When I first heard the words “you have cancer,” it felt like the ground had disappeared beneath me. It was like someone had hit pause on my life, and all I could hear was the deafening echo of those three words. Cancer. The one word that holds the power to change everything in an instant. The diagnosis came unexpectedly. One minute I was living life as I always had, busy with work, spending time with family, and planning for the future. The next, I was sitting in a sterile hospital room, grappling with the reality that nothing would ever be the same again.
The first emotion that washed over me was grief. Not just sadness, but a deep, overwhelming sense of loss. I mourned the life I thought I would have, the carefree existence that had been shattered in the blink of an eye. The future I had once taken for granted was suddenly uncertain. What if I couldn’t beat this? What if I missed out on all the milestones I had dreamed of? Weddings, grandchildren, adventures, and even simple things like lazy Sunday mornings. It felt like my life had been stolen from me before I even had a chance to fight for it.
Grief has a way of paralyzing you, but it can also push you to confront the hard truths. As the shock of the diagnosis wore off, I found myself at a crossroads. I could give in to the fear, to the endless “what ifs” that plagued my mind, or I could fight. And fight, I did. But not without first allowing myself to grieve. I gave myself permission to cry, to be angry, and to question why this was happening. And once I had done that, I wiped the tears away and resolved to do everything in my power to beat the disease that had invaded my body.
Treatment was grueling. Chemotherapy, radiation, and surgery—all words that used to be distant concepts became my new reality. Every week, I sat in that cold, clinical room, watching the IV drip the poison into my veins that would, hopefully, save my life. Chemo was a double-edged sword—it was both the thing that could cure me and the thing that made me feel weaker than I had ever been. The nausea, the fatigue, the hair loss—it was a battle, not just against the cancer, but against my own body. I remember standing in front of the mirror the day my hair started to fall out, watching clumps of it gather in the sink. It was a visual reminder of what I was up against, and I hated it. But instead of letting it break me, I shaved my head. I took control where I could, and it was a small victory in a long, exhausting war.
Throughout the fight, resilience became my closest ally. Some days, I didn’t feel strong. Some days, the weight of it all was too much to bear. But I learned that resilience isn’t about never feeling weak. It’s about getting up, even when you feel like you can’t. It’s about finding hope in the small moments—a good day after weeks of bad ones, a kind word from a stranger, or even just the simple act of getting out of bed and showing up for another round of treatment. I leaned on my family, my friends, and the incredible medical team that was dedicated to helping me beat this. I learned to accept help, something that didn’t come naturally to me, and in doing so, I realized that I wasn’t in this fight alone.
As the months went by, I began to see progress. The scans showed that the tumor was shrinking, the numbers were improving, and for the first time since my diagnosis, I felt a flicker of hope. It wasn’t an overnight victory—it was slow, grueling, and filled with setbacks. But eventually, the day came when my doctor looked at me and said the words I had been praying for: “You’re in remission.” I had beaten cancer.
Life after cancer is different. It’s not just about celebrating the fact that I survived—it’s about the lessons I learned along the way. I learned that grief and resilience can coexist, that it’s okay to be afraid and to feel weak, but it’s also okay to fight like hell and refuse to give in. I learned that life is fragile, and that every day, every moment, is a gift. Cancer taught me to cherish the small things—the laughter of my children, the warmth of the sun on my skin, the quiet moments of peace that I used to take for granted.
But perhaps the most important lesson I learned is that we are so much stronger than we think we are. The human spirit is resilient in ways we can’t fully understand until we are tested. I faced something that once seemed impossible to overcome, and I came out the other side, not unscathed, but stronger, more grateful, and more determined to live my life fully. Cancer took a lot from me, but it also gave me a deeper appreciation for everything I still have.
In the end, cancer didn’t define me. I defined me. I am not just a survivor—I am someone who fought, grieved, and grew. And I will never take a single day for granted again.