I was thirty-four years old when my world split in two One half was the life I had been living—quiet, predictable, full of small plans for “someday.” The other half was a single sentence spoken in a sterile doctor’s office:  “Stage 2.”I remember nodding like I understood, like I was composed. But inside, everything collapsed. Words like treatment, chemo, prognosis—they floated around me like distant noise. All I could think was: I’m not ready.