On the outside, I looked like your typical 18-year-old girl. I spent my days working at Starbucks, volunteering as a youth cheerleading coach, and dreaming about the future—one where I would grow up, fall in love, and create a family of my own. Even at a young age, I felt deep in my heart that I was meant for something more than the life I was living, though I couldn’t quite name what that purpose was. To most people, I was the varsity cheerleading captain, the homecoming princess, the smart girl who loved writing poetry, and a loyal, dependable friend. I never imagined that one day my story would include two battles with cancer, unexpected motherhood, and a journey marked by unimaginable miracles.
On Monday, September 14, 2015, I went to the gynecologist because I was experiencing severe bloating and sharp pelvic pain. Within just a week, my stomach had grown so much that I looked nearly five months pregnant. Doctors first gave me a pregnancy test—negative, of course, as I was still a virgin. Concerned, they ordered an ultrasound and a CAT scan to examine my ovaries and appendix. That Friday morning, I returned to my gynecologist’s office, where she gently explained that I had an 11-by-13 centimeter mass on one ovary, excess fluid in my abdomen, and enlarged lymph nodes—classic indicators of ovarian cancer. I felt like the air had been knocked out of me. Days later, after additional blood work, I received a call from an OB/GYN oncology specialist near Stanford. Her name was Dr. O’Hanlan, and over the next several years, she would become one of the most important people in my life.
On September 23, I was officially diagnosed with stage 3 ovarian cancer. Just three days later, I was preparing for surgery, being told that the mass, any infected organs, my ovaries, eggs, and uterus would all likely be removed—a full hysterectomy. At 18 years old, the idea of losing my reproductive organs was not only terrifying, it was devastating. My greatest dream had always been to become a mother. I loved children deeply, and the thought of never having a child who carried my genes, my traits, my story, completely shattered me.
I felt broken. I questioned my worth as a woman and wondered who could ever love someone who couldn’t give them a child. Fear consumed me, and I kept asking, “Why me?” Why would the one thing I had always dreamed of be taken away? In that dark place, I turned to what had always helped me process my emotions—poetry:
“With the world blurring before my eyes
and my ears screaming for the answers,
My body is holding back the cries
as the doctor speaks the word Cancer.
My future becomes unknown
as the killer is coming through
in my bodies combat zone
where there is nothing I can do.
Positivity is so hard to keep
when all your dreams are being crushed.
You can’t seem to put your fears to sleep
when your whole world must adjust.
Doesn’t cancer see,
before it attacks,
All the beauty
In the hearts that it cracks?
I’ll always stand strong
even though I’m what it’s trying to kill,
and I’ll see these scars lifelong
as a reminder of all I can fulfill.”
In the days leading up to surgery, my small town of Paso Robles, California, showed up for me in ways I still struggle to put into words. The community rallied with teal cheer bows at football games, fundraisers, t-shirts, magazine features, a GoFundMe, and even news coverage under the banner “Rally for Riley.” Watching my story go viral was overwhelming. When loved ones came to my house and broke down in tears just seeing me, I realized how truly scary and brutal this disease is. Their support gave me strength—and it lit a fire in me to raise awareness.
On surgery day, I was granted a miracle. I went into the operating room prepared to wake up without my uterus or ovaries. Instead, I woke up to the incredible news that Dr. O’Hanlan had been able to save one ovary and my uterus. She carefully carved cancer tissue away from the ovary that had been completely surrounded. While I felt indescribable joy, the battle wasn’t over yet. My abdomen had been filled with tiny tumors that had spread beyond my ovaries, baffling both my surgeon and the on-site pathologist. The surgery ran long, but Dr. O’Hanlan removed every single tumor.
Two weeks later, after extensive testing at UCSF, I finally received clarity. The tumors were classified as low malignant potential tumors—containing cancer cells, but not aggressive enough to require chemotherapy or radiation. The cancer had not spread beyond the tumors themselves, meaning once they were removed, the cancer was gone. I still had one ovary, my uterus, and the hopeful reassurance that it would never return… or so we thought.
For four years, I attended routine checkups twice a year, undergoing ultrasounds, bloodwork, and exams. Though anxiety followed every appointment, I trusted my surgeon and the work she had done. Then, in 2019, everything changed. My bloodwork showed elevated white blood cell levels, and an ultrasound revealed another mass—this one measuring 18 centimeters and completely engulfing my remaining ovary. Surgery was scheduled once again. Doctors were clear that saving my life came first, but all I could think about was losing my ovary. I didn’t believe I could be lucky twice.
On August 9, 2019, I underwent my second surgery in Fresno, California, once again with Dr. O’Hanlan. Despite fear and discouragement, I held onto hope. My family and my loving boyfriend stood beside me, and I knew I had to be strong. When I woke up after the three-hour procedure and learned my ovary was still intact, I was overwhelmed with gratitude. The tumor was identical to the first. Dr. O’Hanlan explained she had preserved my ovary only to allow time for egg retrieval—after that, it would need to be removed. Surgery number three was inevitable, but I was given a chance.
I immediately began the egg retrieval process. For months, my life revolved around hormone injections, constant ultrasounds, long drives to Santa Barbara, physical pain, emotional exhaustion, and mounting medical bills. My body changed, my energy vanished, and my hormones were completely out of control. It was brutal—but I kept going.
After three rounds, I made the heartbreaking decision to stop, with only eight eggs retrieved. I was grateful for the opportunity, yet overwhelmed by the financial and emotional toll of being 22 years old with tens of thousands of dollars in medical debt.
Then, five days before my final surgery—the one that would remove my last ovary forever—another miracle happened. During pre-op testing, a nurse delivered words I never expected to hear: “You’re pregnant.”
Five days. Just five days before it would have been too late. Pure magic.
Today, our son Brixton is two months old. Every time I look at him, I’m reminded that miracles are real. I’m a mom now.
This journey hasn’t been easy. In just 24 years, I’ve endured more than most. I’ve felt isolated, misunderstood, judged, and overlooked. But my story has never been about defending myself—it’s about awareness. About unseen battles. About kindness.
You never know what someone standing next to you is carrying. Please remember that what’s beneath the surface could be a miracle in the making—just waiting for time, compassion, and hope.
