why all natural? ….. my story

For nearly 15 years, I fought an unrelenting battle against the cancer in my neck—five surgeries, countless rounds of toxic treatments, each one more grueling than the last. Yet no matter what I did, no matter how aggressively we attacked it, the cancer remained.

I hit my lowest point waking up from my final surgery, groggy from anesthesia, only to hear Dr. K’s solemn voice:

"I’ve done everything I can, but I can’t go back in. The scar tissue is too dense. I can’t scrape it out anymore."

The words settled over me like a suffocating weight. This was it. No more surgeries. No more options. And just when I thought I couldn’t sink any lower, the ground beneath me gave way again.

Six months later, new concerns surfaced—curious spots on my lung and kidney.

By 2013, I braced myself for yet another difficult conversation at the Mayo Clinic. Would they finally have those long-awaited clinical trials ready? Would they suggest this new thing called immunotherapy? More radiation? More consultations with oncology? It felt justified to expect bad news.

Instead, I heard something so unexpected that I could barely process it.

"We can’t find it on the scans. The blood markers are undetectable."

I sat there, stunned—excited, yes, but also disoriented, as if my brain refused to compute the words. Had I really just heard that? Could it be real?

It wasn’t until I called my mom that the full weight of it hit me. As I tried to form the words, my voice simply stopped. The air vanished from my lungs. My mom, on the other end of the line, kept repeating, "What? What?"—not realizing that I was about to say something I had never dared to dream:

"I’m in physical and biochemical remission."

For years, cancer had been my reality. It had stolen my dreams, dictated my choices, shaped my identity. How could it suddenly be gone?

Nothing had changed in my treatment plan. No new surgeries. No adjustments to my meds. Nothing.

Or so I thought.

Then I remembered—there was something. Two small changes, seemingly insignificant at the time:

I quit drinking.
I changed my diet.

That was it.

And yet, here I was, hearing the impossible. The realization was as shocking as the diagnosis itself.

That day, I learned something profound: healing takes many forms. Sometimes, it comes from the surgeon’s skilled hands, the chemist’s precise formulations, the radiologist’s keen eye, the biologist’s deep understanding of disease.

But we should never underestimate the quiet, powerful role of nature itself.

For years, I hadn’t given plants enough credit.

Now, I know better.