Beyond the Diagnosis: How Cancer Redefined My Work and Purpose

When I was diagnosed with breast cancer at 36, my world separated into a clear before and after. I had no family history, no known genetic mutations, and I was living a very active lifestyle, so the diagnosis came out of nowhere. I didn’t know anyone close to me who had faced cancer before, and when I heard the words, “Unfortunately, you have breast cancer,” my first thought was simple and terrifying: Am I going to die? The eight months that followed were the hardest of my life, filled with unexpected twists I never could have imagined. What I didn’t know then was that finishing active treatment wouldn’t mean being “done.” Four years later, I’m still healing and still processing the financial and personal toll cancer left behind.

I’m a health and wellness professional dedicated to helping people live their healthiest and most empowered lives, physically, emotionally, and mentally. I work with clients individually and in groups, offering movement and mindfulness services, workshops, and wellness retreats both locally and internationally. My work has spanned various settings, including wellness spaces, education, corporate environments, and nonprofits. Before the pandemic, everything I offered was in person. When the world shut down, I had to pivot quickly and move my work online. It was challenging, eye-opening, and filled with valuable lessons. I adapted, but I was ready to return to in-person work. Living in Toronto, Canada, where shutdowns were some of the longest and strictest, delayed that return. When things finally began to reopen, I was diagnosed with breast cancer in July 2021. I was told chemotherapy might not be necessary and that treatment could last only a few months with surgery and radiation. With that in mind, I planned to continue supporting my clients online, complete treatment, and return to my regular schedule. Everything felt mapped out—until it wasn’t.

Already struggling financially because I couldn’t offer my full services, I found it hard to pay my bills. I’m self-employed, which meant I didn’t have access to employment insurance or government assistance. Fortunately, I was living with a partner at the time, and he was able to help with expenses, but it was still a struggle, as life had been turned upside down for him as well by the pandemic. Work gave me purpose, and I was going to continue for as long as I could during treatment, not only for my mental and emotional health, but because financially I had no other choice if I wanted to keep paying my bills.

Unfortunately, after surgery, my tumor was larger than doctors initially thought, and I had lymph node involvement, which meant chemotherapy was highly recommended. As a result, my treatment plan was extended to eight months. I was already in a heightening state of anxiety and fear about how I was going to survive financially, and with the extended treatment plan, it became even harder.
The plan involved eight rounds of chemotherapy—two different types, administered every two weeks. I was told it would be challenging, but that I’d be able to get through it because I was young and healthy. I made it through the first four rounds of chemo. while they were far from pleasant and came with many struggles, it took about a week and a half to recover each time, leaving only a few days when I could see clients online.

I was relieved to move on to the next four rounds of a different chemotherapy drug, as I was told it was much more tolerable—the “easy” chemo. For me, it wasn’t. After my first round, I woke up two days later unable to walk. My hands and feet felt like they were on fire, and I was unable to use them. I was rushed to the emergency room by ambulance and seen by more physicians and specialists than I can count, as they worked to rule out every neurological disease imaginable, including multiple sclerosis, serious autoimmune disorders like Guillain-Barré syndrome, and other cancers.
My oncologist said he’d never seen such a severe reaction after just one round of this type of chemo, which, of course, wasn’t easy to hear. I was diagnosed with acute polyradiculoneuropathy—a rare and severe condition compared to more common forms of chemotherapy-induced peripheral neuropathy (CIPN). This rapid, immune-mediated or toxic condition disrupts nerve signals between the brain and body, leading to paralysis or weakness.

When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I moved through all the stages of grief during treatment: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I had reached the acceptance stage before this reaction occurred. The final treatment plan was mapped out, and I could mentally and financially prepare myself for what to expect in the coming months. When this happened, however, it left me feeling helpless and alone.

Imagine going to bed functioning normally and waking up to find your whole world has been turned upside down. You can’t walk or use your hands for simple tasks like holding a cup or toothbrush, or even dress yourself. I had to decide whether I would continue chemo. I chose not to, because I didn’t know how my body would react to additional rounds. Still unable to walk unassisted or use my hands and feet, I returned home and waited to see what recovery would look like. No one knew—my doctors hadn’t experienced this before. Now I was unable to work at all. The only focus was getting strong and mobile enough to tolerate radiation for a month. The next two months were a blur and felt like Groundhog Day. Recovery was extremely slow, and it often felt as though I would never walk again. I used a wheelchair throughout my radiation treatment.

When active treatment ended, it felt like being thrown into the deep end of a pool without a life preserver, suddenly left to figure out what my life looked like now and how to navigate this new reality after a cancer diagnosis. It felt like I was starting over.

When radiation, ended, I still couldn’t walk unassisted and needed more time to heal before returning to work. I was seeing a physiotherapist, occupational therapist, chiropractor, and naturopath, and I tried many different holistic treatments to get back on my feet. Most of these services were paid for out of pocket. It took about a year before I could walk unassisted again. By then, I had depleted much of my savings and was left to pick up the pieces.

The transition back to work has been far more challenging than I ever imagined, and four years later, I’m still navigating it. There’s an unspoken expectation that cancer survivors should bounce back and return to “normal,” but that version of normal no longer exists. It feels like part of my prime was taken away, not just by treatment itself, but by the lasting financial, physical, emotional, and mental toll that came after. Working in an active field that demands constant movement has made this reality even more present. I’ve learned to be honest and vocal about my experience with my clients, and more often than not, that openness is met with deep understanding and comfort.

This experience clarified my purpose, strengthening how I understand my work and its impact on my clients. I don’t just support my clients—I truly understand them. Whether they’re healing from an injury, living with a disability, or rebuilding their life after a serious illness, I meet them where they’re at, shaped by lived experience. My ultimate dream is to work with cancer survivors and create wellness retreats that support long-term healing beyond treatment. I’ve learned that the physical challenges don’t end when treatment does; many stay with you for life. Two opposing truths can be true at once. I’m deeply grateful to be alive and for my ability to keep moving forward. At the same time, I carry grief for the body I once trusted and the person I was before cancer reshaped my life. What this journey gave me was empathy, not sympathy, and that has been the greatest gift. It allows me to show up fully, create meaningful connections, and know that my work truly has a purpose.