Still Dancing: My Journey with Cancer
Oct 29, 2026
Read Time: 5 Minutes
By: Melanie Walker
From time to time, Huntsman Cancer Institute invites guest commentary from our community. The views reflected in these commentaries are those of the author and do not necessarily represent the official views of Huntsman Cancer Institute.
Takeaways: After being diagnosed with stage 2 breast cancer, dance teacher Melanie Walker participated in a clinical trial that gave her access to a personalized treatment approach. Today, she is back in the dance studio doing what she loves. Impact: Huntsman Cancer Institute empowers patients with new possibilities and hope through innovative clinical trials.
For most of my life, I have been the person who tries to take care of everyone else. In my profession, I teach children how to dance. I encourage them when they are nervous. I remind them to believe in themselves. I tell them that falling is okay—as long as they get back up. I never imagined that one day, I would have to learn how to do the same thing myself. In August 2025, I found a lump in my left breast. At first, I wasn't overly concerned. I thought maybe it was an infection, some swelling, or something that would simply go away. But it didn't. After two weeks, I knew I needed to have it checked. What followed was a series of appointments—the kind of appointments that change your life without you realizing it at first.
On November 11, 2025, I heard the words that no one ever wants to hear: "You have cancer. Stage 2 HER2-positive breast cancer." My world stopped. Suddenly, the things I had worried about before seemed so small. I wasn't thinking about dance classes or schedules or what was happening at the studio. I was thinking about my husband. My children. My grandchildren. My family.
Melanie before beginning treatment
I met with Dr. Jairam Krishnamurthy at Huntsman Cancer Institute to talk about what came next. I was presented with multiple options, including a clinical trial evaluating personalized drug combinations for people with high-risk breast cancer. I had never imagined that the words "clinical trial" would become such an important part of my story. My husband and I researched everything we could. We watched videos. We asked questions. We prayed. And we decided to participate. After chemotherapy and two HER2-targeted therapies, we got the news. My tumor had shrunk by 97%. There really aren't words to describe what that felt like. To me, it was a miracle. It meant I could stay on the treatment that was working. It meant hope.
After successfully completing 12 more weeks of chemotherapy and HER2-targeted therapy, I then continued HER2 immunotherapy for another three weeks. Then came surgery.
I chose to have a double mastectomy with reconstructive surgery—the mental stress that cancer had already given me was too much. I wanted to make sure that there was a smaller chance for any recurrence.
And then came the pathology results. Results that I had prayed for. Results that I had desperately hoped for. I had achieved a pathologic complete response, or pCR. There was no remaining evidence of cancer. There were no traces of cancer in my lymph nodes. I was overwhelmed with relief.
Cancer isn't just about me. It's about the people who came before me. It's about the people standing beside me. And it's about the people who will come after me. That is why I participate.
I want my experience to mean something beyond my own survival. I want the information gathered from my treatment to help researchers understand more. I want my experience to potentially make someone else's treatment easier.
Melanie and her husband at Huntsman Cancer Institute
I want the woman who hears the words, "you have cancer," 5, 10, or 20 years from now to have more options than I did. I want her to have more hope. I want her to have better treatments. And ultimately, I want there to be a day when cancer doesn't have the power to turn someone's world upside down the way it did mine.
"I hope it reminds people that behind every clinical trial is a person. Behind every statistic is a family. Behind every research study is someone's hope for a future. And sometimes, behind the word 'trial' is a miracle waiting to be discovered."
There were moments when I wondered if there was a future. I wondered if I would get to see my grandchildren grow up or my children get married. There were so many unknowns. And cancer didn't affect only me. It affected my entire family. My husband watched me change. He never missed an appointment, he fed me ice chips for an hour each week during treatment to help prevent neuropathy, he cracked jokes, and never once has he complained.
My family stepped up in so many ways. They were there to support me, lift my spirits and reassure me that I could survive. Instead of me taking care of my children, they took care of me. My grandchildren would ask why I was bald or where my wig was. I remember trying to use Face ID on my phone and having it not recognize me because I looked so different. I lost some of my identity. And for a while, I lost something else that meant so much to me.
I lost my ability to do the thing I love. I am a dance teacher and a studio owner, and having to step away from teaching was one of the hardest parts of this journey. I have spent my life teaching children that when the music stops, you don't give up. You take a breath. You find your place. And you keep dancing. Cancer forced me to learn that lesson in a completely different way. There were days when I didn't feel strong. There were days when I was scared. There were days when I didn't know what the next step was. But I kept going. And I wasn't alone.
Melanie’s dance studio
I had my family. I had my doctors and nurses who walked beside me throughout this journey. Their knowledge, compassion, and dedication made an enormous difference to me and my family. I had researchers and scientists working behind the scenes. I am incredibly humbled and grateful to all of those individuals who have dedicated their lives working to find better treatments and ultimately a cure.
And I had something that I believe is one of the most powerful things a person can have when facing cancer: hope.
Today, when I think about clinical trials, I don't just think about statistics, medications, or research data. I think about people. I think about the person who volunteered for a trial before me. I think about the researchers who dedicate their lives to finding better answers. I think about the doctors and nurses who care for patients when they are at their most vulnerable. And I think about the people who will benefit from what we learn today.
Melanie and her family attend an event for the Clinical Trials Office at Huntsman Cancer Institute where Melanie shared her story
Participating in these trials has given me something I never expected. It has given my cancer journey a purpose. I can't change the fact that I was diagnosed with cancer. I can't change the months of fear, uncertainty, treatment, and recovery. But I can choose what I do with that experience. I can pay it forward. I can take what happened to me and help make the road a little easier for the person who comes next. And that is what I hope my story does.
I hope it reminds people that behind every clinical trial is a person. Behind every statistic is a family. Behind every research study is someone's hope for a future. And sometimes, behind the word "trial" is a miracle waiting to be discovered.
I don't know exactly what the future holds. But I know this: I am here with family and friends. I am grateful. I am hopeful and I am back in the dance studio. And if participating in clinical research means that something learned from my journey can help another mother see her children grow up, another grandmother hold her grandchildren, or another woman hear the words "there is no evidence of cancer"— then every difficult moment was worth it. Because I didn't just survive my cancer journey. I became part of the research that I hope will change someone else's.
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