The Unspoken Guilt of Living

Twice.

I’ve survived cancer twice.

It’s a statement that still feels unreal—unreal and grotesque.

The syllables twist in my mouth, gnarled around my tongue. They form a tangled knot of words, too tight to unravel. Yet, they do—slowly, painfully—unwinding into a sprawl of rope and chaos.

I’ve survived cancer twice. But does it even matter?

***

Sometimes, I feel uncomfortable when I talk to people about having cancer.

There’s this gnawing feeling in my gut—this sense of shame eating away at my insides. I know some people expect to hear this long, harrowing story of making it through chemotherapy. Or that I survived cancer at a more advanced stage. Or that I’m still fighting in some way—maybe something suspicious still lingers, maybe my surveillance protocol is more aggressive.
Something, anything, that signals it’s okay for me to be upset over having had cancer, twice.

Even while writing these words, I feel the tears welling up behind my eyes.

Survivor’s guilt is a peculiar beast. It creeps up on you when you least expect it, hiding in the shadows of your thoughts, ready to strike when you dare to feel the lightness of being alive. It’s a complicated emotion I’ve wrestled with since my first diagnosis—stage 1 chromophobe renal cell carcinoma in late 2020—and one I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life.

Every day I am free of cancer, every time I look at my scars, every moment I get to be alive.

***

Thanks to advancements in medicine, more and more people are surviving cancer and living full lives. The data reflects this progress: as diagnoses rise, mortality rates continue to fall, with the National Institutes of Health (NIH) predicting that the number of people living five or more years post-diagnosis will reach 16.3 million—or 30%—over the next decade.

Even with declining mortality rates, it’s hard to escape the truth: cancer remains a life-threatening disease. It’s not something that can be tackled with a one-size-fits-all treatment. The sheer diversity of cancers means that some still have no effective treatments at all. A stage 1 diagnosis can easily turn fatal if it recurs at stage 4.

And with survival comes guilt—the nagging question: “Why me? Why did I make it when others didn’t?” For those who’ve survived, this guilt often cuts deeper, forcing us to face the brutal realities of life and death—the unfairness of it all.

Society has certain views of cancer. In entertainment, it’s a plot device—the horrifying event that sparks conflict. In the media, it’s a story to be told—the heart-wrenching profile of hope, courage, and the power of modern medicine. In our communities, it’s a unit of measure—to which extent are we strong, are we resilient, are we blessed?

Cancer survivors internalize these messages. We construct our personalities around them. We ignore our fears and worries because we know we should always be grateful. We shove aside our sadness because we know we should be positive every day. We dare not give voice to our darkest thoughts because then we shatter the illusion of the “cancer warrior.”

Instead, we feed the survivor’s guilt. For some people, the guilt stands far enough away that you can outrun it. But when you’ve been diagnosed with stage 1 cancer twice, survivors guilt grips you tightly, never letting go.

***

One day, while grabbing breakfast at our local taco house, the cashier asked about the scar on my neck. She wanted to know if I had a thyroidectomy, as well.

“Was it a total?” Yes.

“Did you have any complications?” No, I didn’t. Not really. My calcium was low, and I had to watch it for a few weeks, but it’s back to normal.

“Oh, I had complications. They nicked one of my parathyroid glands.” Then, her mom stops by the register. “Look, she had a total thyroidectomy too, but no complications.”

This exchange took place in September 2023, two months after my treatment for thyroid cancer—my second cancer. But in that moment, I was no longer a cancer survivor. Instead, I was the woman lucky enough to not have complications. I could have told her my life story. I could have explained that this was my second time dealing with cancer in a very short period. But it wouldn’t have mattered because I didn’t have to take seven calcium pills a day for the rest of my life.

Survivors often compare their experiences to those who faced more advanced stages, endured harsher treatments, suffered lasting complications, or didn’t make it. Cancer brings us close to others who are also fighting for their lives, and when we see people lose that fight, it can stir up feelings of guilt. We wonder why we made it when they didn’t. We question if we’ve “suffered enough” to deserve our second chance. We feel like we’re only allowed to be grateful—to not feel anything else.

***

“The chance of recurrence is extremely rare, like 2 to 3 percent,” my urologist told me at my first 6-month checkup in May 2021.

We caught the cancer early, he explained, and he removed my entire left kidney to make sure no cancer cells were left behind. I had been clear—my surveillance scans showed NED (No Evidence of Disease). But that doesn’t ease my anxiety. I had a rare kidney cancer—chromophobe renal cell carcinoma—so the word “rare” means nothing. Anything could happen.

Two years later, I was diagnosed with a second primary. Not long after, my 10-year-old son told me he thought I was going to die of cancer. After finding the precancerous polyp, I’m not sure I can promise him I won’t.

It felt like I’d lied to him—that I gave him false hope. And because of me, he will carry this fear, no matter what happens with my health.

Of course, neither my son nor my partner blame me for my health issues. Despite the barrage of TikTok videos telling us so, we can’t stop cancer by eating a strictly raw diet, using essential oils as medicine, and avoiding sugar. That’s not how cancer works. But witnessing the pain our loved ones endure while we cope with cancer can compound our survivor’s guilt. We may feel guilty for causing them worry, stress, and sadness because in our minds, we should have had some control over the battles fought in our bodies.

It’s hard to make that guilt go away.

***

At 37, my left kidney was removed. At 40, they took my thyroid. The week before my 41st birthday, I had radioactive iodine therapy. Less than a year later, doctors found a large precancerous colon polyp.

Every day, I live in fear of my own body—of what it’s doing to me without my knowing. Since my first diagnosis, I have not had a break from cancer and its aftermath. I am always watching— for changes, for growths, for new colors, for shifting patterns, for the quiet pale that whispers its own story.

And yet, I can’t seem to call myself a “survivor” and ever feel that it’s truly mine to claim.

Over the past four years, survivor’s guilt has settled like a stone in my chest. It’s heavy and constant. It tightens around my throat when I least expect it—presses on my lungs until the air feels thick. Every moment reminds me of the fragility of my mortality, how quickly life can slip away. And I can’t help but feel like I’ve outlasted my turn.

Survivor’s guilt will always question our right to keep going. But just because it’s real doesn’t mean it’s true. Our survival doesn’t erase the experiences we’ve lived through, nor does it mean we’ve stolen someone else’s chance at life.

It means we’re still here, still breathing, still feeling—sometimes more than we think we can bear. In every quiet moment of living, we honor those we’ve lost by making our survival meaningful—not by striving for perfection, but by being human.
Because sometimes, surviving—just surviving—is the most honest thing we can do.