Practical advice and personal wisdom from a four-time cancer survivor.

I’ve been thinking about how everyone keeps calling me brave. Because my view of myself from the inside is often a bumbling, neurotic, insecure woman. There. It’s out there now. I’m actually a very insecure, nervous nelly! I overthink everything. I dissect what I say. What I do. What I wear. How I speak. All of it. I think one of the reasons I loved living in New York is that I blended in so easily with all the other neurotics. 

Maybe this isn’t as big of surprise to you as I think it is. Perhaps it is.

Either way, I want to come clean. I want to come out of the insecurity closet and wear my neurosis proudly! Because, in the end, who the fuck isn’t insecure? Or questioning themselves all the time? One of the best things about being such an overly sensitive neurotic is that it makes me self-aware – some of the time too much, obviously – but a lot of the time, it allows me to sense someone’s sadness and ask if they are ok, inviting a heartfelt conversation. It allows me to think about each and every post and wonder: is this going to contribute to the Internet conversation in some meaningful way? Or is it just self-importance drivel?

Whatever it is does, it makes me ME. And I don’t want to hide anymore. I don’t want to pretend I’m someone that I’m not. 

There are several reasons I rarely shared anything personal on social media prior to my triple cancer diagnosis. I’m actually a very private person. Also I didn’t “get” how social media works for a long time. 

However, the main reason I kept things professional was because my “work” was my cloak. My armor against the world. I hid behind it when I felt anxious. I hid behind it when I wanted to avoid intimate entanglements. I hid behind it when I felt awkward and strange as “just me” in the world.

I loved telling people about my work because it was so much easier than telling them about myself.

Because I was afraid that if I shared even a tiny sliver, eventually you’d find out the truth. That I’m a geeky, insecure, weirdo whose head is often in the clouds.

And that felt unbearable.

But something has happened over the course of the last three years. Slowly, as I shared embarrassing details about my health and my broken heart over losing my old life, I’ve been cheered on by friends, colleagues, family, old boyfriends, traveling buddies, even friends of friends.

And it felt liberating.

The words flow fast and furious from my brain, my soul, or wherever they come from through my finger tips and land in a little Facebook post box. I’d click on POST and feel the anxiety rising inside of me.

Don’t do it! my Old Self would cry! Don’t let them SEE you! The world is a cruel place where you’ll be judged and criticized! The more they SEE you, the harder it will be to hide. Keep hiding! It’s so much safer that way!

The New Me looked on with detached amusement and calmly counter every argument: fuck it. Who cares. If someone doesn’t like it, that’s their own crap, it has nothing to do with you. And what IF the world sees the real you, ugly bits and weird parts and all? Is that the worst thing in the world? Wouldn’t it feel good to be truly KNOWN for whatever time you’re still left on this planet? And what if some of your words, some of your pain, insecurities, anxiety, strangeness somehow makes someone feel a little bit better about their own?

What if sharing the good, bad AND the ugly gives others permission to do the same?

What if it reminds others that regardless of how great someone’s life appears, we all feel pain, sadness, anxiety, fear, anger, frustration, and confusion. We often focus on how we’re different. What if my words remind us that we’re actually a lot alike? Mere humans who feel a LOT of things beside the happiness we constantly see in our social media feeds.

Isn’t the ugly bits what makes us interesting anyway?

They’ve been duking it out over the past year since I put this site up. Back and forth, back and forth.

The New Me gaining in strength even as my body got weaker.

The pain wracking my physical body slowly stripping away the ego. Which, as you may have figured out by now, IS the voice of the Old Self.  

That voice that tells us it’s better to hide our pain behind laughing photos on the beach.

The voice that tells us our crazy ideas will never work, why bother trying.

The voice that says we’re not good enough.

To show our real self to the world, let alone broadcast it through the Internet.

But then, I think, Fuck It.

Who cares. I’d rather be seen, entire self and all, and be jeered at by a few lonely trolls and cheered on by a handful of lovely readers than to hide out in my parents house by myself.

Because I can’t hide behind work anymore. Or, by jetting around the world. Or, packing my schedule so tight, I don’t have time to FEEL.

In the end, the idea of *actually* hiding in my parent’s basement, alone, while I try to get better sounds exponentially more terrifying than sharing my story with the public.

I might as well bare it all. And do it with a REAL smile on my face.

