The Weight of Our Stories

This photo was taken in October 2018, during my last year in California, just a few months before I left. (Michael captured a cute little sandpiper in bottom left corner)

Hope for California was barely hanging on...you could see change slowly coming to the state I grew up in.

I went to the beach that day on a mission—I was live on facebook and on a mission to find a heart-shaped rock for my cancer survivor followers. It was an inspiring impulse to do this and while others might have seen it as a long shot, I just knew I would find one. I’m like that—I have this deep inner knowing I can't ignore anymore, this sense that if I search with enough hope and determination, I will find what I’m looking for. And sure enough, I found one! I have the video of this moment my husband took. That moment was deeply significant for me because it embodied the kind of hope that has been a guiding light in my life, a hope that feels almost like a knowing. It's the same hope I've carried with me since childhood, the same hope that my dad saw in me when he called me "Pollyanna."

Over the years, I’ve noticed that same hope in others too, though for some, it seems to have been buried beneath the responsibilities and struggles of life. We often grow up thinking we need to tuck away that childlike essence within us—the innocence that believes in magic, in possibilities, in the certainty that good things can still happen. We convince ourselves that being an adult means toughening up, becoming realistic, shutting down those softer parts of our souls. But I believe that hope never really disappears—it’s still there, like a smoldering ember waiting for someone to fan it into a flame, waiting for a moment when we’re ready to let it breathe again, to let it guide us through the darkness.

Life has a way of surprising us with pain we never expected. We all have our stories—stories of heartbreak, of battles we didn’t ask for, and of the strength we didn’t know we had until we were forced to find it. My story is no different, and yet, it’s one among many.

In 2000, I found myself in a situation I never imagined—forced into the Victims of Crime program after enduring sexual assault and stalking from one of the perpetrators. The trauma was profound, and I had to change my name to protect myself..

I chose the name "Knight" as a reminder that no matter what I was facing, I would not be alone—God would be by my side. It was a name that symbolized strength and the full armor of God, which I desperately needed as I faced the challenges of living in this new, strange town of Port Orchard, WA.

Letting go of everything connected to my old life was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I had to leave behind my social security number, my work experience, and everything that tied me to my former identity. It felt like I was erasing who I had been, and that was a painful change for me. As part of the Victims of Crime program, I was relocated 1,100 miles away from all my family and friends to keep me safe. The distance added another layer of loneliness and fear to an already overwhelming situation. I was starting over completely, without the safety net of the past or the comfort of loved ones nearby. My new name was more than just a fresh start; it was a shield, a declaration that I would face whatever came next with the strength and protection that only God could provide.

Relocating to a small town without friends, where everything felt so damp and cold, was terrifying. I had to create new connections while hiding the pain of my past—a burden I had never known before. I’ve always been someone who wears her heart on her sleeve, but this time, I had to keep it hidden, and that was a different kind of pain. When people asked my name, I felt like an imposter, unable to say "Jennifer," the name I had been born with. But I kept moving forward, because what choice did I have?

My children needed me, and I needed to survive.

I remember surviving a Category Five hurricane in Cozumel in 2005, feeling like the world was coming to an end. The eye of the storm was as vast as that little island, and as I huddled with others, I wondered if I would ever find my way back to safety. When I did, I was more grateful than ever for the simple things—dry linens, clean water, and the chance to start over once more.

Less than a year later, life dealt another blow—stage 3 breast cancer. I lost my breasts to a bilateral mastectomy, followed by bilateral knee replacements the next year—knee problems had plagued me since childhood. I endured it all, along with more surgeries that I won’t delve into here, because those details don’t define my story. What matters is that I kept going.

When it was finally safe, I moved back to California in August 2008, hoping for a fresh start, hoping for a reprieve. That life change had its own challenges with friends and family resistance to even acknowledging what had happened to me because at a minimum it was an awkward topic or there was shame and guilt attached to it within my heart.

