Such a miraculous STORY 
This photo was taken in October 2018, during my last year in California, just a few months before I left to live in Nevada for a year and half before moving to Wyoming in 2020.
Hope for California felt like it was slipping away then…you could see change slowly coming to the state I grew up in. Everything cost so much more than it should and I could not justify staying there anymore. I knew I was leaving for good very soon.
I went to the beach that day with determination—I went Live to Facebook on a mission to find a heart-shaped rock for my cancer survivor followers. It was an inspiring impulse to do this and while others might have seen it as a long shot, I just knew I would find one. I’m like that—I have this deep inner determination coupled with a knowing I can’t ignore anymore, this sense that if I search with enough faith, hope and will to succeed I will find what I’m looking for. And sure enough, I found my heart stone! I have a video of this moment my husband took. I keep that heart-shaped rock on my desk to this day. That moment was deeply significant for me because it embodied the optimism that has been a guiding light my entire life, an intuitive idealistic feeling. It’s the same feeling in my soul I’ve carried with me since childhood, like my dad saw in me as a child when he called me “Pollyanna.”
Over the years, I’ve noticed that same hope and faith in others too, though for some, it seems to have been buried beneath the responsibilities and struggles of life. We often grow up thinking we need to tuck away that childlike essence within us—the innocence that believes in magic, in possibilities, in the certainty that good things can still happen. We convince ourselves that being an adult means toughening up, becoming realistic, shutting down those softer parts of our souls. But I believe that hope never really disappears—it’s still there, like a smoldering ember waiting for someone to fan it into a flame, waiting for a moment when we’re ready to let it breathe again, to let it guide us through the darkness.
Life has a way of surprising us with pain we never expected. We all have our stories—stories of heartbreak, of battles we didn’t ask for, and of the strength we didn’t know we had until we were forced to find it. My story is no different, and yet, it’s one among many.
In 2000, I found myself in a situation I never imagined—forced into the Victims of Crime program after enduring sexual assault and stalking from one of the perpetrators. The trauma was profound, and I had to change my name to protect myself..
I chose the name “Knight” as a reminder that no matter what I was facing, I would not be alone—God would be by my side. It was a name that symbolizes strength and the full armor of God, which I desperately needed as I faced the challenges of living in this new, strange town of Port Orchard, WA.
Looking back now, I see that these experiences weren’t just about surviving—they were about becoming someone who could stand tall, no matter what came my way. The strength I discovered wasn’t something that appeared all at once. It was forged in the fires of each trial, growing quietly, steadily, until it became the foundation I stand on today.
Letting go of everything connected to my old life was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I had to leave behind my social security number, my work experience, and everything that tied me to my former identity. It felt like I was erasing who I had been, and that was a painful change for me. I was relocated 1,100 miles away from all my family and friends to keep me safe which added another layer of loneliness and fear. I was starting over without the safety net of the past or the comfort of loved ones nearby. My new name was more than just a fresh start; it was a shield, a reminder that I would face whatever came next with the strength and protection that only God could provide.
Relocating to a small town without friends, where everything felt so damp and cold, was terrifying. I had to create new connections while hiding the pain of my past—a burden I had never known before. I’ve always been someone who wears her heart on her sleeve, but this time, I had to keep it hidden, and that was a different kind of pain. When people asked my name, I felt like an imposter, unable to say “Jennifer,” the name I had been born with. But I kept moving forward, because what choice did I have? My children needed me, and I needed to stay strong.
I remember surviving a Category Five hurricane in Cozumel in 2005, feeling like the world was coming to an end. I had been through a few California earthquakes but this was different. The eye of the storm was as vast as that little island, and as I huddled with others, I wondered if I would ever find my way back to safety. The airport was under water. When the storm finally passed, and I did make it back on a ship, I was more grateful than ever for the simple things at home—dry linens, clean water, and the chance to start over once more. I gained new perspective on life. The everyday comforts I had once taken for granted now felt like precious gifts, reminders of the fragility of life and the resilience it demands. That experience taught me that no matter how fierce the storm, there is always a way through, and on the other side, a chance to rebuild, to find safety and solace in the most basic of blessings.
Less than a year later, life dealt another blow—stage 3 breast cancer. I lost my breasts to a bilateral mastectomy, followed by bilateral knee replacements the next year—knee problems had plagued me since childhood. I endured it all, along with more surgeries that I won’t delve into here, because those details don’t define my story. What matters is that I kept going and I could glance back to see what I had already come through in my life. It’s good to glance back.
I moved back to California in August 2008, hoping for a fresh start. That life change had its own challenges with friends and family resistance to my new name, or even acknowledging what had happened to me because at a minimum it was an awkward topic or there was shame and guilt attached to it within my heart.