A smile that comes from truly being SEEN. And nothing else.

  • Cancer Teacher
    Hi there, my name is Julie. I’m a nutritionist that’s had four cancers: melanoma, ovarian, colon, and endometrial cancer — the last 3 all at once due to a genetic disorder called Lynch Syndrome. Cancer can be horrific, painful, life-stealing. It can also be transformative, mind-opening and life-affirming. I’m working hard to get strong and find the silver lining lessons during this shit storm experience. Stay tuned to find out what I've learned, and continue to learn, from Cancer Teacher.

    Much love,

    Julie Negrin

    About Julie & Cancer Teacher

  • Retiring from Teaching Cropped

    I just found old photos of my VERY first cooking students I taught in Seattle in ’97 when I worked for WA State Dept of Health. It was so long ago, there are peanuts on the table! These kids are close to 30 years old now.

    It breaks my heart to say it out loud. 

    I know it’s weird but my work has been the love of my life for the last twenty years.

    Unfortunately, it’s time for me to admit the truth: my body can’t handle the manual labor that goes along with culinary work.

    I was also in denial when I was diagnosed with Ulcerative Colitis when I was 17 years old. I acted like other college students, drinking alcohol and eating cereal for three straight meals in a row. I lived like that for four years before I was ready to take responsibility for my health.

    Denial is part of the healing process.

    The stakes are higher this time, of course. 

    Three cancers and the impact it’s had on my body requires my full attention.

    And yet, I still managed to live in denial for two years after surgery!

    It’s hard to let go of something we love, especially when it’s a huge part of our identity.

    When people ask me what I do, I don’t say nutritionist or author, I say “cooking teacher.” It’s how I perceive myself first and foremost – and always leads to delightful conversations. 

    And now I have to let it go. 

    I’m retiring from teaching cooking. 

    There, I said it out loud.

    I’m retiring from a career I adore while living with my parents, broke, beaten down and fighting for normalcy in any area of life I can.

    I wish desperately that I could work like a normal person. But I’m at doctor appointments 4-5 days per week. Fluids take up two half days per week, visceral massage, acupuncture add up to another half day. I usually see a specialist of some sort – or this week, I am meeting with a survivorship person at the cancer center. Last week, I met with a gynecologist oncologist – between driving, waiting for an hour, the administrative crap, my appointment took a total of 3 hours. One appointment! 

    And this doesn’t include how crappy I often feel or how emotionally draining some appointments and cancer screenings are.

    I’m often so exhausted by 4pm, that I crawl into bed and stare out the window.

    Some days, I wonder what I’m fighting to get back to, where I’m headed. If I’m in a particularly dark mood, I think about the fact that I have basically no retirement, no way to support myself in upcoming years, my parents can’t keep working forever. They won’t always be around.

    What will I do then? What if more cancer comes back? I have my siblings, of course, but they have their own families to support. I could win the lottery. I could finally grow the fuck up and choose a partner already. But still, nothing is certain. 

    There are no guarantees.

    It’s hard to live with such uncertainty. 

    At a time when most of my peers are firmly locked into careers, homes, and families, I feel completely untethered.

    I don’t have anywhere to be each week except for doctor appointments that I could cancel at any time.

    My friend pointed out that I can create anything for my life now. This is huge reason I never settled down: I loved reinventing myself, starting a new career chapter, moving to a new city, discovering a new lover. 

    That’s changed now. Feeling untethered when everything else in my life is so uncertain makes me feel anxious instead of free, overwhelmed instead of buoyant, afraid instead of confident.

    I guess that’s why it was so important to me that I start this blog before I moved back to Seattle. I needed SOMETHING to focus on, something to connect me to the outside world.

    Otherwise, where do I exist? What is my purpose on this planet?

    I don’t know where I’m headed. None of us do, of course. 

    But most people’s uncertainty is a dull dinner knife pressed against their fleshy backside they can ignore most of the time.

    My uncertainty is a razor sharp fisherman’s knife digging into my jugular. 

    One wrong move, one bad diagnosis, one fatal test result and I’m gone.

    It’s a strange way to live, untethered, uncertain, unattached to normalcy. No money. No career. No partner. No kids. No home of my own.

    My community has always been important to me. 

    But now it feels like my lifeline. 

    You are my family. You are my work. You are my loves.

    That’s all I got right now, are the people in my life. 

