As women, we all share the common fear—breast cancer. You hear the warnings, you've been told the precautions. Check in the shower once a month, keep an eye out for any sort of change, if you notice the slightest difference go to your doctor immediately, on and on. But, at 21, I didn't particularly pay attention to all this, as I'm sure follows for the majority of my age demographic.

So, as I didn't bother to do a once over every now and then, it's no surprise that when something did change, I had no gauge of when it had changed or how quickly. I simply happened to touch my chest—adjusting my shirt or bra—at just the right spot to notice a small but very out of place bump.

With an aunt who was lost to cancer and a childhood watching the progression of the illness, I did the rational thing: I panicked.

I started going through every possible scenario; my mind ran from "maybe it's just a bruise or a strained ligament" to "they're going to have to cut me open and I'll lose all my hair and I'll never get to be a writer or have a family or publish a book and my life is ending." Which, of course, is beyond overreacting.

But I'd heard the horror stories, I'd watched it happen, and, at sixteen, I'd been told that I had a very high likelihood of developing breast cancer later in my life. At the time, because I was sixteen, I figured that meant it wouldn't happen until I was, like, a thousand, if it happened at all, which I was sure it wouldn't, because little high school me was firmly planted in the "it won't happen to me" mindset.

And so, when 21 year old me felt a disturbing bump, all the warnings young me had disregarded flooded back and compounded with memories of my family experience with cancer, the horror stories flashed on tv and in print, and, worst of all, my ill-fated attempt to calm myself through the ever-anxiety-inducing WebMD.

After a very long and stressful night, the next morning found me at a doctor's office with a last-minute appointment, mom at my side—because my overactive imagination had found a thousand ways to play over the fateful moment when they told me I was dying (did I mention I'm a bit overdramatic? It runs in the family, along with an overactive imagination and high cholesterol).

I sat impatiently in the sterile waiting room on a floral couch with a tear in the armrest for twenty minutes before being called into another bleach-clean room with a paper covered chair, and was told to undress and sit in a paper robe to wait some more for the doctor. Another twenty minutes later, the doctor came in, prodded at my chest for a moment, and told me she would have to differ me to another doctor. So, I trekked to another office to get blood work done (I also hate needles), then rushed off to the last available appointment for a week at the x-ray office my doctor had referred me to. Running in ten minutes late to that appointment (thanks to the wonders of our lovely never-ending I-4 renovations) I began the agonizing and slightly terrifying process of being x-rayed from every angle on the top half of my body.

Now, I sit here writing this, waiting the next 48 hours out until I get my results back. Logically I know I'm young, I'm healthy, and it's probably a swollen lymph node or some weird ligament or tissue problem that will go away on its own. Either way, I'm sure I'll be fine. But part of me still worries.

The point of all this though, is not that I'm overdramatic or possibly (but very likely don't) have cancer. The point is, false alarm or not, it made me think. Not only did this scare renew my admiration of people who walk through life fighting cancer, but it also forced me to step back and take stock.

In the middle of my initial anxiety attack, all the most important things in my life came flooding to the forefront, like someone had turned on a tap filled with everything I love: my pets, my friends, my hobbies, my college, my boyfriend, my family…and then, from there, all my goals suddenly became crystal clear. Where everything has seemed muddled and a bit foggy amidst the summer doldrums, in those hours while I filtered through the negative possibilities (as we girls do in the middle of the night when we're worried and alone and unable to sleep), all the things I want to do, all my goals and aspirations, became sharp, defined, definite.

And now, as I sit waiting for a call that I more or less know is going to be good news, I know that either way I have my priorities set straight, and though I hope anyone reading this doesn't have to go through the fear and the endless doctors appointments I've been through in the past three days, perhaps the tale of my scare will induce readers to take a step back, and really think about how incredible they are and their lives have the potential to be.