Survivor’s Rage

Think, “oh how the tables have turned”. You had a particular way in which you read that statement, right? Now, use that same tone and say, “Oh how the struggles have changed”.

I’m sure you can relate.

During active treatment I easily and effortlessly blamed everything wrong with me on treatment. I didn’t hesitate for a second to blame all my terrible feelings on chemo, surgery, or radiation.

Stomach pain? Clearly the result of having to abruptly stop birth control and start chemo.

Fatigue? Chemo.

Exhaustion? Radiation.

Phantom tugging? Surgery.

It’s a lengthy list of symptoms.

What I did not know at the time was what a luxury that was to have treatment to blame, and doctors to see.

When I rang the radiation bell that signaled the end of my active treatment I was alone. I found it to be incredibly awkward, and I was on my lunch break, so I had to scurry back to work.

The loving and well meaning people in my life acted as if ringing that bell would make balloons drop, confetti fly, champagne pour, and the narrator for the Price is Right would say, “congratulations! You’ve just defeated cancer!” the way he says, “you’ve just won a brand new car!”

Maybe if I’d had a single loved one with me sharing this moment, someone whose positivity radiated towards me, maybe, just maybe I would have felt a tiny sliver of joy. But that’s not what happened, so we’ll never know.

As it was, I wasn’t happy. I experienced this after chemo as well, so I was familiar with it, but I did expect more from this one. I expected a sense of relief.

I waited, and waited, and waited for my life to even slightly resemble my life before cancer. Three years later, and I’m still waiting.

Can I let you in on one of my secrets? Please, don’t judge me. I’m just going to be myself and come right out and say it. I don’t have survivor’s guilt.

I hear the term a lot, but I’ve never identified with it. Not once.

I’ve felt deep empathy for others, but not guilt. Never guilt.

Brene Brown famously said “shame is ‘I am bad’. Guilt is ‘I did something bad’”.

I don’t think either should belong to a survivor.

Instead, what I don’t hear, and what I do identify with, is survivor’s rage.

I don’t identify with the word survivor. The word “survivor” makes me think of strength and power. I don’t feel strong or powerful. I also don’t feel like I’m out of the woods, yet. Cancer is always looming over me, so did I survive it? Nevertheless it’s the term that has been decided upon by the masses, so it does feel like the easiest way to express where I’m at currently.

Back to that radiation bell. After uncomfortably ringing the radiation bell I went back to work, finished my shift, and then went home to pack for a trip back home to celebrate my sister’s graduation and engagement. I still had four months of one chemo drug to finish. There was no bell for that as I rang the chemo bell eight months prior. We celebrated nonetheless.

It was not long after that celebration that I realized that I wasn’t getting my life back. The more time that passes the angrier I get. I crossed this supposed finish line, but I’m still in the race. Sometimes I wonder if that bell was more a starting gun than a finish line.

That bell certainly was the start of a new chapter. I expected that chapter to be much more positive than it turned out to be.

I see a lot of women expressing what cancer taught them, and that’s beautiful, but for me I thought that my mom’s accident had already taught me those things. That life is fragile. That who is important to you can change in an instant, and honestly this made me angry as well. Why do we need tragedy to teach us these lessons?! We know that life is fragile. We know that we’re not guaranteed tomorrow. Somehow, that doesn’t seem to matter. We still manage to get consumed by our day to day lives with no appreciation for the fact that it’s entirely possible that this is our last day here on earth. I don’t say that to sound morbid. I just mean that we should always be embracing our lives, and living in a way that matters to us without the need for tragedy.

So no, I didn’t get my life back. I got this life. A life that’s heavier and harder in ways no one prepared me for. A life filled with invisible bruises and unspoken fears, where I’m constantly reconciling what was taken with what’s left. But maybe that’s the quiet truth of survivorship-not balloons and confetti, not profound life lessons or perfect gratitude-but learning to live inside a story that’s still being written. One where struggle didn’t end when treatment did. One where strength doesn’t always feel strong. One where I’m still here, still questioning, still healing-and somehow, still moving forward.

Rage isn’t all bad, or all negative though. Anger is an excellent teacher. It’s also an excellent motivator. Rage comes along when you’ve ignored all of those quiet whispers. When we suppress our feelings they have the audacity to come back with vengeance. How rude.

Sometimes we have been listening, but we haven’t taken action. That is also a problem. You have to put in the work. This doesn’t have to be anything extravagant. You don’t have to find the cure for cancer. You can take one small step towards making a difference for yourself, or for the masses. This could look like taking a deep breath, pausing and taking a look around and noticing what’s around you. This could be calling a local politician and asking where they stand on a particular issue. It could be calling a friend and asking them if they’ve scheduled an appointment. It can be as simple or as complex as you want it to be.

I’ve met several young breast cancer patients and survivors who have used rage for good.

I’ve used it myself—
to push through a workout,
to pour truth onto a journal page,
to take bold, inspired action.

I’ve used rage to build connection, to cultivate gratitude, to spark creativity—and to finally find my voice.

Rage led me to seek out ways I could support the breast cancer community.

I started searching for studies, surveys, and spaces where I could speak up about what’s still missing.

Because rage, when channeled, can fuel the kind of change that makes life better for those walking this shitty road after us.

It’s okay to be angry.

It’s normal to be angry.

Let it move you. Let it matter.
Let it make something better.
Let it become art, advocacy, action.
What if we stopped shoving it down and started giving it shape?

What if we named it survivor’s rage—and stopped apologizing for feeling it?

Together, we could start a new conversation.

One that makes space for the silent suffering.

One that deepens emotional intelligence in a world that prefers toxic positivity over real feelings and conversations.

One that tells those carrying survivor’s guilt: you don’t have to.

You made it. That’s not something to feel guilty about—it’s something to honor.

We are capable of so much more than we think. When we come together we’re truly unstoppable.

So let’s stop hiding our anger.

Our rage is real, but so is our hope.

Let’s use it to build something better—together.