Survivors

Mike lives in Eldersburg, MD, with his wife, Belinda, and their teenage daughter. A longtime entrepreneur, he has spent more than 20 years in the vehicle graphics industry and currently operates businesses specializing in commercial fleet graphics and graphics removal. Mike is a U.S. Army veteran with a degree in anthropology and, in his spare time, enjoys traveling, playing guitar, scuba diving, spending time in nature, and, most importantly, spending time with his family and his Border Collie, Diamond.

Mike has plans. He wants to take his family to Utah and see the Rocky Mountains. He plans to watch his daughter graduate from high school. Someday, he hopes to meet his grandchildren.  

None of those plans might sound remarkable, but to Mike they are. Three years ago, at age 49, he was diagnosed with small cell lung cancer (SCLC). And because of that, for a while he stopped imagining much of a future at all.

Today, however, he describes the difference simply: "There's a horizon now."

A pain that wouldn’t go away  

In the summer of 2023, Mike was 49 years old. He was healthy and busy running his vehicle graphics business in Maryland when his shoulder started hurting. He had been wrapping a fleet of tractor trailers which often required intense physical work, so a sore shoulder didn’t seem particularly alarming.

His doctor initially prescribed steroids. When those didn’t help, they tried another medication. The pain persisted, so his doctor eventually ordered an X-ray.

The scan showed a cloudiness in Mike’s lung. He was referred to a pulmonologist, whose office initially told him the next available appointment was 7 months away. Mike, who had rarely needed medical care in his life, thought little of it.

An hour later, the office called back asking if he could come in that afternoon.

“That place that had an appointment 7 months out wants to see me today,” Mike remembers telling his wife. “That can’t be good.”

The pulmonologist told Mike they suspected lung cancer. A CT scan revealed a roughly 10-centimeter Pancoast tumor, a tumor that occurs at the top of the lung, which can cause shoulder pain. A PET scan and biopsy followed.  

A diagnosis of SCLC  

At first, Mike’s doctors believed he had non-small cell lung cancer (NSCLC). The plan seemed relatively straightforward: surgery to remove part of his lung, followed by recovery.

Mike approached it with a plan, like he approached most things. He found a surgeon who performed minimally invasive robotic surgery and started running at the track every day so he would be in the best possible shape for the operation.

Then the biopsy came back. It revealed that Mike actually had small cell lung cancer (SCLC), rare in a Pancoast tumor.  

“And then everything changed,” he said.

SCLC accounts for a smaller proportion of lung cancer diagnoses than NSCLC and behaves differently. For Mike, the most immediate difference was that surgery was no longer an option. Instead, he would undergo 4 rounds of chemotherapy and 33 radiation treatments.

The conversation about his future changed too. One doctor told him he had only ever known one woman with SCLC who lived 10 years and advised Mike to write a will.

“I said, ‘Dude, I’m 49 years old,’” Mike recalled. “You’re not giving me any hope here.”

Mike knew almost nothing about lung cancer at the time. In fact, before his diagnosis, he hadn’t realized how many kinds of cancer or treatments for cancer there were. Suddenly, he was trying to learn about a disease he had barely heard of while confronting statistics and conversations that made him wonder whether he had much of a future at all.  

Mike became so convinced that his future might be short that he made an unusual plan for his first post-treatment PET scan. He had discovered something called a “tsunami pod,” a protective ball designed to withstand extreme forces. If his scan showed that the cancer was still there, Mike decided he was going to buy one, climb inside, and go over Niagara Falls.

“I hoped to survive the Falls,” he said. “But I also felt like, if I don’t, I don’t.”

He researched it. He posted about the plan on Facebook. He was serious. Fortunately, he never had to find out whether the tsunami pod would work.

“I didn’t have to do it,” he said.  

His post-treatment scan brought good news: Mike’s treatment was successful.  

Although the tumor itself remains visible on his scans, it is no longer active. Because it is entangled with nerves in his brachial plexus (the nerves near his shoulder and collarbone), the shoulder pain that first sent him to the doctor 3 years ago has also never completely disappeared.

Mike has found his own way of thinking about it.

“That pain reminds me that I beat cancer,” he said. “I’m glad to be alive to be able to feel it.”

“I felt so alone”

During treatment, Mike often felt like he was navigating cancer on his own. He had imagined that after a serious diagnosis like lung cancer, someone would take charge and tell him which doctor to see, make the appointments, and guide him from one step to the next. But this wasn’t Mike’s experience.  

Instead, after learning he had SCLC, he remembers being told to find an oncologist.

“I didn’t even know what an oncologist was,” he said.

His father was beside him throughout treatment, taking him to every chemotherapy appointment and sitting with him during infusions. But navigating the healthcare system itself still felt like “a DIY project” to Mike.  

Mike told his family that if he got through treatment, he wanted to do something to make the experience easier for the people who came after him. Eventually, he discovered that the organizations and communities he had needed were already out there.

GO2 for Lung Cancer’s survivor stories became an important source of hope. He also connected with a Phone Buddy who had lived many years beyond her own diagnosis.

“You guys were a major part of me not flipping my lid,” Mike said.

Seeing actual people living with lung cancer offered something statistics couldn't. Real hope.  

Over time, Mike found a community of survivors, advocates, and others affected by lung cancer, people he describes as “the nicest people I wish I’d never met.”

“I wish I had never had any connection with this at all,” he said. “But because of my diagnosis I’ve had the occasion to meet some of the best people I’ve ever met in my life.”

The fear of SCLC

Today, Mike helps provide that same reassurance to others. As someone who barely used social media before cancer and even had a flip phone at the time he was diagnosed, Mike is now a moderator of a large lung cancer Facebook group and a member of two SCLC groups (the Small Cell SMASHERS and the Small Cell Lung Cancer Support Community) where he helps others who have received a SCLC diagnosis find accurate information and support.  

He has noticed a particular fear among people newly diagnosed with SCLC.

“They tend to be convinced that it’s absolutely going to come back,” he said.

People don’t necessarily ask if their cancer will recur, Mike says, they focus on when. They ask others how long it took before their cancer recurred. Someone who has been cancer-free for 8 months might ask when they should expect the cancer to return or whether they’ll make it to the following year.

Mike understands that fear because he lived it. But now, 3 years after his own diagnosis, he knows that sharing his own experience can help show them that recurrence isn’t inevitable.  

Fighting misinformation and stigma

Mike has also become passionate about helping people find reliable information. Before his diagnosis, he readily believed claims about alternative cancer treatments. Immediately after learning he had lung cancer, he began looking into some of them himself.

Once he started researching, he realized how unreliable online information can be.

Today, Mike often finds himself warning newly diagnosed people about misinformation, unproven treatments, and scammers who prey on people when they are frightened and vulnerable. He is committed to helping people make informed decisions about their care despite the flood of health misinformation online.  

He is equally outspoken about stigma, another problem people with lung cancer know well.

When Mike was receiving radiation, another patient asked what kind of cancer he had.

“Lung cancer,” Mike answered.

“Oh, well, did you smoke?”

