Still Here: The Weight and Wonder of Life After Cancer

I used to think survivorship meant the hard part was over. That once the chemotherapy ended and the surgeries were done, I’d step into something brighter. Something easier. I thought I’d wake up one day and feel like myself again. But the truth is, no one tells you that surviving cancer is just a different kind of fight. It’s quiet and constant. Survivorship, for me, is learning how to exist inside a body that has been changed from the inside out, while the world around me keeps moving as if everything has gone back to normal.

When I finished treatment, people celebrated. They said things like, “You did it,” or “You’re so strong.” And while I appreciated the love, I felt like I was walking into a space no one had prepared me for. The physical toll didn’t end when the chemo stopped. My joints still ached, my memory didn’t function the same, and I could barely lift a grocery bag without feeling pain. I was pushed into surgical menopause from a hysterectomy before I even got the chance to prepare for what that meant. Hot flashes, night sweats, mood swings, and the deep emotional grief that came with it all. There’s no training for how to handle the hormonal and emotional shift that crashes over you like a wave.

People have so many misconceptions about what survivorship looks like. The biggest one is that it means you’re cured. That everything is fine now. But cancer doesn’t leave you the way it found you. It lingers. In your body, in your mind, in the way you breathe through the anxiety of every new test or ache. There’s also this idea that if you’re smiling or showing up to events or posting photos, then you must be completely healed. But I’ve learned how to function through exhaustion. I’ve had to.

The word “survivor” can feel like both a gift and a weight. Some days, I claim it proudly. Other days, I resent it. Not because I’m not grateful to be here, but because the term doesn’t always fit the reality. Being a survivor doesn’t mean I’m untouched by what happened. It means I lived through something life-altering. It means I’m still living through it. I didn’t just survive cancer. I survived being seen differently. I survived watching my children carry the same gene mutations I do. I survived the mental toll of wondering if the disease will return and what that would mean for my family.

When I got the call confirming I had cancer, my son—just 15 years old—broke down crying in his sister’s arms. He didn’t want to lose me. That memory is etched into my heart. It was the moment everything shifted for our family. My husband, who became my caregiver, held me up when I couldn’t hold myself. My daughters watched me go through treatment, surgeries, and recovery. They carry the PMS2 and BRCA2 mutations, just like I do. And now they live with the fear that their paths may mirror mine. That’s not something people see when they use words like “strong” or “brave.” They don’t see the inherited grief, the inherited fear, or the quiet heartbreak that comes with passing something down that you wish you could take away.

After treatment, I didn’t expect to feel so disconnected from myself. I didn’t expect to look in the mirror and not recognize my own body. The scars, the tightness, the way clothes fit differently. The loss of sensation. It’s all there, every single day. Intimacy changed. Confidence wavered. And still, I got up, put on a smile, and tried to make it through the day.

What I also didn’t expect was the mental fatigue. The anxiety that hit me at the most random moments. The way a simple stomachache could spiral into fear that the cancer had returned. I didn’t expect to feel guilt when others didn’t survive. Or to feel like I had to prove I was worthy of still being here. It’s hard to put into words what it feels like to mourn who you were before while still trying to celebrate who you are now. That duality is heavy.

Fear of recurrence is always there. It’s quieter now, but it hasn’t gone away. I feel it when I make follow-up appointments. I feel it when I have to explain my medical history again and again. I feel it when I watch someone else go through their own diagnosis and I know that could be me again. But I’ve learned to live with it, to give it space without letting it take over. Some days, that means coloring for hours just to still my mind. Other days, it means speaking at events or testifying for policy change because I need to know that what I went through is being used for good. That it means something.

Founding The Advocate’s Table gave me purpose. It gave me somewhere to place the pain and turn it into advocacy. I now help others navigate their own journeys, push for legislative change, and create spaces that center the voices often ignored. Especially Black women. Because I know what it feels like to not be heard, to have to fight for the care you deserve, and to carry the trauma of a system that wasn’t built with you in mind.

I lost my grandmother to metastatic breast cancer not long ago. She was 92 and had battled cancer more than once. Her passing hit me hard. It reminded me just how thin the line is between survival and loss. She was one of the strongest women I knew. Losing her deepened my mission. I fight for people like her. For people like me. For my daughters. For every woman sitting in a waiting room right now, scared and unsure of what comes next.

Survivorship isn’t clean or easy. It’s full of complicated emotions, deep fatigue, and the pressure to appear okay even when you’re not. But it’s also powerful. It means I’m still here. Still loving. Still giving. Still creating. Still telling my story even when my voice shakes.

I don’t take any of that lightly. I don’t take life for granted. Survivorship means carrying the weight, honoring the journey, and still finding moments of joy and peace, no matter how small.

And if my story helps someone else feel seen, helps them advocate for themselves, or simply reminds them they are not alone, then this struggle has meaning. And that’s what keeps me going.