“I Won’t Let This Define Me.”

I remember very clearly driving home from my second-to-last chemo. My brother was driving us to his house, which he was trying to sell. He had his own way of being supportive during my treatment, which included occasionally being my support person during chemo. By “support”, I mean he worked while I was being infused. Due to the days he chose, I was usually exhausted and would nap.

But this round, I felt a little bummed. One of my best friends was unable to attend because he had gotten COVID. He ended up texting me throughout my entire round of chemo because my brother was literally on his laptop. My brother explained that he didn’t want his team to know I was undergoing treatment because another co-worker’s mom was also going through cancer treatment, and her cancer was “worse.”

As we drove, my brother said very firmly, “I hope you don’t let this define you.” At the time, I was trying to be “brave” and responded, “Oh no, of course I won’t let this define me. This is just a little detour.”

I remember dreaming of the phone call after my double mastectomy, hearing the words, “You’re cancer-free; you had a complete response to chemo.” My surgery was scheduled for early December, and I thought, “What a great early Christmas present this would be!” But as chemo wrapped up and I waited for my surgery, I realized I felt strange. My expectations for excitement and relief weren’t there at all. Instead, I felt lonely, depressed, and anxious all the time.

I chalked it up to pre-surgery nerves and left it at that. As the day of surgery got closer and closer, I remember feeling heavier, not lighter.

In my hospital room after surgery, my friend explained to me that the surgeon had said they expected I’d had a complete response to chemo. I had expected this moment to bring excitement, but when I looked at myself in the mirror in the hospital—dark circles around my eyes, no hair, breathless with pain from the loss of my breasts, knowing I had to go home to two 15-months-old toddlers—I felt too young for this. I felt angry. I was upset. I didn’t want to be brave. I didn’t want to be strong anymore. I wanted to cry. How did I get here? I was 33, and this felt insanely unfair. I didn’t think cancer was something I could just “get over,” and that broke my heart.

When the official cancer-free phone call came, my surgeon told me I should be really happy. As I hung up, I sighed because I wasn’t as happy as I expected. I felt haunted.

Entering survivorship all of a sudden was like returning from a war I hadn’t signed up for. Peoples’ small problems just annoyed me. Their opinions about how my life after cancer should look really triggered me. When I voiced my true feelings, I lost friends—because I wasn’t grateful enough that I was cancer-free.

My life plan took a 180-degree turn. Where I was once excited to go back to work, I decided I wanted to stay home and spend more time being a mom. I didn’t know how long I would be cancer-free or if more medical complications would arise, so being there for my daughters became my number one priority.

I also started sharing more and more about my cancer story. I shared other cancer stories, made friends in the cancer community, and before I knew it, I embraced my own story. I did let cancer define me, but in a way that I hope to help others—whether by helping them heal, advocating for their health, or giving them an outlet to share their own stories and not feel alone.

I know everyone has their own expectations, and I think it’s OK to let go of those expectations, guilt free. However someone chooses to process and move forward is their own journey. It’s not easy—I know that now. But I’m now gentler with my own expectations.

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