In 2010, the unthinkable happened—I was diagnosed with a recurrence of stage 4 breast cancer. UCLA told me on September 9th, 2010, that I had months to live and to get my affairs in order. Those words shattered me, but that same hope, of something greater, flared up again. At that time in my life, I was trapped in a marriage with a physically abusive man who became explosive when he drank too much.
I hid the abuse because I didn’t want to be a burden to anyone, especially my son and daughter, who knew I only had months to live. I found a compassionate doctor in Mexico who believed in me, who gave me the strength to keep fighting. He reminded me that only God knows the outcome, and I had to keep going and do the best I could, no matter how dark the days seemed. Hold on to my faith in God’s plan for my life.
And so, I did. He was a very good doctor and healed me from stage 4 cancer without chemotherapy and I returned home to heal completely in 2011. But the battle wasn’t over. In 2012, after enduring abuse for the last time, I divorced that man and started a new life.
Each of these traumatic events could have stolen my spirit, but they didn’t. They brought me to my knees, yes, but I prayed constantly and with God’s help I found strength within me that could not be extinguished. The trauma I experienced left scars—some visible, some buried deep within—but they didn’t rob me of my soul. They didn’t take away the light, the love, the hope that has always been a part of me since I was an optimistic young girl.
Since surviving stage 4 cancer and going public with my story through interviews, a cancer documentary, and other events, I’ve received many calls and messages from women wanting to know how I made it through without following the conventional path of chemotherapy. But often, what they are also searching for is a connection with someone who really understands the weight of what they’re going through and renewed faith and hope. I understand that feeling so well.
This past year has been especially difficult for almost everyone because of the fear and anxiety that permeates our world today. The uncertainty of an election year, ongoing inflation, the struggle to afford basic necessities, and the ever-present fear of the unknown—these are the burdens we all carry.
Many conversations with these women with cancer have left me feeling unsettled—moments where their overwhelming stress, compounded by the world seemingly crumbling around them, intensifies their fear.
I see courage too, especially in mothers with young ones.
Sometimes, their fear can rise up and manifest as anger—with words that cut deeper than intended. I know this pain well. I understand how it hurts when someone responds with less kindness than we hope for. Fear and anxiety can drive us to act out in ways that don’t reflect the love and strength within us. I’ve been there too—I’ve felt that desperation, that raw edge of fear, and I haven’t always been at my best with others.
What I’ve come to realize is that every survivor carries their own set of triggers, emotional landmines buried deep within from the traumas they’ve endured—whether it’s from the cancer itself or the hardships that came before it. When we reach out for support, we may unknowingly step on one of those landmines, causing a reaction that’s more about past wounds than the present moment.
We are all vulnerable and frail in our own ways, and we show it differently. Some of us may lash out in anger, while others withdraw into silence. These responses are often the fragile walls we build to protect ourselves from the overwhelming emotions that press down on our hearts. They are born from the need to shield the most tender, wounded parts of our souls—the parts we fear exposing to the world.
When we reach out to one another, seeking comfort and understanding, we must do so with the gentlest of hands. We need to remember that beneath the surface, behind the brave faces we present, there is often a deep well of pain that hasn’t yet had the chance to heal—pain that can be easily stirred, easily brought back to the surface. It’s a reminder to tread softly when speaking to other survivors with kindness and compassion.
So many women are carrying similar burdens, wounds that have been reopened by the trauma of cancer. It’s as if the disease is the final straw, the thing that breaks the camel’s back after years of silent suffering. And that’s what I want to help with—not just surviving cancer, but surviving the emotional aftermath, the pain that lies beneath the surface.
I want you to know that it’s okay to feel this way. It’s okay to hurt, to be scared, to not have it all together. We’ve all been there, and in those moments of raw vulnerability, there is strength. There is beauty in the tears, in the honesty of feeling lost, in the courage it takes to reach out, even when it’s hard. There is always hope and you must hold on and look back at what you have gotten through in the years of your life- God is always there through our pain in life. Even in the hardest moments, we can find that connection, that shared strength, and that deep, unshakable sense of hope that keeps us going.
Shannon Knight: Cancer Story – Search (bing.com)
“Reflecting on Fourteen Years of Healing: Understanding, Empathy, and Respect”
I want to share something today. I am approaching this delicately and with deep consideration for each of you. This isn’t just about marking another “breast cancer survival anniversary,” but rather reflecting on the journey of living, healing, and the deeply personal experiences we all face going through breast cancer.
