The Hardest Battle I Faced After Surviving Cancer

Before cancer, life felt steady, predictable, and even comfortable. I believed that when something went wrong, you handled it. If you got sick, you saw a doctor, got better, and moved on. That was the script I’d always followed. I made plans, assuming time was on my side. I thought I was doing fine. I thought I was safe.

Back then, my days were filled with work deadlines, brunch dates, and plans that stretched out years in advance. I’d get annoyed in traffic. I’d stress over late emails or feeling behind on errands. The idea that everything could stop in an instant never even crossed my mind. I thought health was just the absence of symptoms. I had no idea how wrong I was.

On Friday, February 14th, 2014, everything changed. Getting diagnosed with cancer ripped me out of my routine and dropped me into a world I didn’t recognize. Survival wasn’t a goal anymore. It became the whole game. Every day was a fight. The treatments were relentless—five years of it, including two relapses. I even had a stroke in the middle of it all. My life became a loop of appointments, medications, and managing side effects.

I thought that eventually finishing treatment would be a monumental moment, like crossing the finish line at a marathon, but it wasn’t. For me, surviving cancer was harder than the treatments. The doctors moved on, my family returned to their everyday routines, and I was still standing in the wreckage. Everything around me felt too loud and eerily quiet at the same time. That’s when it hit me: the part no one tells you about. Survival isn’t the end. It can be the beginning of something messier; in many ways, it’s even harder.

Once the medical chaos ended, the emotional weight came crashing down. Everything I had bottled up during treatment broke wide open. I felt lost. My cancer was usually found in children or the elderly and wasn’t common in adults, so I didn’t have a community to lean on. Friends and family kept saying, “Just wait until you are done, it’s all going to be ok”. I know they meant well, but their words landed like bricks.

Things didn’t get better with time. They felt harder. I was barely getting through the day. I felt isolated and disconnected as if I was failing at something I should have been celebrating. The low point came when I suffered a nervous breakdown and locked myself in a bathroom. The weight of it all made me question if staying alive had even been worth it. I remember sitting on the floor, suffocating from the emotions coming up, thinking about how I had fought so hard to survive, and now I felt so broken.

But something inside me still wanted to fight, so I held on. I knew no one was coming to rescue me. I had to do the work myself if I wanted to feel alive again. Therapy helped, but what about the rest of the week? One session a week wasn’t enough to unpack years of trauma. There’s so much to process after treatment ends, and even with professional support, it can still feel like it’s not enough. I needed tools I could rely on daily, which would help me move forward instead of staying stuck between appointments. So, I started building routines. I took walks, and I journaled. I found ways to ground myself in the present. One small habit at a time, I started feeling human again.

Still, none of it happened all at once. There wasn’t one magical turning point. Healing didn’t follow a straight path. It was slow; some days I moved forward, others I didn’t. Surviving wasn’t something I thought would happen to me. I had planned for my death. I had never planned to live. Letting go of the future I thought I’d have meant grieving a version of life that no longer existed. I had to let go of the life I thought I was building, including the dreams that wouldn’t come true and the milestones I might never see. The illusion of safety was gone, and everything suddenly felt so uncertain. I had to stop clinging to who I thought I was going to be and start figuring out who I could become after cancer. I learned how to sit with discomfort and say my fears out loud instead of pretending everything was fine.

Now, years later, I see survivorship differently. It’s not a trophy or a milestone. It’s an ongoing process. I still have more than a dozen medical appointments each year, and some things still trigger me. The smell of hospital soap, so specific to the hospital where I was treated, can take me right back. It’s strange how our senses hold on to trauma, especially smell, which doesn’t always heal the way other parts of us do. But even with these reminders, I no longer feel the weight of cancer-related PTSD. That fear and anxiety I lived with are gone. I’m grateful for the work I’ve done to process it. Today, I can breathe again.

At 42, I’m living a life I could have never imagined. I’m healthy; I don’t take any prescription medications, my mind is clearer, and my body feels stronger than ever. I’ve rebuilt my life on my terms. It’s slower, softer, and more intentional. I make space for rest now and enjoy the little things like a warm mug in my hands, a slow morning walk with my dog Lily, or laughter with someone who sees me as I am.

Sometimes I think about the things cancer took from me: the years I spent surviving, the ability to have my own children, the friends I lost to the disease, and the parts of myself that were changed forever. But I also think about the incredible strength I gained. The resilience I’ve developed has helped me notice things I might have once ignored or missed, like birds chirping in the morning. I move slower through the day and notice how I’m no longer rushing past everything. I don’t take anything for granted the way I used to. These aren’t just poetic moments. They’re real and part of what makes my life feel rich again.

Survivorship isn’t about erasing the scars. It’s about carrying them without letting them control who I am. It means showing up daily and choosing to keep going, even when it’s hard. It’s not about returning to who I was. That version of me is gone. Survivorship is about creating something new with what’s left.

There are so many myths about survivorship. People think life goes back to normal once the treatments stop. They don’t see the lingering fatigue, the anxiety, the grief over the life you thought you’d have. Some think we should be nothing but grateful, and I am. But gratitude doesn’t erase the pain. It sits beside it.

Do I identify with the word survivor? Yes, I do. But it’s layered. Being a survivor isn’t just about getting through treatment. It’s everything that comes after: the doubt, the fear, and the quiet rebuilding. You keep living with uncertainty, and somehow, you figure out how to piece your identity back together when everything feels different. I don’t use the word survivor as a badge. For me, it’s a quiet reminder of what I’ve walked through and how much has changed along the way.

It took time and a lot of reflection to understand that surviving cancer wasn’t just about getting through treatment. The real challenge came afterward when I had to learn to sit with fear, carry the grief, and learn to live with the kind of doubt that lingers. I had to find a way to make peace with what I lost and stay open to what was left. That’s what survivorship has come to mean for me. It’s not about going back. It’s about building something new and meaningful out of what remains.

If I could tell other survivors one thing, it would be this: your experience is valid, no matter how messy it feels. Healing doesn’t have to be linear. You don’t have to rush it. Some days will feel like progress; other days, it won’t. And that’s okay. What matters is that you’re still here, still trying, and still choosing to move forward.

If you’re still figuring out what survivorship looks like, know this — you’re not doing it wrong. This process doesn’t come with a manual. It’s trial and error, listening to your body, giving yourself grace, learning to rest without guilt, and knowing survival isn’t the end of the story. It’s just the start of a new one, where life begins again.

Every day is a chance to start again, and I don’t take that lightly. I’m not just surviving anymore. I’m living. Fully, intentionally, and with more heart than I ever had before.