Mike responded by asking the man, who had colon cancer, whether he had eaten a bad diet. The man was offended.

“You did exactly the same thing to me,” Mike told him. “I was only kidding with you, but you didn’t even consider whether your question might be rude to ask me.”

Mike knows there are risk factors for lung cancer, just as there are for many diseases. But he also knows that none of them determine who deserves compassion.

“Anybody with lungs can get lung cancer,” he said, “and everyone deserves kindness and good care.”  

There’s a horizon

Perhaps the biggest change over the past 3 years has been allowing himself to imagine a future again. For a while, Mike and his family stopped planning things. There didn't seem to be a point.

But now, there is. He thinks about traveling. He enjoys cooking dinner with his daughter and spending time with his family. He thinks about watching her grow up.

And he looks at advances in SCLC research and treatment with hope. The treatment landscape has already changed since his own diagnosis, he notes, and there are options available today that weren't part of his treatment just 3 years ago.

That matters when he talks to someone newly diagnosed who has searched online and found frightening survival statistics.

“Everything you see is at least 5 years old,” Mike tells them. “These statistics don’t include people being treated right now.”

He knows firsthand how frightening SCLC can be. He doesn't minimize it, and he doesn't believe people need to maintain a relentlessly positive attitude to survive it. Mike himself was angry throughout much of treatment. But 3 years later, he feels differently.

“There's a horizon,” he said.

And after spending a period of his life believing there wasn't one, Mike is enjoying the opportunity to see what's beyond it.  

GO2 understands the unique needs of people living with SCLC. Explore our list of SCLC resources and support groups.

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In early 2021, Melissa noticed something strange. Whenever she laughed, coughed, or exhaled forcefully, she heard an odd sound coming from her chest. It wasn't painful, it wasn't affecting her breathing, and she was still able to exercise easily, but she also knew it wasn’t normal.  

As a veterinarian, Melissa was accustomed to paying attention to subtle changes. At the time, she was also helping lead COVID-19 vaccination efforts, traveling around the country and working long days outdoors in Colorado's unpredictable weather.

When the sound didn't go away, she mentioned it to her doctor. Neither of them was particularly concerned, and they initially wondered if it might be related to cold-weather asthma. An inhaler didn't help, so Melissa returned a few weeks later. To be thorough, her doctor ordered a chest X-ray.

An unexpected diagnosis

The X-ray revealed a mass in Melissa's lung. Even then, lung cancer wasn't high on anyone's list of possibilities. Melissa was young, healthy, and active, and had no traditional risk factors. As a veterinarian, she was more concerned about unusual fungal infections or exposures she might have encountered through her work.

When the biopsy revealed lung cancer, she was stunned.

"I was totally floored," she said. "Of all the things that I thought I was going to get, lung cancer was not on the list."

Despite her medical background, Melissa realized she had carried many of the same assumptions about lung cancer that others do.

"I never even thought that people who didn't smoke could get it," she said.

Further testing revealed that Melissa had EGFR-positive non-small cell lung cancer (NSCLC) that had spread to her brain.  

“They were not going to talk me out of it”

Melissa's care team quickly began developing a treatment plan. She underwent stereotactic radiation for 3 small brain metastases and started targeted therapy with Tagrisso (osimertinib). The treatment worked remarkably well, and within months, her tumors had shrunk by more than 50%, and the lymph nodes that had previously shown signs of cancer were no longer visible on scans.

But Melissa couldn't shake 1 thought. As a veterinarian, she knew that, when possible, surgeons often remove the primary tumor. She wanted to know whether surgery could play a role in her own treatment. Her doctors initially hadn't recommended it because her cancer was stage IV (4), and surgery is not a typical treatment for lung cancer at later stages. Still, Melissa continued asking questions.

"I had a really strong gut feeling that I wanted that primary tumor out," she said.

Rather than dismissing her idea, her care team listened. Her local surgeon encouraged her to seek an additional opinion from a thoracic surgeon with more experience treating complex lung cancer cases. Her oncologist supported the idea as well.

After consulting with specialists who supported her as a good candidate for surgery, Melissa underwent surgery in December 2021, just 6 months after her diagnosis. Surgeons removed the upper lobe of her left lung along with 14 lymph nodes.

Looking back, she's grateful that she trusted her instincts and that her doctors were willing to partner with her.

"Honestly, they were not going to talk me out of it," she said. “Even if someone had told me that the surgical outcome would be identical to non-surgical treatment, I still wanted the tumor out of me. Just for the peace of mind.”

Learning to hope again

The first months after diagnosis were some of the hardest of Melissa's life. For a long time, she was convinced she wouldn't survive.

"I was pretty sure I was going to be dead within a year," she said.

Although her doctors were compassionate and honest, they couldn't tell her exactly what the future would look like. There were simply too many unknowns.  

Searching for answers, Melissa began reading stories from other people living with lung cancer. For the first time, she saw people talking about surviving for 8 years, 10 years, or even longer.

"It was then I started to have hope," she said.

The stories didn't guarantee anything about her own future, but they helped her realize that she might have one, too. They also showed her that hope and uncertainty could coexist.  

Surrounded by support

While Melissa was learning to navigate life with lung cancer, she quickly discovered that she didn't have to do it alone. When she was diagnosed, friends from across the country showed up in remarkable ways. One of her closest friends, a fellow veterinarian who lives in Washington state, drove to Colorado and stayed with her for a month. Other friends came for a week at a time, helping with appointments, daily tasks, and the emotional weight of everything she was facing.

Their support arrived when she needed it most. During one visit, Melissa developed a serious bacterial infection and spiked a 104 degree fever. The friend who had just arrived at her house ended up taking her to the emergency room.

Over the years, that support never faded. Earlier this year, Melissa celebrated the 5-year anniversary of her diagnosis with afternoon tea at a hotel in Denver. Nine friends joined her to mark the milestone.

"It was absolutely amazing," she said.

The experience reminded her of something she has learned again and again since her diagnosis: even in the most uncertain moments, she was never facing lung cancer alone.

Are you living or are you dying?

One conversation changed Melissa's perspective more than any other. She had been working with a counselor through her cancer center, struggling with questions about the future. She wondered whether she should buy a house, make long-term plans, and even adopt a new cat, given her diagnosis.  

Every decision seemed tangled up in uncertainty. Then, her counselor asked a simple question.

"Are you living or are you dying?"

The question stopped Melissa in her tracks. For months, Melissa had been organizing her life around the possibility that she might die. Her counselor challenged her to consider a different perspective. Today, she wasn't dying. Today, she was alive. For the first time in a long time, she began giving herself permission to plan accordingly.  

That realization didn't erase the uncertainty of living with stage IV (4) lung cancer. It simply changed how she chose to respond to it.  

Not long afterward, Melissa adopted a young cat. Looking back, she sees that decision as one of the first times she truly started planning for the future again.

"I felt pretty confident that was going to be here to take care of this animal," she said.

Letting go of what she can't control

Over time, Melissa found herself changing in other ways, too. Before cancer, uncertainty often made her anxious. She wanted answers, a plan, and certainty.

