For Edge member Megan of Deptford, New Jersey, fitness has become so much more than a workout. It’s a place to heal, reflect, find strength, and embrace the life she fought so hard to keep living.
Before my breast cancer diagnosis, I worked out, but fitness wasn't nearly as big a part of my life as it is today. I never imagined that one day the gym would become such an important part of my healing journey.
October 11, 2023, is a date I'll never forget. That was the day I received the phone call officially confirming I had breast cancer. Deep down, I already had a feeling, but hearing those words made it real.
From that moment on, something inside me changed.
It's not that I wasn't living my life before, but suddenly I wanted to live it even more. I didn't know what my future held, what my body would be capable of after surgery, or how much time I would have.
Instead of allowing that uncertainty to take away from my life, I became even more determined to enjoy it. I wanted to celebrate everything, make memories, and appreciate every moment with the people I loved.
I didn't want cancer to become my entire life. I wanted to keep being me. I wanted my family to keep laughing, celebrating holidays, and enjoying life. If anything, I wanted us to do those things even more.
At the time of my diagnosis, my husband and I had been married for about four and a half years, and I had three children: my older son and my two young daughters.
As a mother, a wife, a daughter, and a friend, I found myself worrying so much about everyone around me. I knew the people who loved me were scared, too, and I wanted them to be okay.
I wanted to ease their fears. I wanted my children to continue enjoying their childhood without constantly worrying about their MaMa. I wanted my husband and my parents to see that I was going to keep moving forward.
Sometimes, in trying to make everything feel okay for everyone else, I pushed aside what I was feeling myself.
On December 18, 2023, I underwent a double mastectomy with DIEP flap reconstruction. It was a major 12-hour surgery that involved using tissue from my abdomen to reconstruct my breasts.
Because my surgery was scheduled just one week before Christmas, I made sure everything was ready beforehand. Every gift was bought. Every present was wrapped. Christmas morning was completely prepared.
I knew I was facing a major surgery, and naturally, the thought crossed my mind: What if something happens? What if I don't wake up?
I didn't dwell on that possibility, but as a mother, I wanted to know that my children would still have their Christmas, no matter what.
Thankfully, I woke up, and just days later, I was home celebrating with my family.
I wasn't able to do everything I normally would, but I was there. I remember sitting and watching my husband, my mom, and my dad getting everything ready for Christmas morning. I remember walking around the truck with Willow, holding my mastectomy pillow, because I knew how important it was to get up and keep moving after surgery.
And I remember New Year's Eve, gently banging pots and pans to celebrate bringing in another year.
Those might sound like such simple moments, but to me, they were everything.
My recovery was anything but easy.
My husband was there through it all, helping care for me in ways neither of us could have imagined when we got married. He emptied my surgical drains and helped me through some of my most vulnerable moments. My mom stayed with us for almost two months, helping with the children and doing everything she could to keep their lives feeling as normal as possible.
I will forever be grateful for the love and support my family gave me during that time.
But there were moments when everything became too much.
I remember one day around Christmas, shortly after surgery, when my mom had taken the girls out. I came out of my bedroom and saw my dad sitting on the couch.
And I just broke down.
I was hurting. I was exhausted. I was overwhelmed by everything my body had just been through and everything I was still facing.
And in that moment, I just needed my dad.
There were times I cried in my husband's arms, too. Times I held onto my mom and just cried because I didn't know what else to do.
Even having to depend on someone else to bathe me, wash my hair, and help me with everyday things was emotional. I was used to being independent, and suddenly I needed help doing things I'd never thought twice about.
My journey didn't end with that first surgery. I went on to have two additional surgeries, dealing with complications, infections, and difficult recoveries along the way.
Through it all, I kept going.
I was so focused on getting through everything and making sure the people around me were okay that I didn't always give myself the time or space to process what I was actually going through.
And I'm realizing now that healing is about so much more than what happens physically.
Before cancer, I worked out. But today, the gym means something entirely different to me.
It's not just about staying in shape or building muscle. I'm getting physically stronger, but I'm also becoming mentally and emotionally stronger.
The gym has become my outlet, my time to reflect, my place to pray, and a place where I'm finally allowing myself to feel things I didn't fully deal with while I was going through cancer.
