I Lost My Aunt To A Preventable Cancer. It Changed My Life – And It Could Save Yours.

March is National Colorectal Cancer Awareness Month. For me, it is personal.
I’m a public health and behavioral science researcher. I study cancer disparities and the human behaviors that shape who gets screened and who doesn’t. I analyze data, publish papers and speak across the globe about prevention and early detection. I tell people that colorectal cancer (CRC) is one of the most preventable, beatable and treatable cancers when caught early.
CRC is not an abstract disease for me. When my Aunt Joann was misdiagnosed several times at age 52 and later diagnosed with Stage 4 CRC, it changed the trajectory of my family and ultimately defined the focus of my career.
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After she was diagnosed, everything changed.
My Aunt Joann was my godmom and the kind of person who made people feel seen. She was warm, strong and very rooted in family. She showed up for people without needing recognition. That was simply who she was. Growing up, she was a steady presence in my life, someone who embodied both resilience and care.
What made her diagnosis even more painful was what came before it.
She had been seeking care. She knew something was not right. Her daughter, my first cousin Rebecca, was there with her for every appointment. Rebecca is college-educated and understood enough to recognize that something was being missed. Both of them felt it. Yet their concerns were dismissed, minimized or misinterpreted. By the time my aunt received the correct diagnosis, the cancer had already progressed to Stage 4.
That reality is one too many families know well.
I remember the weight of that moment in 2009, not just as a family member, but as someone being trained to understand systems, data and health outcomes. What I was witnessing was not just cancer. It was delay. It was missed opportunity. It was a breakdown in how care is delivered and experienced.
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We lost her in 2016 shortly after her 60th birthday. I still think about what might have been different if her cancer had been caught earlier.
That loss did not just leave a void in our family. It left questions that would not let me go.
Why are so many people, especially Black families, being diagnosed later?
Why are symptoms not taken seriously?
Why are preventable cancers still taking lives?
Those questions became my calling.
My career in public health, behavioral science and cancer disparities research is rooted in that experience. Every dataset I analyze, every paper we publish through my research lab, and every conversation I have about prevention is rooted in collaboration and connected to families like mine.
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Behind every statistic is someone like Aunt Joann. Behind every missed diagnosis is a moment where things could have been different.
My family’s story does not exist in isolation. Like so many Black families, we carry a complicated history with health care. That history is shaped by more than individual experiences. It is rooted in generations of unequal treatment, moments where trust was broken, and patterns where concerns were not taken seriously.
For many Black families, health care has not always felt like a place of safety. It has often felt like a place where you have to advocate harder, wait longer and question whether you are truly being heard.
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Those experiences get passed down. They show up in the stories families tell each other. They shape when people decide to go to the doctor, how long they wait and how much they trust what they are told. Care is often delayed not out of neglect but out of caution. Many people only seek medical attention when it feels unavoidable.
There are also structural barriers that reinforce this pattern. My Aunt Joann worked as a private certified nursing assistant and did not have consistent health insurance, which made accessing care more difficult and delayed the support she needed.
Even when care is accessible, the experience itself can create distance. Feeling dismissed, rushed or misunderstood can make someone less likely to return or to follow through with recommended screening.
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All of this creates a cycle. People wait. Systems respond late. Outcomes worsen. The result is not just delayed care but preventable loss.
Breaking that cycle requires more than telling people to go to the doctor. It requires rebuilding trust, improving access and creating health care experiences where people feel seen, respected and supported.
Conversations about medical issues were often quiet, fragmented or delayed. As a family unit, we endured and persevered, but we didn’t always seek medical care unless something felt urgent.
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Yet, CRC does not always feel urgent.
It often begins as small growths called polyps. Most people feel nothing. No pain means no warning signs. By the time symptoms appear, the disease may already be advanced. For many, it grows quietly and slowly over years.
That is why screening matters. It is not just about finding cancer. It is about preventing it.
This past February, the world was reminded of this reality with the loss of James Van Der Beek at age 48. Sadly, he’s not the only cultural icon we’ve lost to CRC. Randy Gonzalez of the Enky Boys died at 35, and acclaimed actor Chadwick Boseman died at 43. Each was diagnosed at Stage 3 or 4, advanced stages that develop quietly over years, and at which point it is frequently too late to stop the inevitable progression of the disease.
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CRC does not discriminate by fame, fitness or fortune. It also does not impact everyone equally.
CRC is now the leading cause of cancer death in adults under 50. Black men have about a 20% higher incidence rate than white men and are 40% more likely to die from the disease. Black women have a 14% higher incidence rate and are 25% more likely to die compared to their white counterparts.
These differences are shaped by a combination of access, behavior, experience and trust.
Screening by colonoscopy is one of the most powerful tools we have to prevent CRC, yet Black adults are less likely to be screened early and consistently.
As a Black man, these realities are not abstract to me. They shape how I approach my research, the questions I ask and how I interpret the data.
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I am not just looking at numbers. I am thinking about the lived experiences behind them. I am thinking about families like mine.
That perspective has pushed me to focus not only on identifying disparities, but on understanding the behavioral, cultural and structural factors that drive them. It is also why my work emphasizes community engagement, trust and designing prevention strategies that reflect how people actually live.
I learned across my career that data alone does not change outcomes. People do.
These are not just numbers to me. They represent fathers, mothers, sons, daughters and entire family trees.
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As a Black man in public health, I carry both the data and the weight it represents.
I know the science. I also know the silence.
I know how easy it is for men to delay care. I delayed my first colonoscopy last year. Life felt full of competing priorities that all seemed urgent. I eventually made the appointment and got it done.
I know how easy it is to dismiss symptoms or say, “I will deal with it later.” I also know how many families do not talk openly about their medical history and how mistrust and access gaps still shape who gets screened and who does not.
The hardest health decisions are often the simplest ones because they require us to overcome habit, fear and silence.
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Yet I also know this: CRC is one of the few cancers we can often stop before it starts. Screening can prevent colorectal cancer by detecting and removing precancerous polyps. Most adults should begin screening at age 45, earlier if they have a family history. Options range from colonoscopy to simple at-home stool tests, making screening more accessible than many people realize.
It doesn’t need to be complicated, but it does have to be done.
When I speak to men about screening, I don’t speak only as a researcher. I speak as a husband, father, son. Showing up for your health is one of the most powerful ways you show up for your family.
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CRC does not have to define our families or our futures. Let prevention be the legacy we choose.
Dr. Charles R. Rogers is the founder and president of the Colorectal Cancer Equity Foundation and a nationally recognized behavioral scientist and cancer researcher whose work focuses on advancing equitable cancer prevention, early detection and culturally responsive care.
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