From Ghost to Girl

Fight, flight, or freeze—they’re natural reactions to things that scare us. A tornado bearing down, a shadowy figure in the night, or, perhaps scariest of all, the thought of dying. For most people, death is just a passing thought, something far off in the future—until it’s not. Until you’re confronted with it head-on. I’ve faced death twice, and my emotions were different each time. There is no “right” or “wrong” way to feel about a cancer diagnosis. 

From day one, a cancer diagnosis comes with a list of unspoken rules. Society says, “It’s OK not to be OK”—but it’s not OK to talk about the 3:00 a.m. crying sessions, the fear, the moments spent contemplating your own mortality. What people want is the story of a valiant “fight,” to see you pick yourself up and get on with it. 

Over the years, I’ve had several friends with cancer who knew their time was limited. They spoke bravely about hospice, about end-of-life planning. They were clear their story wasn’t going to be a “happy ending.” Yet their comment sections were flooded with the same well-meaning, misguided words: “You got this! You’re going to beat this! Stay positive! Stay strong!” The message was clear—stay quiet, unless you have something inspirational to share. 

When you stop and think about it, it’s ridiculous. People shout these things at cancer patients staring death in the face. Would you stand and cheer someone in the middle of a tornado, shouting, “You got this!”? Would you yell, “You’re so strong!” to a person staring down the barrel of a gun? To the one being shouted at, it feels just as ridiculous as it sounds. 

Maybe you can flee a tornado, but cancer patients don’t get that option. You can only fight—or try not to freeze. So why can’t we be real? Why are we forced to pretend we don’t see what’s happening to us? 

Although my artistic work now pushes against those narratives, the truth is I was a walking stereotype of positivity back in 2018 when I got sick the first time. I thought that’s what I needed to do to survive—or rather, that’s what everyone else told me I needed to do. Turns out that bottling all of my emotions was killing me inside in ways the cancer never could. 

There are photos of me from early in my diagnosis that look happy: smiling with my mom at lunch before chemo, smiling with my husband at an art festival, hiding my thinning hair with a headband. Smiling, smiling—always smiling. But inside, I was dying in more ways than one. 

The day I found out I had cancer, I fell on the ground crying. I sobbed harder and longer than I ever had before. My whole body felt like it was going to be swallowed by the floor. I was broken. I was empty. How could I ever come back from this? How could I ever get up from this floor? 

Eventually, I had no choice but to get up. To stop crying. To stop showing on the outside just how broken I really was. I needed to put on a brave face—not for myself, but for other people. I needed to make others more comfortable with the idea that I was dying. So I pretended. 

And eventually, I started pretending all the time. I lost sight of reality, of who I really was. I was playing a part I had never auditioned for. Just a body. A sick body pretending day in and day out. A puppet. Pretend, pretend, pretend. Smile. 

Finally, the day came to ring that bell on the wall. That would fix everything, right? That would fix me. My family was there, my nurses gathered around—cheers! I did it! I did a great job. I did amazing letting them poison me every two weeks—I mean, save my life. Yay for me. 

I walked out of the cancer center into the blistering Florida sun and felt . . . nothing. No relief, no happiness. Just a shell of who I once was. Smile. I hoped this would mark the end of being sick, but instead I was sicker than ever. 

It was time for a celebratory end-of-treatment meal. The pizza tasted like chemo and cardboard. Why was I even celebrating? Because I was supposed to. It felt like I was hovering above my life, watching someone else. Maybe I was a ghost watching a replay before I met the light. I pinched myself . . . damn, still here. I smiled for a photo, pretending everything was OK. Pretending that I was OK. 

Being out of treatment is scary. You go from being checked on weekly to being shoved off a cliff with no parachute. “How great is it that you can put all of this behind you,” they say. “HOW?” I screamed inside. Outside I nodded, “Yeah, how great…” 

My job called shortly after. “When will you be returning? You’re better now.” I am better now, I told myself. I should get back to living, I guess. Time to hang up my ghost costume. Time to pretend. Walking back into that job after more than six months felt surreal. Like I had just touched down in a foreign country. Where am I? I don’t understand anything. Nobody understands me. I don’t even think they can see me. 

“Hey, did you enjoy your time off?” I heard from behind me. “DID YOU ENJOY YOUR TIME OFF?” The phrase echoed in my head like a gunshot. I wanted to flee. I didn’t belong here anymore. I didn’t belong in this life. I was forever changed, but nobody could see me. This was the last place I wanted to end up after fighting for my life. What the fuck is happening? 

I froze. Smile on. “I mean . . . I was getting chemo, so…” He laughed. “Oh, I know, I meant in between.” IN BETWEEN? What a word. What a world. Help me. 

I sat at my desk. Stupid gray cubicle walls that might as well have been a prison. Somehow, life felt easier in the chemo chair. At least there it made sense to be sad. I survived! I did it! Did it make sense to be sad now? 

Day after day, I played pretend—until one day my body caught back up with my mind. Your cancer is back. Somehow, I knew it never left. I had never really gotten up from that chemo chair. I knew all this shit was for nothing. I left my gray cubicle cell and transferred back to my role as a patient. I felt . . . Wait, what was this feeling? I was scared to tell anyone. I was scared to admit this to myself, but I felt relief.

I was back in the arms of my kind nurses who understood what I was going through. Back in a world I could understand. Last year the cancer world felt like an alien planet, but now it felt like home. I didn’t belong anywhere else. I didn’t need to explain myself; I just needed to stick out my arm and take it like a good patient should. 

But soon something else shifted inside me. I felt anger—not only because I found myself back here, but because I had pretended this shit was easy before. People had lost interest in my plight. She got through it once, she can do it again. People stopped showing up the way they had before. I decided I would, too. I made the decision to stop pretending. 

No more positive updates. No more curated chemo selfies. It was time for everyone to see me. Fight, flight, or freeze—I had to let go of all three. I was just going to exist—exactly where I was. The good, the bad, and the really bad. I felt even more relief cascade over me. Yes, the monster had caught me again, but it’s OK. I made friends with my monster this time. If we were going down, we were going together. 

Now obviously, part of me was scared shitless of the dying part. I did want to be here. I never believed cancer would be the end of my story, but now I wasn’t so sure. I was running up against an invisible clock, and there was so much uncertainty. I guess one thing I was certain of was that I was done acting like what was happening should inspire you. I didn’t care what people thought of me anymore. 

You only get one life. Why do we spend so much of it trying to make other people happy? Spoiler alert: I’m not a ghost. I made it out alive. I was given another chance. I feel genuinely happy about my life now—an emotion I never really felt before cancer. Turns out, I had been pretending well before cancer entered the chat. 

Now, for better or worse (depending on who you ask), I’m just me. My authentic self. My inner child is steering the ship, living out her second chance to be everything she dreamed. A chance to be free. I hope to bring this feeling to others—to give you permission to really show up for yourself, maybe for the first time. 

I think you are beautiful just the way you are. Step into the light and let the world see you. You have a home here. You can be exactly who you are—happy, sad, angry, lost, silly, etc. Just be you. Cancer shouldn’t be the reason you start living . . . but it’s OK if you start today. Grab my hand and let’s do this together.