Some months quietly pass. Others redefine you.

May, June, and July became one of those seasons I’ll remember for the rest of my life.

It started with ASCO Voices.

Then came co-presenting at the Association of Oncology Social Work (AOSW) conference.

Then Breastcancer.org invited me to record a live podcast episode from ASCO.

Then BlackDoctor.com featured me alongside two incredible Black women in an article highlighting people changing the future of cancer care.

And somewhere in the middle of all that…

I celebrated a milestone birthday. Not just because of the number, but because of what that number represents. Ten years ago, birthdays weren’t guaranteed. They’re gifts I somewhat welcome, even with new wrinkles on my face.

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What surprised me most wasn’t the recognition.

It was the messages.

Texts.

Emails.

Phone calls.

DMs.

Gifts and cards.

People I hadn’t spoken to in years and friends from every chapter of my life.

Colleagues.

Patients.

Researchers.

Physicians.

People who simply wanted to tell me I was remembered and that I’d made a difference.

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So many thoughtful messages and well wishes brought me to tears. It reminded me that we almost never understand the impact we’re making while we’re making it.

We’re too busy wondering if we’re enough.

Meanwhile, someone else has been quietly changed by something we said years ago. I’ve spent years believing my work was about cancer advocacy. Now I realize it’s always been about something much bigger.

Helping people feel seen.

Helping patients trust themselves.

Helping clinicians understand lived experience.

Helping minoritized voices know they belong in the room.

Helping audiences laugh, cry, think, and leave differently than they arrived.

That’s bigger than advocacy.

That’s storytelling.

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This birthday wasn’t just another year older.

It was a reminder that surviving was never meant to be the finish line.

It was the beginning of the work I was called to do.

For years, I questioned whether I was enough. Whether my voice mattered. Whether sharing the hardest parts of my story was making any difference.

Now I know the answer.

Every stage I’ve stood on, every article I’ve written, every conversation with a patient, every room where I’ve been the only Black woman has been preparing me for what’s next.

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The next chapter isn’t about chasing bigger titles or collecting more accolades, even though I still hold onto my dreams from when I was 12 years old of winning a Tony, Emmy, and an Oscar.

It’s about using every ounce of my voice, creativity, and lived experience to change how we think about healthcare, storytelling, and human connection.

Because stories don’t just inspire people.

The right story, told at the right moment, can save a life.

And after everything it took for me to still be here…

Yes, I’m older and feel every inch of it, but I’m not ready to take my final bow.

I’m just getting started.

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie