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By Alyce Collins and Aisha McClellan
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As a mother in my early 30s, it was natural for me to think I had a whole lifetime ahead, with years of memories yet to come. I was so excited to watch my kids grow up and achieve their dreams.
It’s what any parent hopes for. But the future I envisioned was seemingly ripped apart in one moment, when, at the age of 32, I was handed a death sentence.
In 2016, I had been experiencing abnormal bleeding outside of my periods, pelvic and back pain, and was extremely fatigued. By May of that year, everything changed when I received a diagnosis that rocked me to my core.
Read More on My Turn
Nothing can ever prepare you to hear “you have cancer,” especially at 32 years old. Stage 2b cervical cancer, to be exact.
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I was a young, single mother with three children who depended on me. When I heard those three words, I was devastated by the thought of leaving my children. I wasn't thinking about myself. I was thinking about them, and how I would navigate something so frightening while still being their mother.
There was fear, disbelief, and so much uncertainty. I had an entire life I was supposed to be living, and suddenly, I faced the possibility that it might be cut short.
'I Didn't Want to Focus on Dying'
Treatment had to start almost immediately, and it was brutal at times. Initially, I had chemotherapy and radiation, and it definitely took its toll physically, but I had to keep going.
I didn't have any help at home or with my kids, so I made modifications to get through the day. Sometimes I had to cook sitting in a stool, and it took a long time to do daily tasks because I was so fatigued.
I hoped we had done enough to fight off the cancer, but sadly that wasn’t the case. Three months after completing treatment, a scan revealed that my cancer had in fact spread to my lungs and liver. It was no longer stage 2; it was stage 4 metastatic cervical cancer.
Honestly, I felt completely blindsided. My doctor had made it seem like my cancer was very treatable, so I couldn't wrap my head around how it spread so quickly. I was just overwhelmed with confusion, trying to process what he was saying.
But that wasn’t all.
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As I sat in the examination room, the doctor told me that I may only have three months left to live. Treatment could extend my life expectancy by a few months, but my quality of life would be significantly impacted.
That’s when my confusion turned to anger.
I kept wondering how this happened, why it hadn't been caught sooner, and how we had gone from talking about a treatable cancer to being told I might only have months to live.
Eventually, I broke down and was inconsolable. I sat in that exam room for nearly two hours, crying hysterically because I couldn't process what I'd just been told. A kind nurse stayed with me, and eventually I was able to pull myself together enough to walk to my car.
Yet my greatest fear wasn't dying—it was leaving my children without their mother. As a single parent, you spend so much of your life thinking about how to provide for your children, protect them, and prepare them for the future. I suddenly found myself wondering whether I would even be there to see that future.
As I sat in my car trying to process all of this, I made a call to a friend to see if she would take care of my kids if I passed away. It was the hardest call of my entire life, but now, I can see how that call saved me.
Asking my friend to care for my children if I was no longer around gave me a shift in perspective. Instead of looking at the fact 86 percent of people don’t survive the diagnosis I received, I suddenly realized that I could be part of the 14 percent who do.
I didn't want to focus on dying; I wanted to live.
I felt reinvigorated to do everything I could to survive. I sought a second opinion and found a doctor who believed in me.
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'Started to Feel I Had Cheated Death'
When you're told you may only have months left, so many things that once seemed important suddenly lose significance. Ordinary moments took on a completely different meaning, and I became much more aware of the time I had with my children.
I was still a single mother, was still working, still had financial responsibilities, and I was dealing with the emotional weight of not knowing whether I would live.
They were some of the loneliest and most frightening months of my life. I felt as though I was counting down until my imminent death, just hoping to stay with my children for as long as possible.
Eventually, I found peace in knowing that even if I couldn't control the outcome, what I could control was that day.
As the three-month mark came around, I started to feel as though I had cheated death. I kept wondering if it was just around the corner, and there were many days when I couldn't settle because I was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Even as the weeks ticked by, I refused to give up.
The second doctor I met with put me on a new treatment regimen, and gradually, my health started to improve. I also became more focussed on taking care of myself. I wanted to move my body, be mindful of what I was putting into it, and give myself the time to process everything emotionally.
I started looking at my health more holistically, recognizing how connected our physical, mental, and emotional wellbeing really is. I didn't just want to be free of cancer—I wanted to feel healthy in every sense of the word, mind, body and soul.
Before long, I had outlived my prognosis and the cancer was shrinking.
I kept fighting and was getting stronger by the day. One of my doctors even referred to me as an “anomaly,” and while I know it was meant to reflect how remarkable my response to treatment was, it was really frightening to hear. It made me feel like my survival was something almost unexplainable, and there was something unsettling about that.
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'I Got More Life, In All Its Beauty'
Now, 10 years on, I’m in remission, which I never imagined I would say.
I think about the version of myself who was 32, sitting with the possibility that she might only have three months left. She couldn't have imagined everything that was still ahead.
I'm incredibly grateful to be healthy and living a full life, although surviving cancer doesn't mean you walk away completely unchanged. There are lasting physical effects of treatment, including early menopause, and the emotional impact of facing a life-threatening illness at a young age.
But I'm here. I'm watching my children become adults, traveling, working, building relationships, and experiencing milestones I never expected to see.
I don't take that lightly. I didn't just get more time, I got more life, in all its beauty and complexity.
Sometimes it's difficult to wrap my head around how much has happened in the 10 years I was told I wouldn't get to see. Today, I'm a proud mom of three young adults, and being their mother is one of the most important parts of my life. I have watched them graduate, experience heartbreak, celebrate milestones, and begin building their lives. As for me, I get to enjoy traveling, seeing family and friends, and spending time with my dog, Nala.
My story is one of survival, but it's also a reminder of why access to quality care matters. I had the opportunity to pursue additional treatment, and I'm deeply aware that not everyone has the same access or outcome.
Cervical cancer is largely preventable through HPV vaccination, appropriate screening, and timely treatment of precancerous changes. Yet people continue to be diagnosed with advanced disease, and we have more work to do to change that.
I want people to understand how important it is to listen to their bodies and advocate for themselves. If something doesn't feel right, keep asking questions or seek another opinion.
I hope sharing my experience encourages people to take their health seriously, but I also hope it inspires meaningful changes in how we support patients and ensure they can access the care they need.
Looking ahead, one of my dreams is to establish a nonprofit focused on improving patient experience, particularly for people navigating cancer. I'd love to help bridge some of the gaps in care, support, education, and resources that I experienced firsthand.
Ten years ago, I wasn't sure I'd have a future to plan for. Today, I'm fortunate enough to not only dream about my own future but also think about how I can make a difference in someone else's.
Aisha McClellan, 42, works in Community of Outreach and Engagement at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and has spent much of her career in academic medicine, cancer research, and patient advocacy. She also uses TikTok to raise awareness for cervical cancer, HPV and the realities of surviving a terminal diagnosis.
Contact Newsweek editors on this story: Charlotte Nisbet and Tony Phillips.
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