? That wasn’t a coincidence. It was a whisper from heaven. A pre-written promise from a God who already knew the storm I was stepping into.

I clung to that note every day. Until one day, a kind CNA accidentally threw it away. 

And I cried—hard. Because it wasn’t just paper; it was presence. It was hope.

But God, in His kindness, kept sending more—letters, texts, songs, nurses who prayed with me, and Scripture, always Scripture showing up exactly when I needed it.

If You’re in the Moment Right Now…

Maybe you’re reading this right after your own diagnosis. Maybe you’re the friend, the spouse, the sibling standing next to someone whose world just caved in.

Here’s what I want you to know:

• You don’t have to be strong.
  
• You don’t have to have the right words.
  
• You’re allowed to be afraid, sad, and even angry.
  
• But you are not alone.
  

I know because I’ve walked through the valley. And I’m still here—three years later. Healed, thriving, back to dancing in the kitchen with my kids, still loving that handsome husband, still holding onto that verse in my heart even when the original note is gone.

God didn’t just carry me through leukemia. He transformed me in it.

A Final Word

If today’s your diagnosis day, take a breath. Feel what you need to feel. But don’t let fear write your story. The Author of your story hasn’t put the pen down.

And if you’re past the valley, like me, maybe it’s time to remember that first moment—not to relive the pain, but to give thanks. Because healing doesn’t mean forgetting. It means honoring the road we’ve walked and testifying to the One who walked it with us.

Here’s to year four.

—Rachel