After everything my body has endured, I still live with numbness across much of my chest, beneath my arms, and down past my belly button. There are areas where I have very little feeling, along with pain that still comes and goes.
Working on my core is especially challenging because of everything my abdomen went through during reconstruction, followed by pregnancy.
Sometimes the hardest part of a workout isn't the weight I'm lifting or the number of repetitions I'm doing. It's trying to work with a body that doesn't feel the way it once did.
It's hard to explain what it's like to touch your own skin and barely feel it. To look in the mirror and see how much your body has changed. To know what your body has survived, yet still feel frustrated by the things that don't come as naturally as they once did.
And sometimes, that's where the tears come from.
There are days when I'm at the gym, headphones on, listening to uplifting Christian worship music, and I become completely overwhelmed.
Sometimes it's the physical frustration. I'm trying to do an exercise, and I'm reminded that parts of my body still don't feel the same. Sometimes it's the pain or the limitations that come with everything I've been through.
Other times, it's the emotions I spent so long pushing aside.
I think about the surgeries. The fear. The pain. The moments when I didn't know what my future would look like. All the times I tried to make sure everyone else was okay while barely stopping to ask myself how I was doing.
And sometimes, right there in the middle of a workout, I break down.
There have been moments when I've found myself crying and praying, thanking God for giving me another chance at life.
It's such a mixture of emotions. Some days I'm frustrated with my body. Some days I'm grieving parts of the body I once had. And other days, I'm so overwhelmed with gratitude for what this body has carried me through that I can't hold back the tears.
Sometimes I feel all of those things at once.
Even though this body looks different, feels different, and may never be exactly what it once was, I'm so incredibly grateful for it.
This is the body that carried my children.
The body that endured cancer, a double mastectomy, reconstruction, and multiple surgeries.
The body that went on to carry another beautiful baby when I never could have imagined what my future would hold.
A little over a year after my first surgery, God blessed our family with another miracle. I became pregnant with our son, Gunnar.
After everything my body had endured, the fact that I was able to carry another baby was an incredible blessing. Bringing him into this world and becoming a mother of four is something I will never take for granted.
And most importantly, this is the body that still allows me to be here, living life with my husband and children.
I get to take my children on vacations. I get to go for walks, play with them, make memories, and watch them grow.
I get to bring my kids to the gym with me, drop them off at Edge Kids, and know that they're watching their MaMa take care of herself.
I love seeing them move their bodies, and I love that they're already excited about the day they'll be old enough to work out in the big gym like MaMa.
I'm always telling my children, "We've got to move our bodies!"
God gave us these bodies, and we need to appreciate them, move them, and keep them strong.
That means so much more to me now because I know firsthand how quickly life can change.
One thing I've learned through all of this is that everyone's journey looks different. We all face our own battles, some visible and some that nobody else will ever see.
And no matter what your journey looks like, your experiences and feelings matter. Never feel like your story isn't worth sharing simply because someone else may have faced something different.
Sometimes sharing our stories becomes part of our healing, and sometimes our words may be exactly what someone else needs to hear.
For so long, I was focused on getting through everything and making sure the people around me were okay. I didn't always give myself the time or space to process what I was going through.
But now, every time I walk through those gym doors, I'm giving myself that time.
It's my time to focus on me. To put my headphones on, listen to my music, pray, reflect, and allow myself to feel whatever emotions come up that day.
Some days I feel strong, some days I feel frustrated, and some days I find myself fighting back tears.
And that's okay.
I'm still learning to accept the physical changes cancer left behind, but I'm also beginning to understand how much healing I still have to do emotionally.
Every workout is helping me rebuild my physical strength, but it's also giving me something I didn't realize I needed so much: the time and space to finally process everything I've been through.
My body may never feel exactly the way it did before cancer, and I'm learning to make peace with that. But mentally and emotionally, I'm finding parts of myself that I didn't even realize I'd put aside while trying to be strong for everyone else.
My family, my faith, and the love surrounding me have carried me through so much of this journey. And now, the time I spend at the gym has become another important part of that healing.
It's where I can focus on myself, reflect, pray, and continue growing physically, mentally, and emotionally.
Because the greatest strength I build at the gym isn't always visible.
It's the healing happening within me.