    More and more, it’s becoming clear that it’s the only thing we need besides food, water and oxygen. 

    When all you have is love in your life, you hold onto it pretty damn tight.

    Of course, it’s only when everything else was taken away that I could see this. The longer I live without tangible adult identifiers (business owner, renter, girlfriend, employee, freelancer, professional, traveler, gypsy) the easier it is for me to see the real treasures buried underneath the labels.

    The people and the love.

    So now when someone asks me what I “do” for a living, my response will be simple:

    “I’m in school, I’m learning how to be a better human being. I may be failing a couple of subjects but I love it. I love learning what’s important. I love gaining better perspective. But most of all, I love learning how to love.”

  • Cancer Teacher
    Hi there, my name is Julie. I’m a nutritionist that’s had four cancers: melanoma, ovarian, colon, and endometrial cancer — the last 3 all at once due to a genetic disorder called Lynch Syndrome. Cancer can be horrific, painful, life-stealing. It can also be transformative, mind-opening and life-affirming. I’m working hard to get strong and find the silver lining lessons during this shit storm experience. Stay tuned to find out what I've learned, and continue to learn, from Cancer Teacher.

    Much love,

    Julie Negrin

    About Julie & Cancer Teacher

  • Everything I do to heal_medium

    This is my belly during acupuncture which I get for digestion and back pain. Dr. Wang adds electrodes to the needles for extra activation.

    I’ve watched all of the Bourne movies at least 50 times. My favorite thing about Jason Bourne is that he is never a victim. Even when they try to assassinate him, he doesn’t run away. He confidently heads TOWARD the shooter. He doesn’t hide. He doesn’t wallow. He doesn’t cower in fear. He confidently flips the situation to his advantage.

    Dorky, I know but movies like this help my mental state. It’s so easy to get down these days. SO EASY. 

    I want to head towards cancer and the havoc it caused my body.

    I want to challenge it. 

    CONQUER IT.

    More than anything, I want to prove the doctors wrong.

    I love proving doctors wrong.

    When I asked the gastroenterologist how to prevent bowel obstructions last summer after my hospitalization, he said “there isn’t anything you can do, with the amount of surgery you’ve had, you WILL have more obstructions and end up in the hospital again.”

    Never saw that dude again.

    Since I’ll be covering how I’m trying to fix my battered body – and prevent more cancer – I thought I’d share an overview on everything I do to heal.

    THIS IS NOT MEDICAL ADVICE! I work very closely with a nutritionist, naturopathic doctor, oncologists, medical doctors, massage specialists and acupuncturists to make decisions regarding my case.

    Also, everyone is so different. Healing requires many, many science experiments. I try to change only one variable at a time so I can accurately assess the results. People think alternative medicine is “woo-woo.” Quite the contrary. I evaluate progress using special functional medicine labs and my detailed lab notes. I create formulas X (diet) + Y (supplements + Z (treatments) = outcome.

    You can do this too. We’ll get to that later though. For now, my Healing List:

    1) Weekly acupuncture :: It helped a lot during chemo and currently, I get it for digestion, sleep, hormone issues, anxiety (yes, you can get needles for that!) and back pain. They believe I’ll get better which is important for my mindset.

    2) Visceral massage :: A relaxing belly massage with a highly trained specialist helps prevent bowel obstructions. I took two weeks off in July and a couple months off last winter and I was in pain and partially obstructed both times – all the proof I need.

    3) IV fluids :: I get IV fluids twice per week because I can’t stay hydrated on my own. This causes fatigue, back pain and bowel obstructions. We theorize this is due to lack of colon and adrenal fatigue. The hot, dry weather in San Diego didn’t help. 

    3) Supplementation :: I take over 20 supplements per day. I have a highly qualified naturopathic doctor and nutritionist closely monitoring my cellular levels of minerals and vitamins using a special lab called Spectracell. Nothing I take is random.

    4) Special diet :: After a LOT of trial, error, and pain, my “safe” diet includes chicken broth, eggs, avocado, fish, sweet potato and coconut based products – a moist/mashed diet to prevent bowel obstructions. Losing 4 organs caused a lot of scar tissue – and I’ve always had a sensitive gut.  

    5) Herbal tea :: A Seattle shop called The Herbalist sells a wonderful loose-leaf tea called Tummy-Ease Tea which I drink every night. It contains: peppermint leaf, flax seed, marshmallow root, slippery elm bark, orange peel, fennel seed and ginger root. 

