If you know Alaycia, you know how difficult it is to watch someone you love have their entire life turned upside down in a matter of days.

On April 10th, 2026, Alaycia moved into the house of her dreams.

It was supposed to be the beginning of an exciting new chapter — a home she had worked for, dreamed about, and could finally make completely her own.

Six days later, a tumor was discovered on her right ovary, and she was referred to an oncologist.

Alaycia was ultimately diagnosed with Stage 2 clear cell ovarian cancer.

She had only been living in her new home for six days before the life she had imagined there was suddenly replaced by oncology appointments, multiple surgeries, chemotherapy, and an uncertainty none of us could have anticipated.

I’ve been lucky enough to call Alaycia my best friend since our freshman year of high school. She is one of the strongest, most determined people I know — the kind of woman who put herself through electrician trade school and graduated, because apparently being a badass is just part of the job description.

And before cancer, her job was anything but a desk job.

Alaycia worked as a foreman in an intensely physical, industrial environment. Her normal workday could mean being outdoors in the elements, climbing ladders, carrying heavy materials, working in awkward positions, handling industrial tools, and navigating job sites filled with dust, grease, chemicals, old metal shavings, and potential asbestos exposure.

At the same time, she could be responsible for managing multiple teams depending on the needs of the job.

She was used to being strong, physical, independent, and capable.

She would almost always rather be outside on an adventure than sitting inside watching TV. She loves foraging for herbs and plants she can actually use, crafting, turning her house into a home that is completely her own, and spending time with her little family of two cats and her pit bull, Marsh.

But when I think of twenty-two years of friendship with Alaycia, I also think about all the wonderfully ordinary moments that somehow became permanent memories.

At the end of our freshman year, on the last day of school, my mom picked us up and took us to get our first Krispy Kreme doughnuts. I remember studying together for our health final and laughing ourselves stupid over the words “cardiac arrest,” adding increasingly dramatic flair to it because apparently that was the best way to make sure we remembered it.

I remember getting rejected at a high school dance and crying in the car on the way home. My mom stopped and bought us Häagen-Dazs, and Alaycia and I happily demolished our ice cream when we got home.

Years later, during one of the hardest periods of my adult life, when my now-husband and I were broken up for nine months, Alaycia took me to see Frozen right after it came out in theaters. We laughed hysterically through the movie, and somehow that movie helped me believe in love again.

Those are the moments that make up a life with a best friend.

Alaycia has been there for the heartbreaks, the ridiculous laughter, the firsts, the growing up, and everything in between. She has been a shoulder to cry on, a fantastic listener, and a source of unconditional love through so many chapters of my life. She is also responsible for introducing teenage me to two very important things: boba and cream cheese on bagels.

And after all these years, one of my favorite things in the world is still simply making her laugh. There is something about hearing Alaycia really laugh that brings me a ridiculous amount of joy.

Right now, I want to give her more reasons to laugh and fewer reasons to worry.

Cancer has already asked an unbelievable amount of her.

Alaycia underwent multiple surgeries as part of her treatment, including a full hysterectomy and removal of her omentum. She is now undergoing six rounds of chemotherapy, given every three weeks through the University of Iowa.

The hysterectomy also forced her body into surgical menopause at only 36 years old.

And there is another loss that is much harder to put into words.

Cancer took away Alaycia’s ability to have biological children.

Before surgery, preserving that possibility would have required freezing her eggs and, in the future, using a donor surrogate. The estimated cost would have been well over $100,000 — a generously low estimate — and it would not have been covered by her insurance.

When you are fighting cancer, you should not have to put a price tag on preserving the possibility of having a biological child.

But that was the reality in front of her.

There is grief in having a choice about your own future taken away from you, regardless of what you might ultimately have chosen. At 36, while trying to process a cancer diagnosis and prepare for lifesaving treatment, Alaycia also had to face a permanent change to what her future could look like.

And then came chemotherapy.

Chemo has changed what everyday life looks like in ways both enormous and incredibly small.

She has dealt with headaches, hot flashes, exhaustion, changes in appetite and taste, and the complete loss of her hair — not only the hair on her head, but her eyelashes and body hair as well.

Even something as simple as a breeze against her bare scalp can hurt. Temperature changes and exposure that most of us would barely notice can cause genuine scalp pain and discomfort.

Some days, even figuring out what she can eat is a challenge.

And for Alaycia, food was already complicated before cancer.

She has celiac disease, which means avoiding gluten isn't a preference or a trendy diet. Even very small amounts of gluten and cross-contact can make her sick.

That also means many of the resources people understandably suggest when someone is struggling financially — like simply going to a food bank — aren't necessarily safe or practical for her. She cannot assume donated or unpackaged foods have been kept free from gluten cross-contact, and maintaining a safe household requires additional care with the products and foods around her.

