Today, I rang the bell.

Five years. Forty-three visits to Emory. Countless scans, surgeries, tubes, and prayers. And today, I stood in that familiar hallway, surrounded by the hum of machines and the quiet strength of nurses, and I rang the bell.

They told me I’m cancer free.

Not “no evidence of disease.” Not “stable.” But free.

It’s hard to describe what that means unless you’ve lived in the shadow of it. Unless you’ve sat in waiting rooms where time slows down and hope feels like a fragile thing. Unless you’ve learned to eat through a tube, to speak with effort, to live without taste but still find flavor in life.

Five years ago, I was a different person. I was scared. I was angry. I was grieving the life I thought I’d lost. Without surgery, they told me I’d have six months to live. Even with surgery, the five-year survival rate for my stage and severity was only 38%. I knew the odds. I knew the risks. But I also knew I wasn’t ready to stop fighting.

And someone else believed in me, too.

Dr. Azeem Kaka, my surgeon at Emory, took a chance on me when many others wouldn’t. He told me he presented my case at a national conference, and that several doctors there said they would have passed on surgery due to how advanced and severe it was. But Dr. Kaka didn’t pass. He leaned in. He gave me a shot at life.

Laila Kutan, my nurse practitioner, walked beside me through the hardest parts. She listened. She explained. She cared. And she never treated me like a statistic.

The doctors, nurses, techs, and staff at Emory Hospital have been extraordinary. They didn’t just treat my cancer—they treated me. With dignity. With compassion. With hope.

I had a wife who held my hand through every appointment. I had daughters who gave me reasons to keep showing up. I had friends who showed up when I couldn’t. I had faith—sometimes loud, sometimes quiet, but always there.

I had my mom, who opened her home to me during radiation, who made sure I had a place to rest and recover. I had my sister, who got me anything I needed, who anticipated the things I couldn’t ask for, who carried more than her share of the weight. I had a village—family, friends, colleagues, nurses, strangers—who lifted me when I couldn’t stand.

And I had Michael Owen, a fellow head and neck cancer survivor, who became my cancer coach. He knew the road I was walking because he’d walked it too. He was also a patient of Dr. Kaka, and he helped me navigate the fear, the unknowns, and the long days. His wife, Allison, was a steady presence—kind, encouraging, and always supportive.

I also had Jennifer. We’ve never met in person, but through Facebook, text messages, and phone calls, she became one of my fiercest advocates. She was Dr. Kaka’s first head and neck cancer patient, and she looked out for me during some of my most high-anxiety moments. Her words were a lifeline when I needed them most.

This journey has taken things from me. My ability to eat. My voice, in some ways. My sense of normal. But it’s also given me more than I ever expected.

It gave me perspective. Patience. A deeper love for my family. A calling to teach, to write, to live with intention. It gave me the courage to start over. To become a student teacher. To stand in front of classrooms and talk about government and grit and grace.

It gave me stories. Not all of them easy. But all of them mine.

And today, it gave me a bell.

I rang it for the man I was. For the man I became. For the man who still wakes up every day and chooses to keep going.

I rang it for my daughters, so they’ll know what resilience sounds like.

I rang it for my wife, who never let go.

I rang it for my mom and sister, who carried me through the hardest days.

I rang it for Michael and Allison, for Jennifer, and for every survivor who reached out and said, “You’re not alone.”

I rang it for my best friend, Danny. For every soul I’ve carried with me through this storm.

I rang it for Dr. Kaka, for Laila, and for every person at Emory who saw me as worth saving.

And I rang it for tomorrow. Because now, I get to dream again.

Why Me?

I’ve asked myself this question more times than I can count.

Why am I still here, when others—stronger, kinder, braver—are not? Why did I survive, when people I admired, people who lit up rooms, people who deserved more time… didn’t?

I don’t have an answer. Not a clean one.

I know I had good doctors. I know I had a wife who fought beside me. I know I had daughters who gave me purpose. I know I had faith, even when it flickered. I know I had a support system that never let me fall. But I also know that cancer doesn’t play fair. It doesn’t care how good you are. It doesn’t care how loved you are.

So I carry their names with me. The ones who didn’t make it. The ones who fought just as hard. The ones who deserved their own bell even more than me.

I carry Danny. I carry the stories of patients I met in waiting rooms, whose smiles were full of grace even when their bodies were failing.

I don’t believe I survived because I’m better. I believe I survived because I’m meant to carry something forward. A story. A lesson. A light.

So I write. I teach. I parent. I love. I live.

And I ring the bell for them, too.

I don’t know when my time will come. It might be tomorrow. It might be thirty years from now. Nobody knows.

But I do know one thing.

I survived this.