How "I know my worth" changed Jenny Ferran: A story of connection, surviving cancer, and grief

Fernanda: Hi everybody. Welcome to Connectedness.

There's a moment that shows up in almost every hard lesson of life: someone pulls up a chair next to you and just stays there. No fixing, no advice, just presence. My guest today shows that moment better than anyone I've ever talked to.

Jenny Ferran was a language teacher at a tough, underresourced high school in southeastern LA County when she got a breast cancer diagnosis in the fall of 2019. What happened next surprised her. Her students—kids who had been written off by their own community—showed up for her with a kind of love she didn't expect.

That was just the beginning of a much deeper unraveling. A few years later, she'd leave her marriage, step away from her sons' daily life, and eventually walk away from teaching altogether. In the middle of all of that, a quiet student named Christian left a letter on her desk. He had just lost his own mom to breast cancer.

What grew between them over her last year of teaching became one of the most healing relationships of her life—for both of them. Jenny is writing about all of this in her upcoming memoir, Conversate. Today, she's here to talk about what she's learned about connection, healing, and what it actually means to find yourself. I'm so happy to have her.

Jenny, welcome to Connectedness.

Jenny Ferran: Thank you so much. It's a delight to be here.

Fernanda: Before we get into the diagnosis, who were you before all of this? You've described yourself as someone who operated a lot out of fear back then. Can you paint that picture for us?

Jenny Ferran: Yeah. I had been a teacher for several years. I had been a substitute teacher, a middle school teacher, and was now teaching at John Glenn High School. Shout-out to John Glenn—you know I love you, John Glenn. They are my heart.

I was a very meticulous, orderly, conscientious person in almost everything I did. But that conscientiousness really was driven by fear. It was driven by a need to keep me, my children, my husband, my students, and my environment safe. It all stemmed from wanting to control the safety of my life, which is not the best place to operate from, especially when things go wrong.

Fernanda: Thanks for sharing that. So you got this diagnosis when you were fairly new at John Glenn, which had a reputation for being a difficult school. Instead of it being a lonely experience, your students showed up for you in a huge way. What was that like to receive?

Jenny Ferran: I was starting my third year at Glenn, teaching French 1, 2, and 3, and ELD, which stands for English Language Development—classes for kids who are new to the country and just learning English. I really hadn't quite settled into my role at Glenn yet, but I was getting to know the community and the kids.

I had already witnessed a lot of hardship. John Glenn High School in Norwalk, California, is a school where there is a lot of trauma. The kids attending have seen a lot. Unfortunately, the school had a reputation within the community for drugs, gang activity, and poor academic scores.

The kids themselves were coming from homes where there was a lot of trauma: an incarcerated parent, a teen pregnancy in the family, domestic violence—all sorts of things. It was constant, and it was daily.

Yet the kids had this inner resilience that I saw immediately. With that came a certain reserve—a distance they kept from adults and sometimes from each other. I understood that distance. When you're in an environment that isn't super comfortable and you're carrying a heavy load, putting distance between you and the rest of the world is protection.

That is why I was completely unprepared for their reaction when I got breast cancer.

I was diagnosed at the end of July and had surgery in August, meaning I was only at Glenn for two weeks to start that 2019 school year. Two weeks is nothing when you're trying to learn names and reconnect with returning students. I was out for a month after a double mastectomy without reconstruction, which is a grueling process for anyone who's been through it.

While recovering, kids were texting me: "Miss, we miss you. When are you coming back? Did you take a trip to France?" I hadn't taken a trip to France, so when I returned, I told them I had been diagnosed with breast cancer but was healthy now so they wouldn't worry.

The actual day I came back, I was completely unprepared. I arrived early to make sure my classroom was in order. The security guard opened my door, stepped back, and the entire classroom had been decorated from floor to ceiling. There were pink streamers everywhere, balloons, roses, a beautiful cake, and massive posters along the wall that said, "Welcome back, Madame Ferran."

I just stood there trying hard not to cry because I had to teach shortly. It was such a beautiful gesture. Kids and staff started coming in, hugging me and saying, "Welcome back, we love you."

It was phenomenal because I wasn't expecting it. It showed me that this community, which had been through so much trauma itself, was still capable and willing to show compassion and love. I don't know that there's a greater gift than that.

Fernanda: That was such a touching story. It reminds me of other underserved communities: sometimes the people who have the least are the ones willing to give the most.

Jenny Ferran: Absolutely. I completely agree.

Fernanda: It's very touching because it shows the immense generosity they showed toward you, and it made a huge difference in your life.

Jenny Ferran: It made a huge difference. What was incredible was that this wasn't just an initial celebration—it continued every single year I was at Glenn.

