Anchors – From Carol
When cancer invades, it does more than attack the body; it fractures the web of normal life. And when that cancer is ovarian, the so-called “silent killer,” those fractures deepen in ways many never notice. As a woman and as a daughter who lost her mother to ovarian cancer, I am determined to transform grief into action. Because no one facing cancer, patient or family, should ever feel they must do it alone.
Globally, in 2022, there were more than 324,000 new cases, and projections warn that by 2050, annual diagnoses will surge over 55% to nearly half a million. In the U.S., the number of ovarian cancer cases is predicted to be more than 20,000, and about 12,000 will die from it in 2025. The disease is often discovered in advanced stages: only about 20 percent of ovarian cancers are caught when still confined to the ovaries or pelvis, and once that boundary is crossed, long-term survival rates drop steeply.
The statistics tell part of the story, but not all of it. What they cannot capture is the isolation, the vulnerability, the emotional and logistical unraveling that patients and families endure during the months, and sometimes years, of fighting.
My mother, Carol Lynn Harris, was a force of nature. A dedicated educator, a grandmother who baked and crafted and greeted holidays with zeal, she was the kind of person everyone leaned on. When she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer in December 2015, we assumed she would fight, and she did, with every ounce of grace and tenacity she had. After surgery, chemo, and a period of remission, the cancer returned in 2018, spreading to her liver and complicating her treatment. In her final months, medical crises, fatigue, and uncertainty became our daily atmosphere. She opted to suspend treatment in April 2019 and passed away peacefully on May 15, 2019.
In between, she knitted blankets for other patients, put care packages together, and volunteered, already thinking of others even while her own body faltered.
Her courage and her instinct to give even in the darkest hours planted in us a mission: to build Anchors – From Carol, a foundation in service of others walking the same road. The goal of Anchors, affiliated with Inperium, is simple but profound: deliver tangible, compassionate support for patients and families alike, so that no one is left to drift in isolation.
Because even couples or families with what seem like “support networks” still need help. The patient often becomes a logistical burden: rides to and from hospital appointments, overnight lodging near treatment centers, grocery deliveries, childcare, and companionship during long waits. While the focus lands naturally on treating the disease, the infrastructure of daily life can collapse under the weight of treatment. And when a spouse or child becomes caretaker or nurse, the emotional and physical strain spreads beyond the patient.
This is where Anchors steps in. It’s a life-support system helping with transportation, lodging, errands, and being a stable presence when everything feels unsteady, because social support matters. Patients who receive psychosocial and medical support show lower distress and fewer physical and mental symptoms.
When my mother first entered remission, she didn’t rest. She immediately asked: How can I help others? How can I not let someone walk this alone? That impulse to serve even while suffering became her legacy. And through Anchors, we commit to living out that legacy every day.
We must also acknowledge that families are deeply affected by cancer. Siblings, spouses, and children carry emotional load, rearrange lives, manage logistics, support the patient, and yet often receive little help themselves. In our work, we offer caregiving support, check-ins, and respite care. Because to care for a patient, you must also care for the carers.
It’s not enough to treat cancer in isolation. We must treat the human context around it. We must build networks of tangible support so that when someone says “cancer,” their first thought is not fear about isolation, logistics, or disruption, but about possibility.
To those facing cancer, let me say this: there is hope. Medical progress continues: in May 2025, the U.S. FDA approved a new drug therapy targeting low-grade serous ovarian cancer with KRAS mutation, a milestone in precision oncology. And researchers are developing blood tests that can detect ovarian cancer in earlier stages, which could transform outcomes if implemented broadly. But breakthroughs in science are only part of the solution. Compassion, presence, and infrastructure close the gaps that medicine alone cannot fill.
This is to raise awareness, to ring the alarm about ovarian cancer, but also to issue a call to action: No one should fight in silence. If you are able, support your local cancer support systems. Donate your time, your resources, your compassion. If you or a loved one is in treatment, ask for help, and accept it when it’s offered. Speak up when a system is failing you. Lobby health systems and governments to fund patient-family support services as a necessary complement to medical care.
When I think back to my mother’s last days, it would have meant the world to have had more people walking beside us in prayer, presence, errands, and helping hands. Her story is personal, but it must not remain singular. We owe it to every woman, every family, to build a network of support that outlasts pain, that lifts people when they can’t stand, that constructs the safety net when medical systems fray or buckle.
So I begin and I end with the same belief: when cancer strikes, no one should walk alone. Let us be an anchor for one another through the storm.
About the Author:
Leslie Smith is co-founder of Anchors, a nonprofit inspired by her mother’s journey with ovarian cancer. Leslie is committed to advocating for holistic cancer care that supports both patients and families with compassion, dignity, and tangible resources.