    6) Stretching :: I have to stretch every night to help with pain and digestion.

    7) Meds :: I take daily thyroid meds. My sister and dad who have had cancer due to Lynch Syndrome are also on these meds. Not sure if it’s related but it’s interesting to consider.

    8) Hormone replacements :: I was nowhere near menopause when they removed my ovaries at age 42. Currently, I take 1.5mg synthetic estrogen, .5 bio-identical estrogen, 100mg progesterone. I’m still tweaking bio-identical testosterone. 

    BULLSHIT ALERT: it’s b.s. how menopausal symptoms are blown off. Even though I went through it instantaneously, I still had to hunt down the data on hormone replacement beyond estrogen. I’m pretty sure dudes also don’t get info as their hormones change with age. Sex hormones impact way more than libido. They regulate our energy, sleep, muscle tone, skin, etc. A lot of “you’re just aging” symptoms can be addressed safely and cheaply with hormone replacements. More to come on this. 

    Healing of this magnitude is a full-time job.

    I have to work 300% (500%? 700%?) harder than the average person to maintain 40-50% normal bodily function. Without these interventions…well, I don’t like to think about it. Plus, I know all of this prevents more cancer – my body needs every chance possible.

    I’m working on seeing more practitioners in upcoming months. I feel lucky to live in Seattle and have a background in nutrition and alternative medicine.

    That’s why I’m sharing here. Everyone deserves this information. Mainstream medicine often (not always) expects us to sit back and be passive participants.

    I refuse to sit back and wonder what’s going to happen.

    I try to evoke Jason Bourne. Chase down that which is trying to conquer me.

    Instead, I will conquer it.

  • Cancer Teacher
    Hi there, my name is Julie. I’m a nutritionist that’s had four cancers: melanoma, ovarian, colon, and endometrial cancer — the last 3 all at once due to a genetic disorder called Lynch Syndrome. Cancer can be horrific, painful, life-stealing. It can also be transformative, mind-opening and life-affirming. I’m working hard to get strong and find the silver lining lessons during this shit storm experience. Stay tuned to find out what I've learned, and continue to learn, from Cancer Teacher.

    Much love,

    Julie Negrin

    About Julie & Cancer Teacher

  • FullSizeRender (2)

    It’s dank and depressing at rock bottom. The mud that oozes through my toes smells like shit and I’m either too hot or too cold. There is no light, just stale black air – the same shade of nothing whether my eyes are closed or open.

    I want to breathe the fresh succulent air of a life outside doctor offices. I want an entire week without being poked with a needle. I want to escape this deep grief that shackles me to this gloomy cave. No matter what I do, I can’t shake it loose.

    Is this my life? This unbearable rain cloud pouring down inside my chest, my mind, my heart? Will I ever get strong again or am I trapped forever in this genetically mutant body that doesn’t work?

    I cry. I wail. I curl up in a tight little ball to stay as dry as possible as the loud, teardrops keep falling from above me and inside me. I can not live like this, I can not live like this, I can not live like this, I’d rock back and forth trying to soothe myself.

    I try meditating. I try taking a Xanax. I try binge watching TV. None of it distracts me from this tiny, miserable hole.

    My body grieves. My mind weeps. I spend hours staring at the wall, or what I can see of it.

    After months inside my tiny prison, my eyes adjust to the darkness. I notice small grooves etched into the cave and realize it resembles a rock climbing wall.

    I don’t like rock climbing. I’m not built for it. It scares me.

    But I can not sit here for one more second. I feel the lethargy of grief seep out of me. I’m now antsy, ready to do SOMETHING, ANYTHING to ease the pain of this wretched abyss.

    I step one foot in the wall and my fingers search for a ledge. I start to slowly climb. I’m a terrible at it. But I keep at it anyway. Instead of focusing on everything I’ve lost, I’m now concentrating on moving upward, forward, away from where I was. One foothold at a time. After awhile, my hands are cracked, bloody, exhausted. When my body screams STOP, I find a small shelf to huddle in for the night.

    I hear a noise close to my perch. I squint to see better. I can’t believe I didn’t see this before but other people are climbing alongside me. Were they near me when I was crying at rock bottom? Are we really alone down there or is it just an illusion?