They hosted a pink-out football game where I spoke one year. Every single year, they continued to decorate my classroom, bring flowers, and write cards. It wasn't a one-time thing; it was an ongoing show of love and support.

That really forced me to examine my own sense of worth. If these kids were showing this much love and support, I had to look at how I felt about myself. That led to the next part of this story: the progression of events and what they triggered within me.

Fernanda: You mentioned that it took a year or two after the diagnosis to realize you weren't living as yourself, even though you had physically healed. That's such an honest thing to admit. What did that realization feel like?

Jenny Ferran: A couple of things sparked that internal introspection. One was the continued show of love and support. Students would unexpectedly say or do things that made me think.

At first, it was small gestures. One student brought me his favorite bright pink satin monkey because he knew October was difficult for me. Another student came back after graduating and presented me with a beret she knitted for Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

Beyond those gestures, the conversations I had with students cemented my transformation. They might have been offhand comments in the hallway or conversations at lunch when someone asked, "Hey, Madame, can I talk to you about what happened over the weekend?" Those heart connections in small moments had a profound impact on me.

One instance in particular stood out. I took the kids on a field trip to an authentic French crêpe restaurant in Long Beach. Afterward, as parents were picking kids up in the parking lot, I was left with two or three students. One boy bent down to tie his shoe and casually said, "Hey, Miss, you know so-and-so? She's really fine."

I was taken by surprise, but I replied, "Wait a minute, don't you have a girlfriend? I've seen you walking around together." He said, "Nah, Miss. We broke up. I know my worth."

He said it with so much confidence and self-assurance. I thought, I need to take those words home with me, reflect on them, and find that truth for myself.

That was the impetus to examine why I wasn't happy, why I wasn't living as myself, and why I couldn't manage the stress of moving through life after a diagnosis. I had to face it.

Fernanda: "I know my worth." What a great reminder for all of us to reflect on. How did you begin reflecting on finding your worth after that?

Jenny Ferran: I paid close attention to how I defined and lived my worth through my relationships. Because I had operated out of fear for so long, I had to step back and examine the root causes of that fear and anxiety.

Inside, I was not someone meant to be consumed by anxiety, yet that was how I moved through the world. If you asked my colleagues back then, they would have said, "Jenny's always worried about something." Students would say, "Ms. Ferran is great, but she's always stressed."

I didn't want that for myself. I wanted to live in the moment, be present, and realize my worth wasn't defined by how others perceived or treated me.

Fernanda: If your worth wasn't dictated by other people's perceptions, who was dictating it before?

Jenny Ferran: That's a good question. John Glenn High School, for one. I enjoyed the worth they assigned to me, basking in all that love and returning it.

Honestly, it was also my husband and how I was seen by my two sons. I measured everything by how useful or productive I was to them: Was I being a good mom? A good wife? A good friend? Worthy of Teacher of the Year?

I had never asked myself, Jenny, are you satisfied with yourself? Are you happy with who you are? That wasn't a question I had wanted to face, but I had to.

Fernanda: That takes a lot of guts. Based on your story, you went through several major changes back-to-back: leaving your marriage, stepping away from your sons' daily routine, and eventually quitting teaching. You said leaving felt harder than cancer. Why was that the hardest part?

Jenny Ferran: I was referring specifically to leaving my marriage. We had been together since we were 18, so I had grown up with him. But I knew I couldn't stay and heal fully. Having come through so much already, I wasn't willing to stop my healing process, even if it required agonizing choices.

I moved into an apartment two miles away, but it completely upended life as I knew it. I wasn't tucking my boys in, asking about their day every evening, making their dinner, or playing games with them.

That caused a massive amount of grief: grief for the life I thought I was living, grief for the realization that it wasn't aligned for me, and grief over losing daily life with my two boys. I recognized I hadn't lost them—they were still in my life—but they weren't with me 24/7 anymore.

It was brutal. Starting the 2024–2025 school year, I would pace the halls of that apartment and drop to my knees crying. I was in a rough place, but I knew deep down it was the necessary step to eventually come out okay—and more than okay.

Fernanda: What a difficult journey, but it sounds like it was necessary to reach where you are today. Part of your story involves a student named Christian who left a letter on your desk during Breast Cancer Awareness Month, sharing that he had just lost his mom. What was it like opening that letter, and what followed?

Jenny Ferran: Going into that 2024–2025 school year, I knew privately that it would be my final year of teaching. I decided to be as open, receptive, and authentic as possible. I maintained professional boundaries, but I let my heart lead.