That extends to Marsh and her cats, too. Because preventing gluten cross-contact in her home matters, she has to be mindful of their food as well, including purchasing appropriate grain-free pet food rather than simply taking whatever donated pet food might be available.

Cancer didn't make those needs disappear.

It made paying for them harder.

Her life now revolves around treatments, appointments, recovery, managing surgical menopause, protecting a severely compromised immune system, finding foods she can safely eat and actually tolerate, and listening to what her body is capable of doing that day.

For much of treatment, Alaycia has been unable to work.

She is currently receiving short-term disability, but those benefits are expected to end in mid-October.

And recently, there has finally been a little bit of hopeful news.

Alaycia's HR manager reached out, and her direct supervisor is exploring the possibility of allowing her to return to work remotely.

For someone whose job has historically meant industrial job sites, ladders, heavy materials, dust, grease, chemicals, physical labor, outdoor elements, and managing crews in person, the possibility of remote work could be an enormous lifeline.

It could give Alaycia a way to begin working again while reducing some of the risks that come with returning to an industrial environment with an immune system severely weakened by chemotherapy.

But it is still only a possibility on the horizon.

She is still undergoing treatment. Her immune system is still compromised. Her body is still recovering from multiple surgeries and chemotherapy. There will still be days when cancer decides what she is capable of doing.

Meanwhile, the bills haven't stopped.

Alaycia has had to defer mortgage payments on the home she had been living in for only six days before her cancer journey began.

And this isn't simply a mortgage payment to her.

It's the home she dreamed about, worked for, decorated herself, and planned to fill with her animals, her crafts, her plants, and all the little pieces of the life she was finally getting to build.

That's one of the biggest reasons I'm starting this fundraiser.

I want to help give her some breathing room so that fighting cancer doesn't also mean fighting to hold onto the home she worked so hard for.

Donations will help with:

• Deferred mortgage payments and ongoing housing expenses

• Utilities and essential household bills

• Gluten-free groceries and foods she can safely eat and tolerate during chemotherapy

• Grain-free pet food and other necessities for Marsh and her cats

• Transportation and treatment-related expenses

• Practical help on the days when she simply doesn't have the energy to do everything herself

• Giving Alaycia a financial bridge while she navigates treatment, the end of short-term disability, and the possibility of returning to work remotely

More than anything, I want Alaycia to be allowed to be sick when she is sick.

To rest when her body tells her to rest.

To eat whatever sounds tolerable that day — as long as it's safe for her to eat.

To protect her immune system without worrying that doing so will cost her a paycheck.

To adjust to a body that has been through multiple surgeries, surgical menopause, and chemotherapy.

To grieve the things cancer has taken from her without simultaneously having to calculate what bill can wait another week.

To recover from chemo without lying awake wondering whether she is going to lose the home she had only just begun living in.

Cancer has already taken enough.

It interrupted her career.

It changed her body.

It took her hair.

It forced her into menopause at 36.

It took away a choice about having biological children that should have been hers to make.

It took the first months in a home she had worked so hard to finally call her own and filled them with surgeries, oncology appointments, chemotherapy, and recovery.

I don't want it to take her home, too.

If you're able to donate, thank you. Truly.

Whether it's five bucks, $50, or simply sharing this fundraiser with someone else, every bit of support helps take one more thing off Alaycia's shoulders.

For twenty-two years (and still counting), Alaycia has shown up for me — through heartbreak, growing up, ridiculous laughter, and all the ordinary moments in between. She has spent so many years being the person the people she loves can lean on.

Right now, I'm asking you to help us show up for her.

Let's help this badass keep her home, love on Marsh and her kitties, finish kicking cancer's ass, and eventually get back outside where she belongs.

Want to help in another way?

Alaycia also has an Amazon wishlist with practical items, comfort supplies, food, pet necessities, and other things that can make treatment and recovery a little easier.

If you'd rather send something directly, you can find her wishlist here: Alaycia's Chemo Survival Loot

*A quick note about Alaycia’s Cancer Registry:

When viewing the Amazon Wishlist, please change “Sort by: Most recently added” to “Priority (high to low).”

There are lots of wonderful things on Alaycia’s list, but some items are much more needed during treatment than others. Sorting by priority will show you what would help her most right now.

Thank you so much for helping Alaycia!*

Alaycia would also like to thank every person who has supported her through this journey—whether you’ve donated, checked in, brought food, sent something she needed, shared her story, sat with her on a hard day, or simply reminded her that she isn’t going through this alone.

She is also incredibly grateful for the support and resources provided by the American Cancer Society and Gilda’s Club, and for the people and organizations who have helped make an unimaginably difficult year a little easier to carry.

To everyone who has shown up for Alaycia: thank you. More than we can possibly say.