    Now I’m distracted by my own journey upward AND connecting with the other climbers.

    Through 140 character messages. Watercolor paintings I draw on the sides of the wall when I’m resting. Leaving quotes to inspire whoever is climbing up after me. It feels easier now. I can see in the dark. My arms and legs are more agile, my body is stronger.

    I can see some light now. It’s faint and intermittent but it’s there. The weird thing is that I’m used to blackness now. I’m not afraid of it anymore. As much as I long for the light, I realize how much strength I’ve gained by learning to see in the dark.

    I know the smallest thing could knock me off the wall. It might devastate me. I will feel despair times one million. But I’ll know my way around rock bottom. I’ll know there are others in the dark I can sing to and with. I know that I can handle however long I’m supposed to be there. And I also know I have the strength to climb back out.

    But for now, thankfully, I’m not there anymore. And I’m not quite at the top yet either. I’m just sitting on a little shelf, painting, scribbling down writing ideas. I’m also creating a map. Instructions on how to survive down below – and how to escape.

    It makes the journey so much easier for me. Knowing that if I make it out, I might be able to help others find their way out too.

    I can do this.

  • Cancer Teacher
    Hi there, my name is Julie. I’m a nutritionist that’s had four cancers: melanoma, ovarian, colon, and endometrial cancer — the last 3 all at once due to a genetic disorder called Lynch Syndrome. Cancer can be horrific, painful, life-stealing. It can also be transformative, mind-opening and life-affirming. I’m working hard to get strong and find the silver lining lessons during this shit storm experience. Stay tuned to find out what I've learned, and continue to learn, from Cancer Teacher.

    Much love,

    Julie Negrin

    About Julie & Cancer Teacher

  • IMG_5790

    Dear Cancer,

    I want to hate you. I do. I want to KICK your ass with everyone cheering me on. FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT you as the enemy. I want to beat on you with a baseball bat, gloved fists, booted feet. You have stolen seven organs from my family in 18 months. You have halted my life. Cut me open, raw, 7-inch scar left in your wake. Toxic drugs plunging through my veins. Shrunk my beloved palate and plate. Messed with my hormones. Forced me to quit working. Changed so much of my life. You’re still stealing from my dad. You’ve already taken enough from my sister. I want to hate you.

    But I can’t. I can’t hate you. Ohhhhhhh, how I want to hate you. I want to hate you like any soldier wants to hate their enemy. Fired up, guns loaded. Until that moment when you look into the enemy’s eyes and realize they’re the same as your own. And the hate is gone, just like that. Changes everything. Because you aren’t a foreign bacteria. Nor a parasite from South America. You are me and I am you. My own cells, gone rogue. My own CELLS transforming, converting, MUTATING into poison. You’re certainly smart little fuckers. You know how to feed, grow, and spread so intelligently that nobody can stop you even after billions of dollars have been spent trying to destroy you.

    How do I hate you when you were once healthy little cells, lovely little mitochondria intact and functioning normally? How can I hate something that sprouted from my own DNA? The same DNA I share with my wonderful family? The same DNA that makes me a fast runner like my dad and share the same voice as my sister? Hating you would be like hating my own sick child. I can’t.

    I can’t hate my own little cells. And now, I don’t have the energy to fight you even if I wanted to. I have to allocate my energy every single day. I have to make conscious decisions about every single activity, each bite of food, which exposure to germs. E-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g. Because you have taken over my life. It would be easy to become resentful – bitter and pissed off. But then I think of how I would treat a sick child, no matter what they had. How I would rub their forehead, make them chicken soup, let them watch cartoons. And I realize I have to do the same thing for my own little cells. I have to care for you, all of you, cancerous or not. I have to nurture you back to health. I have to feed you good food. Watch silly Youtube videos that make me laugh. Keep my body and mind as strong and positive as possible. That’s how I’ll win this war. Nurturing, laughing, loving.

    You’ve taken a lot from me this year. But you have also given me hard-earned wisdom. And one nugget I’ve taken to heart is to not waste energy fighting, especially an enemy that does not exist. If I can – and I’m really struggling to do this but determined – I want to love and nurture you back to health, little cancer cells. I want to learn how to make you whole again, for me and for my family. I want to stay in the light, not cross over to the darkness. More than anything, I want to live. Which is why I can’t hate you, Cancer. You are me and I am you. I’m going to love you back to health, dammit. I can do this.