A colleague who organized Breast Cancer Awareness Month asked if they could decorate my room again. I told her, "I'm moving away from identifying primarily as a cancer survivor, so that might not be necessary." Instead, she suggested placing a bag on my desk where kids could drop cards throughout October. I thought that was a lovely idea.

All month, students dropped off cards, and I left the bag untouched. Late one Friday afternoon, after the building had cleared out, I noticed a small white envelope on my desk without a name on it. Assuming it fell out of the bag, I opened it right there.

It began: "Dear Madame Ferran, I am so glad to see that you beat cancer and are thriving. My mom was not as lucky."

It stopped me cold in my tracks. At the bottom, it was signed by Christian. He was a quiet, studious, polite student who never caused trouble, and I realized he had carried this immense weight entirely by himself for over a year.

He wasn't receiving grief counseling, and there was no record of his loss in our system. I sat at my desk and wept for a long time for this boy who had lost his mother.

I went home, bought him a card, and wrote back acknowledging his loss, offering support, and letting him know our staff was there for him. I went into the office on Monday upset, asking why this student didn't have access to counseling services.

That moment sparked a weekly routine between us. Christian was enrolled in a dual-enrollment college course held in my room. Because an online professor taught the material, my role was simply supervising.

One day, Christian pulled a chair up to my desk and asked, "You busy, Ferran?" I said, "No, what's up?" He wanted to share a French song he had discovered to see if I knew it.

From then on, he pulled up a chair once or twice a week. We talked about everything: who had the best pizza, how volleyball practice went, his girlfriend, and life in general.

One day, he showed me videos of his mom. It was an emotional conversation that had us both in tears. The rest of the class was working quietly, but they sensed what was happening; when the bell rang, they slipped out quietly and respectfully.

Through those conversations, we built deep trust. He needed someone to help him navigate life without his mom, and I needed an outlet for my maternal instincts because I missed my sons so much. That shared vulnerability became the foundation of our bond during my final year.

Fernanda: You left teaching at the end of that 2024–2025 school year, about a year or a year and a half ago. What direction has your life taken since then?

Jenny Ferran: It was vital to me that I stay connected with Glenn, so throughout the following year, I attended volleyball and basketball games, senior night, and prom.

I didn't step away with the intention of writing a memoir; I stepped away because I was too exhausted to keep pouring so much into my students when I desperately needed to invest in myself.

The idea for the memoir didn't emerge until October, when I attended a writers' conference in Monterey. I shared a few pages with an agent who was captivated by the story.

I had to reflect carefully: real people are involved, and I refuse to commercialize or profit from anyone's pain. I wanted the memoir to serve as a tribute and a gift of love to Glenn, the students, and myself.

Fernanda: You're still actively healing. What has that process looked like for you?

Jenny Ferran: I wish healing were a straight line from point A to point B, but for me, it happens in fits and starts.

I heal most effectively when I suddenly notice I'm no longer afraid of something. I meditate, walk, journal, and talk to people, but true progress comes when I achieve a deep sense of safety regarding a specific issue. Only then can I let it go and move forward.

To me, healing means moving toward complete freedom from fear.

Fernanda: "Complete freedom from fear." I love that perspective.

Jenny Ferran: Life will inevitably bring hardship. If I meet every challenge with overwhelming fear, I haven't healed. If I can face whatever comes knowing I'll make it through and be okay, that is true healing.

Fernanda: That's beautiful. Jenny, are there closing thoughts you'd like to leave with our listeners, and where can people find you and follow your upcoming memoir?

Jenny Ferran: My author website will be live next week at jferranbooks.com. It features links to my Substack essays, where I write about these themes and other deeper topics.

I'm currently shopping the memoir, Conversate, to literary agents. It will eventually be published either through a traditional publisher or independently via my website.

Fernanda: Congratulations, that's incredibly exciting! Thank you for sharing your journey—not just your personal health and family transitions, but your impactful connection with Christian.

Jenny Ferran: Thank you so much for this space.

Fernanda: There's something about the way you share your journey—the fear, the loss, the letter on your desk—that makes this feel less like a story about cancer and more like a story about what happens when we let people in. That's what this show is all about.

Jenny's upcoming memoir, Conversate: A Memoir of Illness, Teaching, and Healing, is coming soon. You can follow updates and read her essays at jferranbooks.com. I will include that link and her social handles in the show notes.

To everyone listening: Has there ever been a conversation that fundamentally changed how you saw yourself? Jenny has a prompt exploring that exact question on her site, so head over to share your thoughts there or reach out to me directly.

Until next time, let's keep having conversations that matter and stay connected to others and ourselves. Please remember to like and subscribe!