After her diagnosis, however, she came to realize that none of those things were actually available to anyone, even those living without cancer.  

"I completely accepted that I have no control over any of this," she said. "And I also have no way of predicting anything."

And rather than feeling defeated, Melissa found freedom in that realization. She stopped spending energy on things she couldn't control and became more intentional about where she focused her time and attention. She treasured friendships more deeply and reached out to people more often. She became more grateful for experiences and less concerned about the small frustrations that once occupied her mind.

"I’m so much more clear about how I want to spend my energy now," she said.

Looking ahead

Today, 5 years after her diagnosis, Melissa remains on Tagrisso (osimertinib) and has no evidence of disease. She's also slowly extended the time between scans, going from every 3 months to 4 ½ months to every 6 months. It wasn’t an easy shift.  

"Initially, I didn't think I was going to live long enough to have to worry about radiation exposure from the scans," she says. "And now maybe I do."

Her oncologist helped her think through it. Because there's no established playbook for someone in Melissa's exact position, he told her they were “cooking without a recipe.” They talk through decisions together to figure out what they're both comfortable with.

She's also setting ambitious physical goals for herself. A year and a half ago, she decided she wanted to climb the Manitou Incline near Colorado Springs, a grueling hike up what used to be a mining railroad, now more than 1,000 steps rising nearly straight up a mountain. She trained hard for it, but she still wasn't sure she'd make it even halfway.

She made it all the way to the top.  

Her next goal is to tackle some of the epic hikes in Glacier National Park that can run up to 14 miles long. She doesn't know yet if she can do it, but she's going to try.

Just 5 years ago, Melissa wasn’t sure she’d live long enough to plan for the future. Today, she's planning trips, setting new goals, deepening friendships, and looking forward to what's next.

She still thinks about the question her counselor asked her.

“Are you living or are you dying?”

These days, Melissa knows her answer.

Felipe had spent his entire life focused on how the body works and how to keep it working well. With a background in exercise physiology and injury prevention, his career was built around helping people recover, rebuild, and, whenever possible, avoid injury altogether. So, when something didn’t feel right in his own body, it stood out immediately.

In 2019, Felipe was running a half marathon with 2 clients when he noticed a cough that felt different from anything he had experienced before.

“I couldn’t catch my breath, which was very unlike me,” he said. “People were actually stopping and asking if I was okay.”

He finished the race, but the symptoms stayed. He was diagnosed with chronic bronchitis and asthma and prescribed inhalers and steroids, but things didn’t improve.

By 2021, after months of worsening symptoms and delays in care during the COVID-19 pandemic, Felipe went to urgent care. His oxygen levels were dropping to dangerous levels, and he was sent to the emergency room where a CT scan revealed nodules in his lungs.

Soon after, he was diagnosed with lung cancer. “It was so completely unexpected,” he said. “I was healthy in every way, and I’d never smoked, so getting lung cancer wasn’t something I even thought was possible.”

“I lost my identity”

At the same time, other parts of Felipe’s life were shifting just as dramatically. A flood destroyed his 10,000-square-foot gym overnight, and he was about to turn 65, a big milestone that included a long-time dream of relocating to Florida.

In April 2021, Felipe underwent a lobectomy. The procedure was successful. Physically, he recovered quickly. But what followed was something he hadn’t anticipated.  

In the months following surgery, Felipe expected to return to the life he once knew. Instead, he felt himself drifting further and further away from it. For someone whose life had always been grounded in discipline and driven by purpose, the shift was deeply unsettling.

“I lost my identity,” he said. “I lost my purpose.”

At first, it didn’t have a name; it just showed up in patterns he couldn’t ignore. Overeating, drinking more than he should, not training, constantly consuming news and social media, yet he was still showing up for work, still meeting responsibilities. From the outside, everything looked intact. But inside, something felt off and disconnected.  

“I was just not myself at all,” he shared. “I was in a really dark place.”

Then he came across a description of those behaviors being called “slow suicide.” That stopped him in his tracks. Not because suicide had ever crossed his mind, it hadn’t, but because he recognized the pattern. It was a slow drift, quiet neglect, and disconnection from himself.

That realization pushed him to try to understand what he was actually experiencing. Through research he realized it had a name: high-functioning depression.

A turning point

Felipe doesn’t identify a single moment that changed everything, but rather a more gradual realization that he needed to do something different.

His approach was to return to training, nutrition, and structure, the fundamentals that had served him well throughout his life. He sought out accountability and rebuilt his routines with intention.

Over time, the changes were significant.

“I got into the best shape of my life,” he said, “and I dragged myself out of a dark place while doing it.”

But more importantly, he began to see his experience differently and as an opportunity to return to the life of serving people that had once defined him.

Rethinking “survival”

As people around him began using the word “survivor,” Felipe found himself pushing back against it. To him, it didn’t go far enough.

“Just surviving cancer is a very low bar,” he said.

Felipe believes that for people with early-stage cancer, surviving is not the only endpoint. It can be a beginning. What matters more is how you rebuild, how you take care of yourself, and how you move forward.

A disconnect

As Felipe moved further from treatment, he noticed something that surprised him and inspired his next steps.

“There’s a disconnect between the end of medical care and the re-starting of real life,” he said. “Your appointments become less frequent and the structures that guide you through your diagnosis and treatments fade away.”

What to expect when your care ends isn’t always clearly defined, and for Felipe, that gap seemed like an opportunity to help others navigate what had proven tricky for him.

From experience to action

Felipe hadn’t planned to write a book about his experiences, but as he reflected on what he had gone through, he realized that much of what had helped him to navigate life after cancer wasn’t easy to find in one place.

“There are resources out there,” he said. “But they’re not organized. You have to go find a little bit here, a little bit there, and piece it together yourself.”

What he wanted to create was something different. Not a memoir, and not a set of rigid instructions, but a starting point. A way for people to begin making sense of what comes next.

That idea became his book, “Don’t Call Me a Survivor: Thriving Beyond Cancer.”His book brings together the core elements of training, nutrition, mindset, and accountability, all of which helped him rebuild. It introduces the idea that these things don’t work in isolation.

“Everything has to work in the same direction,” he said. “It’s the synergy of it all coming together that creates big change.”

At its core, the book is about awareness. Helping people recognize that the period after treatment can be just as challenging as the diagnosis itself, and that without structure or support, it’s easy to drift.

From there, the book points toward something more: a path forward. Building something different. After writing the book, Felipe began building something more structured, something that could help others not only understand what they were experiencing but begin to move forward too.

At his gym in South Florida and through his virtual client roster, his approach reflects what he learned through his own experience; that progress doesn’t come from one thing alone.

His “Phoenix Path” model moves from awareness to action, with a 90-day program that offers daily structure, weekly support, and a focus on rebuilding from the ground up.

It’s not about doing everything at once, he emphasizes. It’s about starting where you are.

That might mean starting with health before fitness and building a foundation through nutrition, breathing, and basic movement before pushing further. It might mean rebuilding confidence, rediscovering a sense of purpose, or creating structure where it’s been lost. And it always means meeting people where they are.