    Much love,
    Jules

  • Cancer Teacher
    Hi there, my name is Julie. I’m a nutritionist that’s had four cancers: melanoma, ovarian, colon, and endometrial cancer — the last 3 all at once due to a genetic disorder called Lynch Syndrome. Cancer can be horrific, painful, life-stealing. It can also be transformative, mind-opening and life-affirming. I’m working hard to get strong and find the silver lining lessons during this shit storm experience. Stay tuned to find out what I've learned, and continue to learn, from Cancer Teacher.

    Much love,

    Julie Negrin

    About Julie & Cancer Teacher

  • IMG_5819

    I’ve been quiet on updates because it’s been really tough and I didn’t want to depress you guys. Behind the smiley photos, there’ve been struggles. I didn’t understand how many complications could result from 18 rounds of chemo and major abdominal surgery – and I didn’t understand hints my doctors kept giving me about my prognosis….until a few weeks ago when one finally said it – mind-shattering to hear but at least he was honest.

    Apparently I have a “terrible prognosis” because I’ve had 4 cancers by 42. This seems obvious now but at the time… Denial anyone? Denial is part of the grieving process which I now recognize I’m going through. We don’t create space for patients to grieve their medical trauma, so I’m bumbling through it on my own, finding helpful tools, reading books on spirituality, processing it with my therapist (a former one from Seattle who takes my insurance – don’t know why I didn’t think of it before!), philosophizing with my yoga teachers, other survivors, Buddhist friends. But it’s really, really tough living in a body that doesn’t work: dehydration requires weekly IV fluids, messed up digestion has limited me to 10 foods (low-inflammation, moist/mashed, and now candida cleanse), fatigue causes me to sleep a lot, trying to build immune system back up so taking 12-15 supplements daily. This is why I look fairly *normal* – which I’m grateful for – but it’s a bit of a mind-fuck because I feel like a tired, fragile, old lady on the inside. I loved seeing my family but I was wrecked for a week after. That’s the reality of cancer recovery. Weird shit happens to your body after a lot of chemo (I’m klutzy now!). It’s a long, arduous road back to health.

    On top of the physical challenges lately, I’ve been in the sad stage of the grieving process – mourning the loss of my young, pre-menopausal, hyper-active, up-for-anything-travel-anywhere-eat-all-foods woman. She is gone. And she isn’t coming back. I experienced so much loss in such a short amount of time – what most people go through over 10-20 years (menopause, body breaking down, losing organs), it’s been mind-blowing to process.

    I don’t know this new person – I’m getting to know her but she is very different. Quieter, lower energy, doesn’t like crowds or parties anymore (I KNOW – can you believe that one??), very introverted. I realize this can change. And I will grow to accept it but I’m not there yet. For now, my energy must go towards work, fixing my health and family. I have JUST enough juice each week to get my obligations done and that’s it. When I can muster it, I love visiting with friends. The rest of time I’m in bed as I am now, writing this awkwardly with my computer wedged next to my body – resting before I head to a doctor appointment.

    Cancer patients often feel like different people after their experience. We are re-birthing our new selves. I’m ok in my cocoon for now. Winter is coming, I’m finally writing like I’ve always dreamed of, and look forward to healing up. I feel lucky to have an awesome integrative team helping me get through this. And of course, I have my incredible family and an army of supporters that believe in me. I believe in my ability to heal. I don’t listen to the doctors bad news, never have. I’m in this for the long-game, heal myself, travel again, live a LONG time, dance at my babies’ weddings, prove those slaves-to-stats wrong. For now, it’s a lot of work and focus to get well again. Just doing what I do: one foot in front of the other.

    I can do this.

    This was posted on Nov 4, 2015 to Facebook friends

  • Cancer Teacher
    Hi there, my name is Julie. I’m a nutritionist that’s had four cancers: melanoma, ovarian, colon, and endometrial cancer — the last 3 all at once due to a genetic disorder called Lynch Syndrome. Cancer can be horrific, painful, life-stealing. It can also be transformative, mind-opening and life-affirming. I’m working hard to get strong and find the silver lining lessons during this shit storm experience. Stay tuned to find out what I've learned, and continue to learn, from Cancer Teacher.

    Much love,

    Julie Negrin

    About Julie & Cancer Teacher