Still Rising
How a decade of heartbreak, loss, and resilience transformed me into the woman I am today.
Over a decade ago, my husband and I moved from Scranton to Philadelphia, chasing new opportunities and a bigger life. I thought the hardest part would be starting over in a new city. I had no idea the real work would be surviving what came next.
Not long after moving, my health crashed. I was diagnosed with celiac disease so severe it destroyed my small intestine and began harming my liver. It felt like my body was betraying me just as I was trying to build a future. Learning to fight for my health—daily and relentlessly—was my first lesson in what resilience truly costs.
Then I began teaching in North Philadelphia. I walked into classrooms full of brilliance, humor, and potential… and also grief. I lost students to gun violence. I watched young lives disappear in a city that is both beautiful and brutal. The bright smiles before me became empty desks and new holes in my heart. Teaching was no longer just a job—it became a mission, and sometimes a heartbreak I carried home.
Life kept testing me. In 2016, three months after having my first daughter, I lost my dad. He was my best friend and biggest supporter—his laughter, wisdom, and steady presence shaped who I am. I had hoped for more time, hoping he could meet my daughter and watch her grow.
In 2017, I lost my grandmother, my Nan, the glue of our family. I watched my mom care for her as cancer consumed her, following back-to-back losses: her husband, then her mother.
Then 2018 brought more heartbreak. Three months after having my second child—my son, born seven weeks early due to HELLP syndrome—I lost my mom. The woman who had always cared for everyone else was suddenly gone when I needed her most. I FaceTimed her the night before, and the next day received the call from the hospital that despite their best efforts, she had passed. Days blurred into grief, exhaustion, and hospital memories, yet life demanded that I keep going. This is what moms do.
Shortly after, another scare hit. I discovered a 4-centimeter mass in my chest and feared the worst. Terrified, I prepared for the possibility while trying to remain strong for my kids. Thanks to my doctor’s advice, a second opinion revealed it was pneumonia. I had never exhaled so fully in my life.
This past decade has been marked by health battles, student loss, family loss, near misses, and setbacks that could have made me smaller. But they didn’t. Instead, they ignited something in me.
I’ve learned in the most real way possible that not every day is promised. Because of that, I refuse to live halfway. Every loss, every scare, every moment I wanted to collapse but didn’t—I’ve used as fuel: to love harder, teach deeper, show up for my kids, and keep building a life that honors those I’ve lost and the students I teach.
I’m not here to pretend I’m untouched by what I’ve been through. I’m here to show that pain can become power, and grief can become purpose.
I am still healing. I am still growing. But I am living proof that a woman can be broken open by life and still rise. If you are in your own storm right now, hear me: you don’t have to be fearless to be strong. You just have to keep going—one breath, one brave choice, one day at a time. That is how survival turns into strength, and strength turns into a life no setback can take from you.