“Everything can be improved,” he said, “I help people focus on the fundamentals to feel better in a comprehensive way that’s unique to them, what they’ve been through, and where they want to go.”

Full circle

Earlier this year, Felipe heard from one of the runners from that half marathon where his symptoms first appeared. Now approaching 80, that same runner, Dan, was preparing to complete another half marathon, this time after his own cancer diagnosis.

On May 17, 2026 Felipe joined Dan for that race.

The moment felt full circle in a way he couldn’t have imagined years ago, when he was struggling to understand what was happening in his own body. To run alongside this man again after everything they’ve both been through seemed almost surreal.

For Felipe, this kind of real, human, and hard-earned connection is what it’s all about.

Looking ahead

Today, Felipe continues to train, build, and connect, drawing directly from his experience with lung cancer. He’s also focused on reaching more people, especially those navigating the uncertain space between treatment and whatever comes next.

He still undergoes regular scans, and there is still uncertainty. But his relationship with that uncertainty has changed. Instead of waiting for answers, he focuses on what he can control: how he trains, how he eats, and how he shows up each day.

For Felipe, surviving was never meant to be the end of the story. It was the beginning of a different experience, one rooted not just in getting through, but in moving forward with intention.

Because for him, the real question isn’t whether you survive. It’s what you do next.

A lung cancer diagnosis can bring a lot of questions, emotions, and uncertainty. GO2 for Lung Cancer's free HelpLine connects you with trained specialists who can provide support, answer questions, and help you find resources along the way. Whether you're newly diagnosed, in treatment, or navigating survivorship, you don't have to face it alone.

Call us at 1-800-298-2436 or email support@go2.org to learn more.

Leslie lives in St. Augustine, FL with her husband, Ken, and their elderly rescue cat. Her children are grown and live in Maryland and Washington, DC. When not traveling, Leslie can be found soaking up the sunshine at the nearby beach. 

When Leslie's cough wouldn't go away, she did what most people would do; she went to her doctor. Then she went back again. And again.

She tried antibiotics and inhalers from her allergist, but nothing helped. Meanwhile, the cough worsened, her breathing became more difficult, and the active lifestyle she loved started slipping away. At the time, Leslie was teaching fitness classes, yet suddenly she found herself struggling to catch her breath.

As the weeks passed, Leslie became increasingly concerned. Her lymph nodes had become noticeably swollen, and she was getting sicker by the day. Although her primary care physician finally ordered a chest CT scan, the appointment was weeks away.

Friends urged her to stop waiting, and finally she listened. She drove herself to a nearby emergency room (ER), expecting to learn she had pneumonia or some other explanation for her symptoms. Instead, a CT scan performed at the hospital revealed a mass in her lung.

“Here’s why you can’t breathe”

The doctor in the ER returned to her room carrying a piece of paper.

"He said, 'I have good news. Your blood work is normal, and your COVID test is negative,’” Leslie remembered. “Then he handed me the scan results and said, 'Here's why you can't breathe.'"

Reading the report herself, Leslie saw the words "lung mass."

"I started screaming, 'Am I going to die?'"

Alone in the hospital room, she called her husband in a panic. Then, something remarkable happened. Her next-door neighbor, an oncologist, happened to be on call that day.

"She walked into my room, and it was like an angel at my bedside," Leslie said.

Her neighbor sat with her, held her hand, and said, “we’ll figure this out together.” Those words became an anchor during one of the most frightening moments of her life.

Finding hope in biomarker testing

A biopsy soon confirmed that Leslie had lung cancer. Because the cancer had already spread to her lymph nodes, doctors knew it was advanced. Like many people diagnosed with stage 4 (IV) lung cancer, Leslie immediately feared the worst.

"All I could think was, 'I'm going to die. Am I going to see my daughters get married? Do I want to be buried or cremated? What’s going to happen to me?' My brain just spiraled."

Her neighbor, however, knew there was another important piece of information still to come: biomarker testing. The wait was agonizing. When a lab error delayed her results for nearly a month, she spent long days sitting outside in the sunshine, reading books, and trying to keep her mind occupied.

When the results finally came through, her neighbor actually printed them out and walked them over to Leslie’s house. She said, "This is good news!" 

Leslie's cancer had tested positive for an ALK biomarker, and she heard a phrase that many people with ALK-positive lung cancer have heard before.

"You've won the cancer lottery."

At first, the statement felt impossible to understand.

"It didn't feel like I was winning any lottery," Leslie said.

But as her doctors explained what the ALK biomarker meant, Leslie began to understand. Advances in targeted therapies were allowing many people with ALK-positive lung cancer to live much longer and better than ever before. For the first time since her diagnosis, she felt a glimmer of hope.

The worst club you never wanted to join

Not long after her diagnosis, Leslie discovered the ALK Positive support community, a patient-founded and patient-driven nonprofit organization committed to transforming the future for everyone affected by ALK-positive cancer. No doctor had suggested it. She found it herself. The impact they had on her was profound.

"The ALK Positive group saved my life," she said.

At the time, Leslie was preparing to undergo radiation treatment for brain metastases. She already had the mask made and appointments scheduled. Then, members of the ALK Positive community encouraged her to pause and ask more questions.

"They said, 'Wait. Let the treatment work first.'"

After discussing options with her medical team, Leslie decided to hold off. It turned out to be a good decision. The targeted therapy worked. Her brain metastases responded without radiation.

For Leslie, it was an early lesson in the power of connecting with others who had walked the same path. She found people who had been living with ALK-positive lung cancer for as long as 10 years or more. She found friendships, practical advice, and reassurance that life could eventually feel normal again.

"You won't always be thinking about cancer," people told her. "It gets better."

They were right. Today, Leslie regularly attends ALK Positive events and has formed close friendships within the community.

"Lung cancer is the worst club you never wanted to join," she said, “but we have the best members.”

Learning to accept help

If there was another unexpected gift in the midst of Leslie's diagnosis, it was discovering just how deeply she was loved.

After Leslie’s diagnosis, her people started to show up for her in important and practical ways. Friends delivered meals. Cards arrived in the mail. Flowers showed up at her door. People researched treatment options, shared resources, and offered support in every way they could.

"The kindness was overwhelming," she said.

At first, Leslie found that accepting help felt uncomfortable. Over time, however, she realized that allowing people to help was a gift for them, too.

Looking back, Leslie describes the experience in a way she has never forgotten.

"It's almost like I died and I was at my own funeral," she said. "It was such a gift. I got to see how much people love me while I'm alive."

During the hardest period of her life, she experienced something beautiful.

"I felt like the luckiest person because who gets to experience that? Most people don't get to know how loved they are and how much they’ve meant to people."

Leslie’s friends across the world also helped her raise over $8,000 last year to donate to ALK Positive, which has contributed to the over $10.8 million in patient research funding since 2017. She is beyond grateful for their support of research.

Looking toward the future

Today, Leslie and her husband have retired and moved to Florida, a decision influenced in part by her diagnosis. Rather than waiting for someday, they're embracing the life they had always hoped to build. There are home projects to finish. Trips to plan. New adventures to take. She’s planning for the future in ways she never expected when she was first diagnosed.  

