Hi everyone,

My name is Kristen. I am 36 years old, a wife, and the mother of two stunning little girls: Celine, 3, and Simone, born in February 2026.

Around the same time most families are settling into sleepless nights, newborn routines, and the blur of postpartum life, our family was devastated to learn that I had been diagnosed with BRCA1-positive Stage 4 Triple Negative Breast Cancer.

During my first trimester with Simone, I tested positive for the BRCA1 gene mutation, significantly increasing my lifetime risk for breast and ovarian cancer. My OB and I discussed preventative options following pregnancy, including a double mastectomy and hysterectomy. I was fully prepared to make those decisions if it meant protecting my future and being here for my children.

In my third trimester, I found a small lump in my left breast and brought it to my doctor’s attention immediately. At the time, I was told the changes could be related to pregnancy-related breast changes and colostrum production. I was given a prescription for imaging, though additional evaluation did not proceed before delivery. Eventually, the lump felt as though it had gotten smaller in size as my ducts expanded, and in the haze of toddlerhood and late pregnancy, whilst preparing for childbirth, it became another thing placed on the back burner.

After Simone was born, I decided to stop primarily feeding breast milk and began integrating formula while continuing multiple pumping sessions and freezing milk for her. Like many new mothers, I blamed exhaustion and hormones for almost everything happening in my body. When the lump returned, growing to nearly the size of a golf ball, uncomfortable, and impossible to ignore, I convinced myself it had to be mastitis or some postpartum complication. Milk could still be expressed. The swelling would occasionally decrease. Nothing felt entirely clear.

At the same time, I began experiencing severe back pain unlike anything I had ever known.

It felt as though a plank of wood or a metal rod had been lodged into the left side of my back.

I have lived with spinal problems since childhood. At 12 years old, I was diagnosed with spondylolisthesis and spondylolysis. Pain was familiar to me. I spent years being molded for various custom braces, undergoing stimulation treatments, and attending more physical therapy sessions than I care to admit, all while learning how to normalize discomfort in order to keep functioning.

So at first, I explained the pain away.

Maybe it was postpartum recovery.

Maybe it was stress.

Maybe it was lack of sleep.

Maybe I had simply pushed my body too hard after pregnancy.

I visited my spine specialist, who reviewed updated X-rays and reassured me that nothing appeared structurally different. Hoping for relief, I received a trigger point injection and tried to continue caring for my newborn and my family.

But within two weeks, the pain became unbearable.

Something in me knew this was different.

I personally took it upon myself to advocate for my own body and immediately requested an MRI extending from my neck to my tailbone.

That decision changed everything.

Within minutes of reviewing the scan, the radiologist raised high suspicion for multiple myeloma or metastatic cancer. The MRI revealed lesions throughout nearly every vertebra in my spine.

My MRI appointment was the last one of the night. After reading the radiologist’s notes outlining the high suspicions, I arrived home and told my husband Anthony, "I think I have cancer.” That night, after discovering both establishments operated 24/7, I filled out intake forms for both New York Cancer & Blood Specialists and Memorial Sloan Kettering in an attempt to stay ahead of what I feared was coming.

Two days later, I sat beside my husband in an oncologist’s office and heard the words no young mother imagines hearing: “There is a 90% chance you have Stage 4 breast cancer.” After additional testing, that likelihood was raised to 98%.

A biopsy then confirmed it.

In April 2026, I was officially diagnosed with BRCA1-positive Stage 4 Triple Negative Breast Cancer — an aggressive cancer that had already spread to my brain, skull, spinal fluid, spine, adrenal gland, liver, and other parts of my body.

Everything since then has moved with a speed that still feels impossible to comprehend. Some days, I struggle to process the reality of what is happening because I am also still postpartum. I am still healing, still waking through the night with a newborn, still trying to be “mom” while my entire life has changed underneath me.

My oldest daughter, Celine, is incredibly bright and deeply observant. She notices everything.

She asks why I can no longer lift her.

Why I miss school pickups and drop-offs.

She asks to see my "boo-boo."

She tells me to "try really, really, really hard to get better."

She doesn't fully understand what cancer is.

She only knows that her mom is hurting, and she wants me to stay.

Before all of this, I was strict about her sleeping in our bed. Now, whenever she asks to come into our room, I hold her as close as I can.

Some of my favorite moments now happen in the wee hours of the night, well before sunrise. We lie there holding hands and speak quietly together. She expresses how badly she wants to visit the zoos with her entire family, going down the line listing as many species as she can, and she loves telling me all about the progress of the caterpillars in her classroom — “They’re in the chrysalis stage, we’re almost there!” She tells me she wants to go on “baecation” on a giant cruise ship. She wants to see cows, ride horses, and spend days at the beach.

In those moments, the world feels heartbreakingly normal.

I cannot begin to express the grief that comes with even trying to process the thought of not being there for her and her little sister Simone through every step of their lives. I already know some days are hell because I have lived them. But I will fight with everything I have for as much time, as many memories, and as many ordinary moments with my family as I can possibly get.

I am currently unable to work, and my husband Anthony has become the foundation, holding our family together through all of this. He has stepped in to care for myself and our daughters full-time while we navigate the emotional, physical, and financial reality cancer leaves behind.

One thing this experience has taught me is how critical it is to advocate for yourself.

*** That is why I chose to write this page myself. ***

If something feels wrong, keep pushing for answers. You know your body better than anyone else. I hope my story reminds someone else to trust themselves sooner, ask more questions, and never stop fighting for their health.

If you are able to donate, it would mean more to our family than words can express. If you are unable to donate, simply sharing this page or keeping our family in your prayers means just as much.

Right now, I am fighting for time.

Time with my husband.

Time with my daughters.

More conversations before sunrise.

More ordinary moments that no longer feel ordinary at all.

Thank you for reading my story and for standing beside our family during the most difficult time of our lives.

— Kristen M. Cusumano Cristiano