When people find my page now, they usually step right into the middle of a story I never expected to tell.

They see the clinical reality of it all: the endless appointments, the treatment schedules, fluctuating blood counts, the quiet prayers, and the daily, uncertain rhythm of navigating life with primary myelofibrosis. It is easy for the diagnosis to crowd out everything else.

But before I was a cancer patient, I was just Jordan.

Lately, I’ve realized that’s a reminder I need just as much as anyone else.

I’ve never been someone who naturally commands the spotlight or talks about myself. I am infinitely more comfortable standing just off-stage—the person beside you, offering encouragement, helping logistics run smoothly, or carrying a piece of your weight so yours feels a little lighter. But every story has a beginning, and mine started long before a medical report changed my trajectory.

I was born in Texas, but life gave me the gift of a nomadic blueprint. I moved from the crisp air of New Hampshire to the coast of Florida, through North Carolina, and eventually to Arkansas, where I finally put down roots on a beautiful 25-acre piece of land in Cabot. Each of those places shaped me. They taught me to appreciate different landscapes and different people, embedding a deep truth in me early on: home isn’t just a static location on a map. It’s something you carry inside you.

From the very beginning, my heart belonged to animals and the natural world.

As a kid, I dreamed of becoming a marine or wildlife biologist. That fundamental love never faded. Even today, if you asked me to draw up my absolute dream vacation, I wouldn’t pick a luxury resort; I’d choose an African Savannah tour, exploring the horizon on horseback.

Horses, in particular, have always been my anchor.

I had horses when I was very young, but life shifted, as it does, and we eventually had to sell them. Then, in 2000, a blessing arrived in the form of Medjai—a striking black Arabian gelding born in 1998. Medjai has been the great, steady constant of my life across nearly three decades of seasons. He has carried me through changes, challenges, and monumental growth. Today, he is enjoying a well-deserved, quiet retirement on our farm, but the impact of his steady presence will stay with me forever.

Looking back, I can see the blueprint of who I am forming through those early years. Animals taught me absolute compassion. Science taught me a relentless curiosity. And moving taught me the vital importance of human connection.

After high school, I chased that curiosity to Appalachian State University to study chemistry with a minor in biology. Later, after transitioning to Arkansas, I completed my degree at the University of Arkansas at Little Rock, shifting my focus to biology and psychology. While finishing school, I landed a paid internship with the National Center for Toxicological Research. I spent my days deep in data analysis, even earning co-author credits on published scientific articles.

At the time, I thought I was just building a career in labs. I worked as a compounding pharmacy technician and later analyzed agricultural products. But underneath the surface, a quiet restlessness was growing. I wanted something more. I wanted a tangible sense of purpose.

That search took a sudden turn when I took a temporary position with FEMA after a major disaster struck Arkansas. I walked into the world of emergency management expecting a temporary paycheck, but I walked out with a calling.

Watching the team at the Arkansas Department of Emergency Management (ADEM), I was awestruck by their mission. I knew instantly that I wanted to be part of it. In 2014, I took a leap and accepted a role as an administrative assistant in the finance section at ADEM, diving headfirst into learning everything I could. I pushed myself hard. By 2015, I moved into operations as a planner, and by 2016, I stepped into the Operations management role.

Working as an Emergency Manager taught me how to respond when everything around you is falling apart. It became so much more than a job; it became a piece of my identity. I’ve sat in the State Emergency Operations Center during high-stakes crises, and I’ve sat across the table from survivors in Disaster Recovery Centers, helping them navigate the ruins of a life they never expected to see disrupted.

Maybe that’s why the work always felt like home. I have always been drawn to helping people navigate storms they never asked for.

I just never expected that one day, I would be walking through a category-five storm of my own.

Yet, even as my career grew, another side of me was quietly developing: the writer.

I have always been captivated by the power of stories—the ability to build entirely new worlds, explore the complex depths of characters, and find universal truths through words. Writing became my ultimate processing tool. My debut gothic thriller/dark fantasy novel, Walking with Shadows, came from that exact need to explore the dark and find the light within it. Now, as I work on its sequel, I find myself balancing two parallel paths: writing fictional shadows on the page, and sharing my raw, real-life journey right here on Walking with Jordan.

When I first hit “publish” on this blog, I was terrified. I didn’t know if anyone would read it, or if my words would even matter. But this space has taught me that vulnerability is a bridge. Sometimes, the story you think belongs to you alone is the exact thing someone else needs to read to remind them that they are not alone in the dark.

Then there is the diagnosis.

It was the moment where time violently fractured into a “before” and an “after.” There was the Jordan before cancer, and now there is the Jordan learning how to survive, live, and find joy through cancer.

But the further down this road I travel, the more a beautiful, defiant reality becomes clear: Cancer changed my life, but it did not conquer it.

It did not take my deep love for the animals grazing on my farm. It did not drain my imagination or stall the plots of my books. It did not strip away my calling to help others through their worst days, and it certainly did not shake my faith. It hasn’t diminished the incredible love of my spouse of seventeen years, or the joy of watching our teenage nephew grow up under our roof.

If anything, this diagnosis has acted as a crucible, burning away the noise to reveal what matters. It has shown me that who we are is not defined by the hardships that land on our doorstep, but by the beautiful things that remain standing when the smoke clears.

I am still Jordan.

I am still a wife, a writer, a public servant, a friend, and a dreamer. I am still the person who rehabilitates injured animals, believes passionately in the power of a good story, and wants to hold space for people in their darkest hours. My life just has a chapter in it that I never would have written for myself.

And maybe that is true for you, too.

We all find ourselves holding chapters we didn’t choose, looking at pages we never wanted to read. But we also have the profound opportunity to look around at what remains. And I am learning, day by day, that what remains is usually where the most beautiful, unbreakable parts of us have been living all along.

— Jordan