In 2010, the unthinkable happened—I was diagnosed with a recurrence, this time stage 4 breast cancer. UCLA told me on September 9th, 2010, that my time was limited and to get my affairs in order. Those words could have shattered me, but that same hope, that same unwavering belief in something greater, flared up again. At that time in my life I was trapped in a marriage with a physically abusive man who became explosive when he drank too much. I was bedridden, and I hid the abuse because I didn’t want to be a burden to anyone, especially my son and daughter, who knew I only had months to live. I prayed and searched for a way out, for a miracle. I found a compassionate doctor who believed in me, who gave me the strength to keep fighting. He reminded me that God knows the outcome, and I had to keep going, no matter how dark the days seemed. Hold on to my faith in God’s plan for my life.

And so, I did. He was a very good doctor and I beat stage 4 cancer without chemotherapy and returned home to heal completely in 2011. But the battle wasn’t over. In 2012, after enduring abuse for the last time, I left that man and became a nanny, trying to piece together what my life was meant to be next.

Each of these traumatic events could have stolen my spirit, but they didn’t. They brought me to my knees, yes, but I prayed constantly and with God’s help I found strength within me that could not be extinguished. The trauma I experienced left scars—some visible, some buried deep within—but they didn’t rob me of my soul. They didn’t take away the light, the love, the hope that has always been a part of me since I was an optimistic young girl.

Since surviving stage 4 cancer and going public with my story through interviews, a cancer documentary, and other events, I’ve received countless calls and messages from women wanting to know how I made it through without following the conventional path of chemotherapy. But often, what they are also searching for is a connection with someone who really understands the weight of what they’re going through and renewed faith and hope. I understand that feeling so well.

This past year has been especially difficult because of the fear and anxiety that permeates our world today. The uncertainty of an election year, the relentless rise of inflation, the struggle to afford basic necessities, and the ever-present fear of the unknown—these are the burdens we all carry.

Many conversations with these women have left me feeling unsettled—moments where their overwhelming stress, compounded by the world seemingly crumbling around them, intensifies their fear. Sometimes, that fear manifests as anger or rudeness—words that cut deeper than intended. I know this pain well. I understand how it hurts when someone responds with less kindness than we hope for. But I’ve learned that fear and anxiety can drive us to act out in ways that don’t reflect the love and strength within us. I’ve been there too—I’ve felt that desperation, that raw edge of fear, and I haven’t always been at my best with others.

What I’ve come to realize is that every survivor carries their own set of triggers, emotional landmines buried deep within from the traumas they’ve endured—whether it’s from the cancer itself or the hardships that came before it. When we reach out for support, we may unknowingly step on one of those landmines, causing a reaction that’s more about past wounds than the present moment.

We are all vulnerable and frail in our own ways, and we show it differently. Some of us may lash out in anger, while others withdraw into silence. These responses are often the fragile walls we build to protect ourselves from the overwhelming emotions that press down on our hearts. They are born from the need to shield the most tender, wounded parts of our souls—the parts we fear exposing to the world. When we reach out to one another, seeking comfort and understanding, we must do so with the gentlest of hands. We need to remember that beneath the surface, behind the brave faces we present, there is often a deep well of pain that hasn’t yet had the chance to heal—pain that can be easily stirred, easily brought back to the surface. It’s a reminder to tread softly when speaking to other survivors with kindness and compassion.

So many women are carrying similar burdens, wounds that have been reopened by the trauma of cancer. It’s as if the disease is the final straw, the thing that breaks the camel’s back after years of silent suffering. And that’s what I want to help with—not just surviving cancer, but surviving the emotional aftermath, the pain that lies beneath the surface.

I want you to know that it’s okay to feel this way. It’s okay to hurt, to be scared, to not have it all together. We’ve all been there, and in those moments of raw vulnerability, there is strength. There is beauty in the tears, in the honesty of feeling lost, in the courage it takes to reach out, even when it’s hard. There is always hope and you must hold on and look back at what you have gotten through in the years of your life- God is always there through our pain in life.

If you’re feeling overwhelmed, if the weight of it all feels like too much, please know that you’re not alone. I’m here with you, not just as someone who has survived, but as someone who understands the pain, the fear, and the desperate need for compassion and connection. Even in the hardest moments, we can find that connection, that shared strength, and that deep, unshakable sense of hope that keeps us going. ~Shannon Knight