Energy is a Fickle Thing

In 2023, life threw me another curveball—a second cancer diagnosis, this time papillary thyroid carcinoma, two and a half years after surviving kidney cancer.

This second time around nearly broke me. I knew I needed to prioritize my health, but this meant stepping away from the gym—and from life.

I needed a long, long break from everything.

It took time, but eventually, I found my way back to bodybuilding. But thanks to thyroid cancer, I would never, ever be the same.

***

Four years ago, I was diagnosed with chromophobe renal cell carcinoma, a rare kidney cancer that affects about 5% of cases. After a radical nephrectomy that cost me my left kidney, I fought my way back to health. In April 2021, I started competitive bodybuilding and would step on stage for the first time that November. I would go on to compete in two more shows before going into a long growing season.

I would spend all of 2022 rediscovering myself.

Then December hit. I was riding my Peloton when I felt it—a lump in my neck, like something suddenly popped. At first, I tried to brush it off, convincing myself it was nothing. It had to be nothing. I couldn’t have cancer again. But two months later, on February 7, I felt it again—and again, while on my Peloton. This time, it was bigger, harder.

I panicked.

I sobbed as I cycled, a waterfall of tears rushing down my cheek with every turn of the pedals. Blurring my vision as the wheels churned beneath me.

I sent my partner a flurry of messages—link after link to articles on thyroid nodules. Most cases were benign, they said. About 5%-15% were cancerous, they claimed.

“You don’t have to read them, but I just need to share them so I can convince myself I’m insane, and it’s nothing I need to worry about,” I texted him.

“You’re not insane, you can’t be faulted for worrying,” my partner wrote back. “You won’t know for sure unless you speak to your doctor.”

Another ping. “I know that’s scary, but they’ll be able to help you better understand.”

But I did know for sure. Deep down inside, I knew exactly what the lump meant.

That evening, I booked the earliest appointment with my primary care physician—April 26.

***

When I saw my doctor, she wasn’t overly concerned about the nodule. Still, she sent me for an ultrasound as a precaution.
The technician turned out to be the same person who had discovered my kidney mass years earlier. I saw his face, and I knew something was wrong.

A month and a biopsy later, I received the diagnosis: papillary thyroid carcinoma.

In July 2023, I had a total thyroidectomy. My entire thyroid was removed, along with tumors and metastasis in nearby lymph nodes.

I couldn’t process any of it. I had to withdraw into myself. Taking leave from work became its own battle—dealing with a cold surgeon who refused to sign the necessary paperwork, endless back-and-forth with the insurance company, and chasing approvals for every step. All while recovering from surgery and adjusting to the thyroid hormone medication I would rely on for the rest of my life.

For the rest of the summer, I would shelter at home. I would only venture out when absolutely needed. I barely saw the sunlight, save for the faint gleam that filtered through our den. I also limited contact with people in my life. For no reason other than I had no energy. No energy to talk. No energy to text. No energy to move. No energy to pretend.

Before undergoing treatment, I reached out to other thyroid cancer survivors. I wanted to know what I could expect—how I could prepare for my new “new normal.” They all painted the same picture. I will feel tired all the time—that’s my body getting used to the synthetic hormones. I will have no power behind my voice—the surgery will irritate my vocal cords. Despite what the surgeon says, the effects can last longer than two weeks. Some days—most days—I will struggle to get out of bed.

All of this has come to pass.

***

At first, the physical effects of my thyroidectomy felt easier to handle than when I had my kidney removed.

When I first had cancer, back in 2020, it took me six months to move my body in a way that didn’t feel foreign—that actually felt good. This second time around, I was lifting heavy weights within two months of surgery. I was able to get back into bodybuilding with relative ease.

Cardio was a whole different story. Turning on my Peloton, setting up my kickboxing bag—just the thought of doing either felt overwhelming. So, I bought a walking pad to slide under my ergonomic desk. I’d get in my steps while I worked, at least—I still wanted to find a way to raise my heart rate, and this seemed like the best alternative.

I hoped, though, that eventually I’d find the motivation to hop on my Peloton or throw a few punches—maybe not as often as I did before thyroid cancer, but more frequently than I was managing.

But life continued to happen. And I continue to feel depleted.

That’s the thing with thyroid cancer—your energy is never the same. If you’re like me, you might end up on a high dose of synthetic hormones to suppress the cancer cells that remain in your body. You might find yourself in a constant hyperthyroid state, where your body is always burning through energy. You might find it harder to fall asleep—or stay asleep or sleep at all. You might run your fingers through your hair, leaving strands tangled in your hand. You might feel unusually anxious—too anxious that you need new medication just to feel stable. You might find that suddenly, you need to catch your breath—your heart is racing a bit too fast. And no matter how much you eat, you might still feel exhausted—the fatigue just won’t go away.

I thought—hoped—that things would return to normal—that I’d be the same, or at least close to it. I imagined I’d get back to exercising the way I used to—lifting three to four times a week, riding my Peloton almost every day. But I haven’t managed to get there.

Nearly two years later, anything beyond walking still feels like too much.

Most days, it’s hard not to feel frustrated by how far away I am from the person I used to be—by what cancer has taken away from me. But every day, I remind myself that while I’ve had to adjust expectations, I’m still moving forward. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find a way back to more than just walking.

Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow.

In my own time, I will.