Stacy Bilodeau's Breast Cancer Story

Stacy has chosen to share her story openly in the hope that another woman might see herself somewhere in it—and perhaps make a different choice because she did.

These are Stacy's words. We hope her story reminds you that taking care of yourself belongs on the list, too.

I wish that wasn’t the beginning of my breast cancer story, but it is. It’s also one of my biggest regrets—and one of the biggest reasons I keep sharing my story.

If you’ve landed here, welcome. I am SOOOO glad you found this page. I hope something in my story makes you stop scrolling, pay attention to your body, and make the appointment you’ve been putting off. If it does, then every uncomfortable part of this journey that I share is worth it.

And trust me, I understand how easy it is to put that appointment off.

Like so many women, my plate is overflowing. I work full-time and volunteer for probably way too many things, and I’m a mom to two very active kids. I’m in that season of life where I’m constantly running from one practice, game, school event, or whatever else is on the calendar to the next.

And I love a man in uniform who proudly serves his country, which throughout our 20 years of marriage has often meant holding down the home and solo parenting while he’s away.

Maybe your busy looks different than mine. Or maybe it looks exactly like mine, a full calendar with very little time left for yourself. But I have a feeling you know exactly what I’m talking about.

We make sure everyone gets where they need to be. We remember the appointments, practices, permission slips, grocery lists, work deadlines, and the million other things that keep life moving. And somehow, our own name keeps getting pushed farther down the list.

I was really good at making sure everyone else was where they needed to be. I just wasn’t very good at putting myself on that list.

Years before my cancer diagnosis, shortly after my son was born, I found a lump in my right breast. And I did what you’re supposed to do. I got it checked.

But if you’re asking yourself whether I put that appointment off too; the answer is yes.

I was scared. I was nervous. I had no idea what to expect. I was a mom to a newborn and an 18-month-old. How was I going to find the time to get to this appointment?

Eventually, I found the time. I squeezed it in and had my first-ever mammogram. The results came back that the lump was a cyst and nothing to worry about. So I didn’t.

Life got busy, and honestly, I forgot about it.

Fast forward to 2023.

I started to notice that same area felt different. The lump was harder. Bigger. And then I noticed dimpling. I knew something had changed, and deep down, I knew this wasn’t good.

Fear started creeping in. My husband had been telling me for months, “You have to get that checked.” And that little voice in the back of my own head was telling me the same thing: You need to make the appointment.

I heard it. I just kept finding reasons not to listen.

My husband’s deployment schedule was crazy. The kids’ schedules were crazy. Work was busy. There was always something that felt more urgent. So I did what I think a lot of us are really good at doing—I said I would make the appointment next week.

Then next week came. And then the next. I pushed myself down the list again and again.

It wasn’t until October that I finally went to see my doctor.

This is the hard part for me to write...

Looking back, I wish I could reach through time, grab that version of myself by the shoulders, and tell her, "Everything else can wait."

Make the appointment.

I will always regret how long I waited to see my doctor.

Because what happened next was the moment I never saw coming.

After the appointments, mammogram, ultrasound, and biopsies, there was nothing left to put off. Nothing left to convince myself was probably okay.

On November 15, 2023, standing in my kitchen, I heard the words that changed everything: “You have breast cancer.”

I was 40 years old and had Stage III breast cancer. The first question out of my mouth to my doctor was, “Am I going to die?”

“Not today.”

Those were the words my doctor gave me, and honestly, in that moment, “not today" was enough.

I was in shock. I was angry. I was too young to have cancer. I was too busy for this.

Cancer happened to older people in their 50s and 60s—or at least that’s what I had always thought.

Jeremy was underway (Coast Guard's version of deployment) when that call came in.

He was dropped off, and the next day we were sitting together in my doctor’s office.

She handed me one single piece of paper. It was Stacy’s Save-Her-Life Plan.

In what felt like an instant, the calendar that had once been filled with soccer practices, work deadlines, and everything everyone else needed from me was being replaced with port placement surgery, chemo class, bloodwork, appointments, and scan after scan.

The plan was chemotherapy, surgery, and radiation. It was overwhelming to look at all at once. I was scared. How in the world was I supposed to do all of this?

But for the first time in a very long time, there was no pushing myself farther down the list.

I was the list.

And on January 4, 2024, I sat down in a chemo chair and started fighting for my life.

Over the next five months, I went through 16 rounds of chemotherapy. I lost my hair, my body changed, and there were days when I barely recognized the woman looking back at me. Cancer affected my kids, my marriage, my work, and my friendships. There wasn't a part of my life it didn’t touch.

Hearing the words “You have cancer” is hard. Sitting your children down and telling them their mom has cancer is even harder.

How do you explain something you’re still trying to understand yourself? How do you tell your kids you’re scared without making them scared too? We tried to be honest with them in ways they could understand, while also reminding them that Mom had a plan and a whole team of people working to make her better.

There was one thing we chose not to talk about with them: stages. Because when your kids are old enough to Google things, you know exactly what they’re going to do the minute you leave the room. And I didn’t want them typing “Stage III breast cancer” into a search bar and trying to make sense of something that even I was still trying to understand.

And somewhere in those conversations came a moment I’ll never forget. When we explained the port that would be placed in my chest, my son looked at me and compared it to Iron Man.

“Mom, you’re going to be Iron Woman.”

And just like that, Iron Woman was born. But being Iron Woman didn’t mean I was doing any of this alone. I knew from the beginning that I couldn’t carry the fear and the unknown by myself. I had to give this battle to God.

Before every chemo treatment and every surgery, I would blast Phil Wickham's "Battle Belongs.” It became my reminder that I didn’t have to have all the answers. I didn't have to know what the next scan would show or what the next part of treatment would bring.

There was so much I couldn’t control, and I had to learn to hand that fear over to God and trust Him with the battle.

I also had to learn to let people help me and if you know me, you know that did NOT come naturally.

I hate asking for help. It’s just not in my blood. I’m the person who wants to take care of everyone else, figure it out, and keep things moving. But cancer didn’t give me that option.

Our family, friends, coworkers, military community, and even people I barely knew showed up. They brought meals, helped with the kids, sent messages, prayed for us, sent me cards, mowed our lawn, and stepped in when I couldn’t do everything myself.

And slowly, I learned that accepting help didn’t make me less strong. Sometimes strength looked like fighting. Sometimes it looked like surrendering. And sometimes it looked like simply saying, “Yes, I could use some help.”

I’m still figuring out the woman who came after cancer. But I do know this: she’s going to keep sharing and encouraging others.

I share the good days and the really crappy ones. I share the scars, the fears, the appointments, and the parts of life after cancer that aren’t wrapped in a pretty pink ribbon. I share because another woman’s story helped me when I was scared and didn't know what came next, and maybe mine can do that for someone else.

But more than anything, I share because I don’t want another woman to wait like I did.

So if you’ve made it all the way to the end of my story, I’m asking you to do something with it.

Make the appointment.

Schedule the mammogram. Pay attention when your body tells you something has changed. Stop waiting for your calendar to magically clear, because I promise you—there will always be something else that feels more important.