Leslie is also participating in a clinical trial that is exploring new ways to prevent resistance to targeted therapies. The experience has deepened her appreciation for the researchers and physicians working to improve outcomes for people living with lung cancer.

"The research gives me so much hope," she said.

Less than 2 years ago, Leslie was wondering if she would live long enough to see her daughters' futures unfold. Today, she's busy planning her own.

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Laura lives in Camden, South Carolina, where she loves horseback riding, playing Mahjong, and is opening her very own Mahjong studio. She is a Veteran who receives care through the Veterans Administration (VA) and is an active advocate for lung cancer awareness.

Laura never expected lung cancer to be part of her story. At 38, she was doing everything she was supposed to do. She was keeping up with annual appointments through the VA, staying active, and paying attention to her health. Lung cancer wasn’t even on her radar.  

But looking back, there were signs. She had a lingering cough that began the previous spring, fatigue that she chalked up to stress from work and life, and congestion that allergy medications never seemed to touch. Occasionally, she even coughed up blood. But like many people, especially younger people, she never imagined it could mean lung cancer.

“I was so focused on all the other cancers,” Laura said. “My mom died of colon cancer, so I started getting colonoscopies in my twenties. I kept up with everything they tell you to be aware of related to women’s health. But lung cancer was nowhere on my radar.”  

During a routine visit at the VA in April 2023, Laura mentioned the cough to her doctor, along with wrist pain, exhaustion, and a handful of other symptoms that had slowly become part of everyday life. Because Veterans are diagnosed with lung cancer at higher rates than the general population, her care team ordered a chest X-ray right away.

The chest X-ray appeared to show a small 6-millimeter nodule in her right lung. It was small enough that her care team reassured her it was common in service members. They'd just monitor it with a CT scan to make sure it wasn't growing.

Then the CT results came back. The nodule wasn't 6 millimeters. It was almost 6 centimeters.

Her doctor called her that afternoon. She told Laura she was sorry and that she was going to schedule her with an oncologist right away. Laura didn't even know what to say.

"I'm sorry, ‘oncologist?’ What do you mean? Why do I need an oncologist? Could it be anything else?" she asked.

"Based on the size of [the nodule]," the doctor told her, "No. It's going to be cancer."

The importance of biomarker testing

A few days later, Laura underwent a biopsy through the VA’s partnership with the Medical University of South Carolina (MUSC). Her pulmonologist immediately emphasized the importance of comprehensive biomarker testing before starting treatment. It’s a step that Laura now knows was critical.

“They said, ‘We’re going to get a lot of tissue, send it for genetic testing, and wait for those results before deciding on treatment,’” she said. “I was lucky. This is how everybody should be treated.”  

The results confirmed that Laura had stage 4 (IV) ALK-positive lung cancer, a form of non-small cell lung cancer (NSCLC) driven by an ALK biomarker. Although hearing the words “stage 4” was devastating, learning she had a biomarker also meant she had highly targeted treatment options available.

At first, Laura started treatment with alectinib, an ALK-targeted therapy. But while the medication effectively treated her cancer, the side effects became difficult to manage.

Eventually, after struggling with side effects and elevated liver enzymes, Laura transitioned to lorlatinib, another ALK-targeted therapy she says has allowed her to regain much of her quality of life.

“I have energy again,” she said. “It’s so much better.”

Learning to live with uncertainty

Still, adjusting to life with metastatic lung cancer has been about far more than finding the right medication. Laura describes the emotional aftermath of diagnosis as one of the hardest parts of her experience.

“The diagnosis is world-upending,” she said. “First, you think you’re going to die. Then, actually, no. Maybe you’re not going to die right away. And, OK, you’re excited to be doing so well, but now you have to figure out how to live this entirely new way.”  

Over time, Laura has learned that coping doesn’t always mean fixing everything. In fact, some of her biggest lessons have come from letting go of the illusion of control.

“I went a little crazy trying to control everything at first,” she said. “I changed my diet, exercised constantly, and stopped drinking alcohol overnight. I just wanted to do something.”  

“Over time, I had to learn to let go a little, and that I don’t need to solve every bad feeling,” she said. “I control what I can control and let the bad days come when they come. It doesn’t mean it’s forever.”  

That shift in perspective has helped Laura rebuild a life that still feels joyful and meaningful. After her diagnosis, she moved to Camden, South Carolina, where she now spends time horseback riding, playing mahjong, and preparing to open a mahjong studio, a project she enthusiastically describes as her latest obsession.

“When I’m into something, I’m serious about it,” she laughed. “It’s been good to channel that energy from cancer to something more fun.”

Finding community and hope

Laura has also become involved in advocacy through GO2 for Lung Cancer and the ALK Positive community. Attending advocacy events and scientific summits has transformed the way she thinks about the future.

“Every year at the ALK Summit, researchers and doctors show us what they’re working on,” she said. “You realize there are absolutely brilliant people out there who care deeply about helping us live longer.”  

Sharing her story on Capitol Hill during GO2’s Voices Summit has also shown her how much education is still needed around lung cancer.

“I realized legislators and staffers often don’t know anything about lung cancer,” she said. “Sharing my story was an opportunity to teach them about the disease and what is needed to better treat it.”  

Today, Laura hopes her story helps challenge outdated assumptions about who gets lung cancer and what life after diagnosis can look like, especially for younger people, Veterans, and people living with biomarker-driven disease.

Her biggest advice for someone newly diagnosed?

“Take your time,” she said. “You don’t have to figure everything out right now.”  

She also strongly encourages others to find community.

“The biggest help for me was joining a supportive group and talking to people going through the same thing,” Laura said. “You realize you’re not alone, and that’s priceless.”  

“There’s so much more coming”

Three years after her diagnosis, Laura knows life still includes uncertainty, grief, and hard days. But it also includes hope, connection, and plans for the future.

“It’s so empowering to see all the advances happening in research,” she said, “I really believe there’s so much more coming.”  

A lung cancer diagnosis can bring a lot of questions, emotions, and uncertainty. GO2 for Lung Cancer's free HelpLine connects you with trained specialists who can provide support, answer questions, and help you find resources along the way. Whether you're newly diagnosed, in treatment, or navigating survivorship, you don't have to face it alone.

Call us at 1-800-298-2436 or email support@go2.org to learn more.

Donna Thompson is a 3-time survivor of early-stage, non-small cell lung cancer, thriving more than a decade since her first diagnosis. After 2 surgeries to remove portions of her right lung, she carries forward an experience that deepens her commitment to lung cancer awareness, mental health advocacy, and building supportive communities. Donna shares her story to inspire hope, reduce stigma, and elevate survivor voices. Her advocacy spans education, outreach, and research collaboration within the lung cancer community. She speaks at wellness and community events, using her experience to empower others navigating illness and recovery. Professionally, Donna is the director of Human Resources and a SHRM Certified HR leader, known for leading with empathy and practical insight, and supporting people through complex workplace challenges. She finds strength - literally and emotionally - through faith, fitness training, and time in nature. For her, movement is medicine, and advocacy is a calling rooted in compassion and resilience.

