Find Your Light

One Year ago today,

I was lying in a hospital bed, weak and exhausted, battling sepsis from an unexpected infection after my reconstruction surgery. It was one of the scariest moments of my life—a complication I never saw coming, another hurdle in a journey that already felt like too much to bear. I remember staring at the ceiling, wondering when I would feel like myself again, wondering if my body would ever stop fighting battles I didn’t ask for.

But today? Today, I step onto the stage at the Cobb Energy Centre, in perfect health, my feet grounded, my voice strong, and my heart overflowing with gratitude.

This past year has been about more than just healing. It has been about rediscovering myself, about reclaiming the parts of me that cancer tried to take away. I have spent countless hours tending to my body, nurturing my soul, and finding my way back to the thing that sets me free—singing.Music has always been my home, my safe place, the space where I feel the most like me. But when cancer entered my life, it paused everything. My energy went toward survival, not song. And while I never doubted I would sing again, there were moments—especially in that hospital bed when it felt so very far away.

Tech week was a flood of emotions — “Tech Week” refers to the week we move the production into the theatre, the week where everything becomes real. And I struggled.

There were a lot of emotions I had to process, feelings I didn’t expect to hit me so hard. On our very first day on set, as I stood backstage waiting for my first entrance, I found myself shaking, my eyes welling with tears.

I had dreamed of standing in this place for so long, and now, I was finally here. I was overwhelmed with gratitude—but also fear. Could I still do this? After everything my body and soul had been through, would I still belong here?

I froze.

And then, in that moment of doubt, my beautiful colleagues lifted me up. Backstage, they reassured me, held space for me, reminded me that I was exactly where I was meant to be. That moment of fear passed, but their kindness, their belief in me, meant more to me than I can express.

Standing backstage this past week, I felt the weight of everything I’ve been through. The surgeries. The uncertainty. The days that felt endless. The nights I cried, wondering if I would ever return to the stage, wondering if my body would let me do what I was born to do.

And yet, here I am. Stronger. Wiser. More grateful than ever.

Cancer changed me, but it did not break me. It refined me. It forced me to step fully into who I am, to strip away fear, to embrace every single moment with a heart wide open.

If you are facing the dark night of the soul— in a hospital bed, facing a diagnosis, or wondering when you will feel like yourself again—I need you to know this: There is light on the other side. You are not lost. You are becoming. The struggle, the pain, the waiting—it is shaping you into someone even more powerful than before.

One day, you will look back on this moment and realize that it did not define you. It refined you. And when you step into your next chapter, you will shine even brighter than before.

Tonight, as I step onto that stage, I do so with deep gratitude—for my health, for my family, for my colleagues who lifted me up when I needed it most, and for every person who has been part of this journey.

Most of all, I am grateful for the gift of music, which has waited patiently for my return.

And I am profoundly thankful to The Atlanta Opera for believing in me, for welcoming me back with open arms, and for giving me the opportunity to stand in this space again—to share my voice, my heart, and my story.

I am here. I am whole. And I am exactly where I am meant to be.