Redefining the Best Years of My Life

“College was the best four years of my life.” This sentiment has been drilled into my brain since birth. Every adult in my life has reminisced about their twenties, often beginning stories with “When I was in my 20s” as a precursor to a wild tale that inevitably ended with a life lesson. From an early age, I believed these years were supposed to be the prime of my entire life. In conjunction with media and themes relayed to me through my childhood, cancer was painted as one of the worst things to happen to a person.

So, what was I supposed to think when I was diagnosed with cancer at 17?

Fortunately, I made it to my twenties in remission, ready to live out the experiences everyone had promised me. Then, at 21, when my peers were creating the stories that would later become wedding toasts, I relapsed. Instead of navigating college life, I had to leave my college town and fight for my life—again. In an instant, the years I was told would be the best quickly became the worst.

I felt like my life was just beginning. Suddenly, every milestone I had envisioned—graduating, living on my own, getting married, starting a family, traveling—felt out of reach, if not unattainable. I was envious of those whose biggest concerns were whether a boy liked them back, passed a test, or got invited to a party. To be so blissfully unaware of life’s fragility felt like a luxury. Instead, I was confronting my own mortality and grappling with a life my peers couldn’t begin to imagine.

Even in remission, the possibility of relapse or other health complications lived rent-free in the forefront of my mind. Whenever I am stressed over a grade or a trivial inconvenience, I remind myself that whatever it is, it can’t be as bad as I’ve already endured. My perspective on life shifted almost instantly. People say, “You can have 100 problems until you have a health problem—then you only have one.” I learned that firsthand.

As both an adolescent and a young adult cancer patient, I can confidently say our community is underserved and misunderstood. As a teen, I was forced to grow up faster than the other kids, and as a young adult, I have had to make life-altering decisions in the context of my healthcare. These years are supposed to be about discovering life’s possibilities. Instead of studying for an exam, I study clinical trials and potential side effects. Instead of applying for scholarships, I apply for grants to cover fertility preservation. Instead of meeting new friends and potential partners, I meet new doctors and specialists. Instead of exploring my identity, I am given one: ‘cancer patient.’

Navigating the healthcare system as an AYA patient is uniquely isolating. We fall between pediatric and adult care, which means our population in any given hospital is already small. Walking into a hospital, I was always either the youngest or the oldest patient in the room. The disconnect is glaringly evident, forcing many of us to turn to the internet in search of support.

My generation is already chronically online, so it didn’t take long to find a community of people my age facing similar circumstances. This online support system has been one of the greatest factors in my ability to cope with this season of life. Some of my most comforting conversations have been with strangers who just get it. That simple understanding—those two words, I get it—can create an unbreakable bond in the face of something as life-altering as cancer. I have numerous friends that I have met on Instagram or TikTok. I may never have met them in real life, but I cherish these friendships above so many things. Trying to explain the connection with my ‘internet friends’ to someone outside the community is like attempting to teach a five-year-old algebra.

I wouldn’t trade this community for anything, but it comes with its own set of challenges. Being an AYA cancer patient means navigating a world that wasn’t built for us, constantly feeling like we exist in an in-between space. While my twenties may not look like the ones I was promised, they are still mine to define. And maybe the best years of my life won’t be the ones I expected—they’ll be the ones I create. I have found connection, resilience, and meaning in places I never expected. Instead of dwelling on what could have been, I choose to embrace what is—and whatever comes next.