Donna remembers the exact moment everything changed. It was September 2015, and she went to the emergency room for something else entirely. Her blood sugar was dangerously high, and she wasn’t feeling right. They ran tests, monitored her, and sent her home. The next day, the ER doctor called her and said the radiologist saw a mass in her lung and that she should have it checked out right away.  

At 45 years old, and having no smoking history, lung cancer wasn’t on her radar. It wasn’t on anyone else’s either.

“Everyone I talked to was like, ‘You’re too young. You’ve never smoked. This is probably not lung cancer.’”

But within 5 weeks, after scans, a biopsy, and what she still calls “the longest 5 weeks of my life,” Donna had her answer. It was lung cancer after all.  

"The best possible situation”

Looking back, Donna sees the moments that led to her lung cancer diagnosis a little differently.

“I always say that was God getting my attention, whispering to me in the quiet, still moments," she said.

The tumor was stage 2 (II) and operable. In many ways, it was the best-case scenario for a diagnosis no one expected. Her surgical team moved quickly.

“She told me, ‘This is the best possible situation. It’s in a good location. We can take it out.’”

By the end of November, just 2 months after that ER visit, Donna had surgery, and for a moment, it felt like the worst might already be behind her.

When the plan changes

Initially, Donna was told she wouldn’t need chemotherapy. The surgery had been successful, her margins were clean, and everything pointed in the right direction.

Then the pathology report came back. It showed that her tumor was more complex than expected. It was an unusual form of adenocarcinoma that didn’t behave in typical ways. Her case was sent to multiple cancer centers, and the recommendation shifted.

“I remember my surgeon calling me herself,” Donna said. “She said, ‘I told you one thing, and now it’s changing, and I need to explain that to you.’”

A second opinion confirmed it: chemotherapy was recommended. Donna agreed, but her body had other plans.

When treatment becomes the crisis

“Every time I got chemo, I ended up in the ER,” she said. “Something was always going wrong.”

After just two treatments, it was clear that this wasn’t sustainable. Her oncologist made the call.

“He said, ‘Your body can’t handle this. We’re done.’”

It was a moment that carried both relief and uncertainty. The treatment meant to protect her was, instead, putting her in danger. And so, once again, Donna adjusted.

“I didn’t survive to be basic.”

In the months that followed, Donna made a decision that would shape everything that came next.

“I didn’t survive to be basic,” she said.  

Instead, she poured herself into her health and started working with a trainer, changing her diet, and reclaiming a sense of control over her body.

“I got into the best shape of my life,” she said. “I came off medications. My A1C went back to normal. Everything changed.”

But the transformation wasn’t just physical. It was also about identity.

“The cancer gave me more than it took from me,” she said. “I learned who I am, how strong I can be, and what I really need in the world. I learned what and who are important to me. It put such a clear focus on what I want for my life.”  

Finding community and belonging

Still, parts of the experience felt isolating.

“I kept meeting people, and they were all stage 4 (IV),” she said. “I felt like, am I even supposed to be here?”

She was grateful for her outcome, but that gratitude came with a quiet tension.

“I didn’t want to take up space in their groups,” she said. “But I still needed support too.”

And there was something else. “I didn’t see anyone who looked like me.”

It wasn’t until years later, through social media connections, introductions, and small group conversations, that Donna found what she had been missing: a close-knit circle of Black women who truly understood her experience.

“We started meeting regularly, talking, and supporting each other,” she said. “There’s something about being with people who understand you completely without you having to explain that changes everything. They know what they did for me, and what we do for one another. Finally, I had community.”

A second diagnosis, and a different reality

For nearly 7 years, Donna focused on moving forward, rebuilding, and holding onto the belief that she had come through something and grown because of it.

Then, in 2022, everything shifted again. This time, it wasn’t a symptom that sent her back to treatment. It was a scan.

“My scans went from showing nothing to showing a tumor the same size as my first diagnosis,” she said. “I was just so shocked because I wasn’t expecting anything.”

As Donna began to piece together what had happened, the story became even more complicated. The tumor hadn’t appeared overnight. When her new care team reviewed her prior scans, they discovered that the growth had been visible as far back as 2018, but it had been missed.

The radiologist who originally read the scan had not flagged it, and even more concerning, it became clear that her oncologist had never reviewed the images directly.  

“That was the moment for me,” Donna said. “I realized no one had really been looking out for me the way they should have. I felt like a number, and I’m a relationship person. This matters to me.”

It was a turning point, not just medically, but emotionally. What initially felt like a sudden recurrence became something harder to process. It was a missed opportunity for earlier intervention.

Another treatment crisis

This time, Donna’s treatment plan included a targeted therapy designed specifically for EGFR-positive lung cancer that would allow her to take a lower dose of chemo, which they hoped she would tolerate better. It felt like progress and a better path.

But after a second surgery, adjuvant chemo, and introducing the new treatment, her body began to struggle again in a different and even more frightening way, this time in response to the targeted therapy.

After multiple attempts to adjust the dosage, the new medicine ultimately led to kidney failure, a serious complication that forced yet another shift in her care and another redefinition of what “moving forward” would look like.

It was also the moment that changed how Donna understood her own story.

“I used to say that cancer gave me more than it took from me,” she said. “And I believed that until my kidneys failed. Recovering from that took nearly all I had. I’m still trying to fully move on from how traumatic that year was.”

“I also have to remind myself how remarkable it was that I overcame this,” she said. “My nephrologist said my recovery was miraculous, and it does feel like a total miracle now.”

Living in the in-between

Today, Donna is once again in a place that many people with lung cancer know all too well: waiting.  

In July 2025, after recovering from kidney failure, her care team radiated 2 new spots. They chose radiation because it was the gentlest option for her. Recent scans have shown new nodules that Donna and her care team are just watching, for now.  

“They’re watching them and trying to decide what to do next,” she said. “And with my treatment history, not every option feels like a good one.”

It’s not a crisis. But it’s not clarity, either, and Donna finds herself struggling with living in this place of uncertainty.  

“I like to have a plan, and I like to know what we’re going to do. I’m finding it very hard for me to just wait and see.”

Still choosing more

Through her diagnosis, treatment, recurrence, and all the unexpected turns in between, Donna has held onto a simple mindset:

“I didn’t survive to be basic.”

It’s a phrase that stuck with her early on and has continued to shape how she moves through each new chapter. And for Donna, that means continuing to choose a full life, even in the unknown.

If you or someone you love has been diagnosed with lung cancer, know that you're not alone. Our HelpLine provides free, one-on-one support to people impacted by the disease. Call 1-800-298-2436 or email support@go2.org to connect. Our team is available Monday-Friday from 9 a.m.-5 p.m. ET/6 a.m.-2 p.m. PT.

Michelle Bos-Lun is a third term state representative in the Vermont General Assembly. She lives in Westminster with her husband. She has 3 adult children and 2 grandchildren. Michelle is an enthusiastic vegan cook and baker, a mushroom forager, a hiker, and an advocate for lung cancer.  

