Fake It Until You Make It

When you see cancer portrayed in the media, there are two common storylines. Either the patient is dying, or they are living their “best life” despite it all. The patient is seen as brave, strong, and an inspiration! After all, it’s much easier to digest cancer when you wash it down with a side of toxic positivity . . . even if you are lying to yourself.

Many of you know about my art and the things I share about my cancer experience. Most of it is far from the Hollywood version of cancer. I talk about the tough things, the authentic, candid, and sometimes harsh realities of cancer. It feels like a lifetime ago that I couldn’t talk openly about these things. In 2018, I was diagnosed with Hodgkin lymphoma, and I found myself in a world I knew nothing about. Cancer was something that was so far from my mind. I never thought it could happen to me. I was just 28 years old, and I had a young child. I was focused on my career not chemotherapy. I could hardly wrap my mind around the reality of what was happening.

I remember being at home for nearly a week before I got the official diagnosis. I went from working 70–80-hour weeks to being stuck on the couch in limbo. It felt like purgatory. Initially, I didn’t tell many people what was going on. I pretended like everything was fine, no big deal. I was even preparing to interview for a new position at work. I thought everything would magically be OK; I was wrong.

Once my diagnosis was official, I felt like my life was spinning out of control. To be fair it kind of was. I had a decision to make: share what was happening or keep it to myself. Of course, I told my closest friends and family members, but what about everyone else? To be honest, it didn’t feel like I had much of a choice at all. I felt like there was an expectation to update people on what was going on. I’ll never forget telling my old boss that I had cancer and his response was to ask if I was still going to be doing that interview. Thinking back, that moment makes me want to laugh and scream all at the same time. I didn’t even know how to respond. Did he really not understand the gravity of this situation? Did I?

Ultimately, I decided to “go public” with my diagnosis and share it on social media. I carefully crafted a formal statement, and I found the perfect image to accompany my post. A graphic that read, “Cancer will only be a chapter in my book, not the whole story.” I cringe thinking about just how far from the truth that was. I didn’t know any better. I quickly learned that the role I was stepping into as a cancer patient was already predetermined. The expectation was for me to be brave, strong, and inspirational—I learned that as soon as I hit post.

Within seconds, my phone was exploding with notifications, like fireworks on the Fourth of July. Comment after comment read like a character description in a script for me. “You got this!” (I got this, check). “You are so strong!” (I am strong, check). “You are so brave!” (I am brave, check). “You will beat this!” (I won’t die, check). CHECK. CHECK. CHECK. CHECK. The weight of this outpouring of “support” felt more like a backpack full of rocks than a caring and helpful motivator. I was reminded again and again that my real feelings didn’t matter because “I got this!”

I don’t know if it was better that I didn’t realize what was happening then. My brain shut down and went into survival mode. It was easier to focus my energy on playing the role of the smiling patient than facing reality. I was crying all the time. I was googling life expectancies. I was deep diving into my medical records, and in general, I was spiraling. But on the internet and to those outside my close family, I was good. Snapping a selfie on the way to chemo with my pink mask and my “Chelsey’s Unicorn Army” shirt, I was feeding the public what they wanted. I didn’t feel much about that at the time. To be fair, I didn’t feel much of anything. It was like I was a robot. I was emotionless yet completely breaking down at the same time. It was extremely confusing. When I look at my eyes in some of those early photos, I hardly recognize that person. She was so lost and scared. She didn’t know that there was another way to handle this. She didn’t know that she had a choice or a voice.

This experience is one of the reasons I always remind newly diagnosed patients to be selfish. Set boundaries early on, even with family. You don’t owe anyone information about your illness. It’s your story to tell. Don’t let others dictate your narrative. It doesn’t matter who doesn’t like it. I was facing life and death, yet I was STILL worried about what other people thought of me. I felt like it was rude not to give people the information they wanted. I told myself that I should be grateful for every “thought” and “prayer” that popped up on my Facebook feed. I told myself that this is the way things are done. Nobody deviates from the inspirational story, even when they lose their battle.” Note for the media: that phrase is gross . . . let’s stop using it please. Society will keep writing us into these roles even when we’re gone. “She fought until the end!” “She was such a warrior!” Damn . . . is this really my life? It felt like I was fighting for an existence that wasn’t mine anymore. I couldn’t let them down, but it was OK if I let myself down.

It always is.

When my cancer treatment ended, the bubble of serenity my brain had created burst. I was suddenly hit with the reality of what had just happened to me. I had seen people’s true colors along the way, including the empty “let me know if you need anything” offers and the people who had disappeared. I felt like a soldier returning home from war. I was different. I was not OK. I had seen things that changed me forever. The “just a chapter, not the whole story” stuff was bullshit. My mental health at that point was not good. I was angry about what had happened to me. I was sad about everything I had lost. But at first, I was pretending that I was “moving on” like everyone said I should be doing. I made smart decisions like stepping down to a lower job, less stress everyone told me. I moved to an office closer to my home and vowed to have a new work-life balance! As my co-worker told me on my first day back with a shit eating grin, “You sure know what’s important now, huh?” No, not really, Sue. I don’t know anything. I just know I don’t like you.

My life soon became a shell of what it once was. I was operating on autopilot. I acted like I was adjusting, but it all felt like a nightmare. At my post-treatment scan, there were some areas of concern. My doctor dismissed them, telling me they were just inflammation. After all, he had told me I had the “good cancer” at my first appointment. There is no good cancer. He scheduled another scan for three months later. I felt sick to my stomach. I had a feeling that this three-month reprieve was temporary. I had a feeling cancer wasn’t done with me. However, I spent the next three months pretending and sliding right back into my old roles.

Surprise, surprise—the cancer was confirmed to have returned three months later. I ended up firing that oncologist (something I should have done from day one, tbh). I told myself that things would be different this time. I refused to play this “brave and strong” game anymore. My cancer just relapsed—after six months of grueling treatment, including a stint in the ICU. I was not running in a field of tulips on a magical cancer ~journey~; I was on a highway to hell. (I hope you just sang that song in your head). Control was something that had been snatched from me once cancer entered my life, and I wasn’t having it anymore.

I believe there’s great power in sharing your own story, on your terms and in your narrative. I had an old YouTube channel, and I decided to use it to tell my story. I sat down in a TJ Maxx parking lot, turned on the camera, and started talking. I talked about how I really felt, how cancer really was. I kept talking until I felt those little pieces of my identity coming back together— I guess I haven’t stopped talking since.

Being authentic was the only path forward for me. I felt such a freedom wash over me once I gave myself permission to stop pretending. I hope that I have given some of you out there the permission to stop pretending with my art and my voice. You deserve to be accepted and loved for the real you, not the roles that everyone else assigns you. You decide. Take back your story. Set boundaries. Focus on what matters most to YOU.

Now that’s the type of shit that’s really brave. I’m proud of you.

Love you, cancer fam. ❤

This article was featured in the December 2024 “Expectations” issue of Elephants and Tea Magazine! Click here to read our magazine issues.