I have breast cancer.

Saying it, writing it and even thinking it feels shocking, awkward and difficult. I know the person receiving this information often feels much the same.

The purpose of this story is not to explain whom I chose to tell. It is to acknowledge the simple fact that I had a hard time saying, “I have cancer.” I also want to share the reactions and responses that brought me peace—the ones that reminded me I wasn’t alone.

Telling my family was extremely difficult. It was Christmas, and our house was filled with people whose experience with cancer was still all too recent because of the loss of my brother. The holidays are a bittersweet reminder that he is no longer with us.

We chose not to share my diagnosis until after the holidays. It was difficult, and at times I had to leave the room with a lame excuse, but I can honestly say it was one of the best holidays we’ve had.

Somehow, peace and relaxation settled over all of us. What is usually a hectic time found us spending entire days together on the back porch—just being together.

Telling my closest friends was also hard. I overthought every detail, primarily because I wanted to make it more comfortable for the person receiving the news. I don’t know why.

In my mind, I rehearsed it. Should I say it by phone, by text or in person?

I couldn’t say the “C” word. I found myself using phrases like, “My biopsy wasn’t good,” or “I’m having a mastectomy.” Anything but that ugly word.

How would they react? How would I react?

I didn’t want to cry. I was tired of crying, but I always cried.

With each “cancer reveal,” I felt emotionally and physically drained. I needed a two- or three-day break between each conversation.

There was one friend I especially wanted to tell in person, but she was out of town with family. On Christmas Day, I accidentally sent her a text asking, “How was your cancer?” instead of, “How was your Christmas?”

Freudian slip?

Another friend simply knew instinctively.

It has been nearly three months since my diagnosis, and every day another friend is just finding out. It’s not as though I could send a mass mailing or make an announcement on the local news. Imagine telling a yoga friend just before savasana.

There is never a perfect time.

The good news is that each conversation became a little easier because of the loving responses. Yes, I received a few odd, dismissive or unexpected reactions, but I credit most of those to the shock and awkwardness of adding “cancer” to a conversation.

I hope cancer does not enter your conversations anytime soon. Unfortunately, it may someday. If it does, I want to share the responses that brought me the most peace:

Extra-long hugs.

A loving look.

Reminders of my strength.

Assurances that you will be by my side.

Someone holding my hand.

A joke that cancer has already met its match.

Continued encouragement and regular check-ins.

Most importantly, the “thoughts and prayers” offered hundreds of times. I felt loved each and every time.

There is tremendous power in thought and prayer.

It’s working, my friends.