When Michelle returned home from a trip to Nepal last year, she soon found herself unable to get out of bed. At first, she thought she had jet lag, but when her symptoms worsened, she ended up in the hospital.  

What followed was a whirlwind of tests and uncertainty that led to a diagnosis she hadn’t expected: scrub typhus, a rare and potentially life-threatening infection she had contracted while traveling.

But the story didn’t end there. In the process of trying to understand why she was so sick, doctors ordered a chest X-ray and saw something there that they couldn’t explain.

Three weeks and even more tests later, Michelle received a second surprising diagnosis: lung cancer.  

A diagnosis she never expected

Like so many others, lung cancer wasn’t something Michelle imagined would happen to her until it did.  

“Before my diagnosis, I knew of one person who had lung cancer without a smoking history,” she said. “So, while I knew it was possible, it didn’t seem at all likely. But lots of people aren’t good candidates for lung cancer, and yet it still finds us.”

Still, even in the face of a stage 3B (IIIB) diagnosis, her reaction was not what many might expect.

“I’m pretty pragmatic about things,” she said. “When something comes up, I want to learn all about it and figure out what I can do to have the best results with a situation that isn’t ideal.”

That instinct to learn, adapt, and move forward has shaped everything that’s followed  

“I won the lottery”

After her initial diagnosis, Michelle entered a waiting period, one filled with a lot of questions, but few clear answers. Her oncologist couldn’t yet tell her what kind of lung cancer she had or how it would be treated. The outlook he shared at that point was sobering.

But there was one 1 possibility that offered hope, and that was a genetic mutation.

Her doctor told her, “If you have a mutation, there are some really good targeted therapies.”

Two weeks later, the call came. Michelle had ALK-positive lung cancer.

“He told me I won the lottery,” she said. “I had the best one with the best treatment.”

Within days of starting the targeted therapy, Lorbrena (loralatinib), her persistent cough, which was her only noticeable symptom, had disappeared. A few months later, her first scan showed her cancer had been reduced by nearly 50%.

“My doctor actually said, ‘This is even better than I would have expected,’” Michelle said.

A whole-person approach

From the beginning, Michelle approached her diagnosis the same way she has approached much of her life by integrating different perspectives, experiences, and tools. Having spent part of her adolescence in Taiwan, and as a long-practicing Buddhist, she was already comfortable holding multiple ways of thinking at once.

“My life has been a mixture of East and West since I was 12,” she said. “So, when I got cancer, it made sense to include a variety of different resources and approaches.”

Her treatment plan reflects that. Alongside her targeted therapy, Michelle has built a daily routine that supports her body in other ways:

• Tai Chi twice a day to improve circulation and manage neuropathy

• Walking several miles each day

• Bi-weekly acupuncture

• Regular lymphatic massage

• A nutrient-dense, plant-based diet including daily kale smoothies, large salads, and roasted vegetables with whole grains

“I feel as healthy as I’ve ever been. Except I have cancer,” she said.  

It’s a paradox she doesn’t shy away from. And it’s one she’s actively working to sustain.

“The lorlatinib gets credit for 75% of my healing, and my kale smoothies get the other 25%,” she joked.  

Choosing hope—on purpose  

Michelle is quick to acknowledge that everyone responds to a diagnosis differently. But for her, hope is not something she has to force; it’s something she naturally gravitates toward.

“I think you can choose to look at the hardest parts, or you can look at the possible good outcomes,” she said. “For me, it’s more satisfying to look at the positive. I try to find the best-case scenarios and aim for those.”

Even before her diagnosis was confirmed, she made a conscious choice not to dwell in pessimism.

“Before my lung biopsy, I thought, I don’t think it’s very likely that this is lung cancer, so I’m not going to worry about it,” she said. “And then when it turned out to be cancer, I said, ‘Okay, so when can we figure out how to treat this?’ I could have spent that time scared, but being scared wouldn’t have changed the outcome, only how I experienced the time leading up to it. That’s sort of how I approach everything.”

Finding community and perspective

Like many people diagnosed with a biomarker-driven form of lung cancer, Michelle quickly found community among others living with ALK-positive disease.

“I feel like I’ve been welcomed into this club that none of us wanted to join,” she said. “But since we’re here, we’re there for each other.”

Through that community, she found not only information, but perspective, including examples of people living 10, 15, even 20 years after diagnosis. Their stories helped her understand the full range of what’s possible and where she might fit within it.

“Somebody would say, ‘my husband is 21 years out’, and I thought, what? We can live 21 years with this? Knowing that some people can live quite a long time made me feel like, okay, then I can make it too,” she said.

Not waiting anymore

If there is 1 theme that runs through Michelle’s story, it’s this: don’t wait.

After her diagnosis, she began thinking about the people she hadn’t seen in years and the friendships that had drifted with time and distance. She immediately set out to rectify that. Her first trip was to reconnect with a close friend she hadn’t seen in decades.

“I just thought, I don’t want to wait,” she said. “Why did I already wait 30 years? I’m not doing that again.”

Now, her “bucket list” isn’t about places; it’s about people – reunions, visits, and time spent together.

“I hope I’m going to be around for a long time,” she said. “But in case I’m not, I don’t want to wait to spend time with the people who matter most to me. I want to see them now.”

Turning experience into action

As a state legislator in Vermont, Michelle already had a platform. After her diagnosis, she chose to use it in a new way. From the very beginning, she has spoken publicly about her experiences, using them as an opportunity to raise awareness about lung cancer, and especially the importance of early detection.

“I thought, maybe I can help somebody else,” she said. “If I can help educate someone, then go ahead, use my story.”

After her story appeared on the front page of her local paper, she learned that at least two people went to their doctors to ask for chest X-rays. For Michelle, that was enough.

“That’s the whole point,” she said.

She is also working to connect her personal experience with broader public health efforts, including initiatives that emphasize nutrition as a core component of care.

“When people eat healthy food, it helps keep them healthy,” she said. “I’m a living example of that.”

Moving forward

Less than a year into her diagnosis, Michelle’s life looks both familiar and entirely new. She is still working, still advocating, and still showing up for her family.

But she is also living with a deeper sense of urgency and intention.

“When you get lemons, make lemonade,” she said. “Well, I’m making some lemonade.”

Only in Michelle’s case, it’s likely organic, and paired with a kale smoothie.

A lung cancer diagnosis can bring a lot of questions, emotions, and uncertainty. GO2 for Lung Cancer’s free HelpLine connects you with trained specialists who can provide support, answer questions, and help you find resources along the way. Whether you’re newly diagnosed, in treatment, or navigating survivorship, you don’t have to face it alone.

Call us at 1-800-298-2436 or email support@go2.org to learn more.

For Amita Jain, MD, lung cancer is not just a diagnosis. It’s a lived experience that has shaped her life across multiple roles as a physician, a patient, a daughter, a caregiver, and an advocate.

Her family’s lung cancer story spans generations. In July 2018, her mother, Usha Jain, a retired UC Berkeley professor, was diagnosed with stage 4 (IV) non-small cell lung cancer (NSCLC) despite having no smoking history. Just 6 months later, Amita herself would receive the same diagnosis.

