The Uneven Scales of Cancer Survivorship

Come and hear Emily read her story at our upcoming Perkatory event on November 13th!

Cancer leaves an imprint on every survivor, reshaping lives in ways both visible and hidden. When I reflect on my own journey, the losses stand out immediately. The most tangible is my career in special education. Teaching had been my calling for years — I poured my energy into helping children and adults learn, grow, and find their voices. But the reality is that special education is a deeply physical profession: lifting, assisting, being constantly on your feet, always ready to meet unpredictable needs. After treatment for stage 4 cancer, my body simply could not keep up with the demands anymore. Letting go of that career was like losing a part of my identity, and even now, I sometimes ache for the sense of purpose it once gave me.

Beyond the career itself, I lost a certain kind of spontaneity and lightness in my spirit. Before cancer, I didn’t feel as hesitant. Survivorship, however, is layered with existential weight. Even joyful moments sometimes carry a shadow — a whisper of fragility that reminds me how temporary it all is. I long for the enthusiasm I once had, that unselfconscious zest for life that cancer eroded. If I could reclaim just one thing, it would be that sense of unburdened joy.

And yet, for every loss, there have been unexpected gains. Cancer connected me to a community I never asked to be part of, but one I now treasure. I have made deep friendships with people who understand the unspoken complexities of illness, survivorship, and fear. These connections are unlike any other — forged in the fires of vulnerability and honesty. They are the people I can talk to without having to explain every detail, the ones who truly “get it” when I say I’m tired in a way that rest doesn’t fix, or when I describe the unease of waiting for follow-up scans.

These friendships help me in ways both big and small, every single day. Sometimes it’s a text message from a fellow survivor checking in, sometimes it’s a shared laugh about the absurdities of medical life, and sometimes it’s just the comfort of knowing I’m not alone in carrying this weight. That sense of belonging has made survivorship more bearable. It reminds me that even when cancer isolates, it can also connect — creating bonds strong enough to steady me when my own strength falters.

I’ve also gained a new perspective on time. Before cancer, I dreaded aging, worrying about decline and the visible signs of getting older. That fear has quieted. Now I see each birthday, each passing year, as something not everyone gets to experience. Growing older no longer feels like something to resist — it feels like something to embrace, proof that I am still here. This shift doesn’t erase the losses I carry, but it allows me to see the simple passage of time as a gift rather than a threat.

Still, if I’m honest, the scales don’t feel balanced. The losses weigh heavier than the gains. The life I had before, the career path I nurtured, the spark of youthful enthusiasm — those were not small things. They were the pillars of who I was, and their absence still leaves me unsteady at times. The gains, though meaningful, don’t always feel like enough to make up for what was taken. Survivorship, at least for me, isn’t about reaching equilibrium. It’s about learning to live with imbalance, to accept the contradictions of grief and gratitude existing side by side.

Through all of this, I’ve learned lessons that continue to shape how I live each day. The most profound is that life is short — shorter than we think, even when we beat the odds. This realization pushes me to choose carefully how I spend my time and energy. I no longer waste as much on things that don’t matter, whether that’s unhealthy relationships, unnecessary stress, or hollow ambitions. I want my days to mean something.

I’ve also learned that I am stronger than I ever imagined. Cancer tested me in ways I never thought I could endure. There were days I doubted I would make it, moments when the pain and fear felt bigger than I was. But I did make it. That strength isn’t always loud or visible — sometimes it’s just the quiet resilience of showing up, of moving forward even when the weight feels unbearable. Knowing that strength lives within me gives me confidence I didn’t have before.

If survivorship has taught me anything, it’s that living after cancer is its own challenge. The fight doesn’t end when treatment does — it evolves. There are days when grief over my old life still rises like a tide, threatening to drown me. But there are also days when gratitude steadies me, when I can see clearly the beauty of survival itself.

Cancer has taken much from me: my career, my ease, my unburdened enthusiasm for life. But it has also given me friendships, perspective, and proof of my own resilience. The losses and gains don’t cancel each other out — they coexist, shaping a life that is both heavier and more meaningful. My hope is that, in time, the scales will tip closer to balance. Until then, I hold on to the lessons, the strength, and the gratitude that keep me moving forward.

And to anyone else walking this path: know that your mix of losses and gains, grief and gratitude, doesn’t have to make sense to anyone but you. Survivorship is not about neatly wrapping up the experience or finding silver linings where they don’t exist. It is about continuing — sometimes faltering, sometimes thriving, but always moving forward. If you feel unbalanced, you are not alone. We carry these weights together, and in that shared strength, there is a kind of healing too.