Talking about breast cancer can be incredibly personal. For many women, even writing or saying those words can feel overwhelming. It’s a profoundly intimate experience, different for everyone. I want to acknowledge the sensitivity of this topic and honor the courage it takes to face these delicate conversations together.
“A Heartfelt Story”
Just yesterday, a dear friend of mine, who is healing from stage IV breast cancer, was trying to enjoy a moment of joy and normalcy in her life. Despite her efforts to embrace and savor these moments, she encountered a passive-aggressive comment on social media. The remark was not only insensitive but also deeply hurtful, and witnessing such cruelty was both heartbreaking and deeply upsetting.
No one deserves to be treated poorly, especially when they are simply trying to find some happiness and relief amidst their ongoing struggles. The emotional toll of dealing with cancer is already immense, and facing negative, judgmental comments only adds to this burden.
This experience also moved me profoundly and compelled me to share my thoughts. I have experienced it personally and seen others got through similar and even worse experiences. We have the right to protect our emotional well-being. If you come across negativity that feels hurtful or intrusive, it’s absolutely okay to block those comments or individuals. Your peace of mind and mental health are crucial, and you have every right to safeguard them.
“The Intimate Nature of Breast Cancer”
In 2011, I survived stage IV breast cancer without chemo, which made me quite the controversy. Now, in my fourteenth year of being cancer-free, I understand deeply how delicate and sensitive this diagnosis can be. It touches every part of our lives—physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. Sharing such an intimate part of oneself publicly requires immense courage. Many of us fear judgment or misunderstanding from those who haven’t walked in our shoes. The fear of being seen differently or reduced to our diagnosis is a heavy burden to bear.
I was first diagnosed with breast cancer in July 2006 (18 years ago), and I was single most of the time during and after I healed from breast cancer. There is an understandable fear of what men may think about dating a woman who has had breast cancer twice. Will she be a burden? These concerns are real and deserving of our empathy and awareness.
I am now blessed to be married to a man who loves me as I am, but when I was single, sharing this part of my life felt even more overwhelming. Concerns about dating and approaching the subject can be very sensitive. Once something is shared online, it stays there indefinitely. This can be intimidating and make a deeply personal experience feel exposed.
“The Challenge of Transparency and Privacy”
In 2010, when I had a recurrence at stage IV, I had to raise money for my treatment. It was incredibly difficult to share my personal story publicly. The need for transparency felt like an invasion of my privacy at a time when I was trying to focus on healing. However, without transparency, people find it hard to trust, especially when raising money for alternative cancer treatment like I was doing with “Angels for Shannon” in 2010. It is such a balancing act.
“Honoring Every Woman’s Choice”
I’ve have seen that family or friends can often be unsupportive, adding to the emotional burden. On the other hand, there are those who draw closer, offering consistent support and understanding. This support is crucial and can make all the difference. I feel that the spiritual impact is significant too. Some women find their faith tested to the breaking point, while others draw closer to God, finding strength and solace in their spiritual beliefs. Supporting women through these spiritual challenges is just as important as addressing their physical and emotional needs.
Every woman’s story is precious and deserves to be heard. When women share their stories so vulnerably, it is a gift to others who can glean something from it and feel a sense of commonality. However, we are not entitled to push for more. Privacy is a powerful part of healing, as it allows us to process and recover on our own terms. Respecting a woman’s right to privacy is essential because it acknowledges her autonomy and personal journey… I want every woman to feel supported in whatever choice she makes because intuition and personal choice are so important on this healing journey.
“Reflecting on Fourteen Years of Survival”
Now, in my fourteenth year of being cancer-free, I find myself looking back on the journey with a deeper perspective. The psychological and emotional impacts of cancer are profound and vary greatly from person to person. Each woman’s experience is distinct, shaped by her own circumstances and inner strength.
“Respecting Personal Choices”
Whether you decide to share your story or keep it private, know that your choice is valid and deserves respect. Our experiences and how we navigate them are deeply personal. Trusting your intuition and making choices that feel right for you is essential on this path to healing.
“A Glimpse into the Past”
0n September 9, 2010, during a time when I was facing stage IV breast cancer. UCLA had informed me that there was nothing more they could do, giving me only months to live and advising me to get my affairs in order. Now, in my fourteenth year of being cancer-free, I find myself reflecting more deeply on these experiences. There is so much to consider about how cancer affects us psychologically and emotionally, in ways that are unique to each of us.
My brother gave me the dog tag around my neck in this photo and it holds a special scripture which helped me through cancer: Psalm 34:4, “I sought the LORD, and he answered me; he delivered me from all my fears.”
Shannon Knight discusses what she did after she was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer.
Shannon K. & her no-chemo journey – products vs. chemo – YouTube
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~Shannon Knight