While both women faced advanced disease, their treatment paths diverged. Usha underwent chemotherapy and immunotherapy for nearly 2 years before stopping treatment and transitioning to routine scans. That period (often described clinically as “watch and wait”) felt anything but passive to her family.

“It was hard to feel as though we were ‘doing nothing,’” Amita recalls.

Turning to navigation for answers

As both a physician and a caregiver, Amita understood medicine, but even she found the complexity of lung cancer care overwhelming.

Navigating next steps after treatment, understanding emerging options, and keeping up with rapidly evolving research can feel like a full-time job, especially for families already carrying the emotional weight of a diagnosis.

So, Amita reached out to GO2's LungMATCH navigation program.

“I called the navigators and furnished my mom’s tumor’s genetic profile,” she says. “They reached out a day later with information on some trials for which she might qualify.”

Although her mother ultimately chose not to pursue clinical trials, the impact of that interaction was profound.

“While we did not take action on the options that the navigator provided, the information was empowering,” Amita explains. “It really helped us understand the ‘lay of the land’ in her particular situation.”

Bridging the gap between information and understanding

Even for someone with medical training, the experience revealed an important truth.  Access to information is not the same as understanding it.

“Navigating is complex and scary, and getting all the information is difficult if you are not an oncologist,” Amita says. “The navigator that I spoke with was both professional and prompt. That information made me feel as though we understood our options—and that was extremely reassuring.”

For patients and families, that reassurance can be transformative.

A lung cancer diagnosis often brings not only fear, but also a sense of powerlessness. Decisions feel urgent; stakes are high, and the volume of information can be paralyzing.

“The navigator can serve as a bridge to knowledge,” Amita says. “Knowledge is power. Having a diagnosis of lung cancer can be shocking, but more importantly you do feel a bit powerless and overwhelmed. The navigators serve as a resource and lifeline.”

The invisible work of navigation

What many patients don’t see is the depth of work happening behind the scenes.

Navigators are constantly reviewing evolving research, identifying clinical trials, interpreting biomarker data, and translating complex medical information into something patients can actually use to discuss with their care teams.

“Keeping up on the information is a full-time job that most of us are not trained to do,” Amita says.

That expertise becomes especially critical at moments of uncertainty, like when treatment ends, and the path forward is unclear.

In those moments, navigation doesn’t just guide decisions; it restores a sense of control.

Strengthening navigation for the future

Stories like Amita’s mother’s underscore the critical role navigators play, not just in coordinating care, but in empowering patients and families with clarity, confidence, and connection.

To support and strengthen this role, GO2 for Lung Cancer partnered with leading experts to develop a comprehensive resource for those on the front lines of patient care.

The Lung Cancer Navigator: A Guide for Nurses and Allied Health Professionals textbook is designed to equip health professionals with the knowledge and tools they need to guide patients through every step of the lung cancer experience, from diagnosis to survivorship.

By investing in navigator education, we can ensure that more patients and families experience what Amita describes so clearly: the shift from feeling overwhelmed and uncertain to being informed and empowered.

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Brenda S. didn’t expect anything unusual from her visit to her primary care physician. It was the kind of routine appointment she had done many times before. It was a standard check-in, familiar questions, nothing out of the ordinary. Brenda had lived with multiple sclerosis (MS) for years and understood what it meant to manage a chronic illness, but aside from that, she considered herself healthy. Lung cancer was not on her radar.

And yet, that appointment marked the beginning of an experience that would change her life.

“You better get another opinion.”

Brenda’s experience with lung cancer stands out because it didn’t follow the path so many others know too well.  

“A lot of times people are diagnosed at a pretty late stage,” she explained. “I was one of the lucky ones to get diagnosed early.”  

That early diagnosis, however, didn’t come easily or immediately, and it didn’t come without persistence.

During that initial visit, something caught her doctor’s attention. Tests followed, and eventually, her doctor discovered a nodule. Brenda was told that it was benign. On the surface, that should have been the end of the story. Relief is the word most people would expect to describe that moment.

But relief wasn’t the whole truth.

“I remember just saying, please, please don’t let it be cancer,” Brenda recalled. And when she heard the word benign, she wanted to believe it completely. Yet underneath the reassurance, there was a feeling she couldn’t shake. “Deep inside, it was nagging,” she said. “It was like… I don’t know, sister, you’d better get another opinion.”

Brenda tried to move forward. Life went on. But that quiet inner voice didn’t disappear.

A gut feeling and rare early diagnosis

Brenda and her partner, Alice.

Nearly a year later, she developed a cough. It might have been easy to dismiss. After all, coughs are common, especially when life is busy and family visits. But that timing turned out to matter. Among the relatives in town was a nurse, someone trained to notice what others might overlook. She pulled Brenda’s partner Alice aside and said plainly: “This needs to be checked.”

That moment was pivotal.

Brenda listened. She followed up. And this time, the outcome was different.

The cancer was found early, something Brenda doesn’t take lightly. Early detection gave her options, time, and the ability to approach treatment without the urgency and limitations that come with a late-stage diagnosis. She knows how rare that is in lung cancer, and she doesn’t call herself lucky casually.

Her story is a reminder that diagnosis is not always a single moment, but a series of decisions—some small, some difficult—that add up. It’s about trusting medical expertise, yes, but also trusting yourself. Brenda’s experience underscores how critical self-advocacy can be, especially when something doesn’t sit right, even if the initial answer seems reassuring.

Living fully

Beyond her diagnosis, Brenda is someone defined by far more than cancer. One of the joys woven throughout her life has always been singing. Whether performing when she was younger or sharing music in more personal settings, singing has long been part of who she is. Today, Brenda has found her way back to jazz singing, a return that feels especially meaningful. Being back in that space, reconnecting with music and performance, has brought her renewed joy and vitality. Singing is an expression of creativity, resilience, and presence, qualities that carried her through uncertainty and continue to ground her now.

Cancer has a way of narrowing focus, of making life feel smaller. Brenda’s story pushes back against that. It’s not just about what she faced, but about how she continues to live fully, with gratitude and purpose. Returning to jazz is not about going back to who she was before but embracing who she is now. She speaks openly, not because the moments leading to her diagnosis were easy, but because she hopes her experience might help someone else pause, ask another question, or seek a second opinion when something feels off.

She’s also quick to express appreciation for her doctors, for her family, and for the advocates and organizations working to change the lung cancer narrative. “Thank you to GO2 for Lung Cancer for the work you are doing,” she said. “I’m here, whatever I can do.”

Brenda’s experience is a powerful reminder that early detection saves lives, that listening to your instincts matters, and that sometimes the most important voice to hear is the quiet one telling you to look again.

GO2’s HelpLine is a free, one-on-one service that connects patients and caregivers with experienced staff who can provide guidance, resources, and, most importantly, hope. Whether it’s questions about getting a second opinion, biomarker testing, screening, treatment options, or simply needing someone to listen, the HelpLine is here to make sure you know you are not alone. Call 1-800-298-2436 or email ‍ support@go2.org to get started. 

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