The Unseen Battle of Life After Treatment

After being diagnosed with breast cancer at 33 last year—and completing active treatment (chemo, surgery, radiation) a few months ago, with one more surgery still ahead—I’ve found myself stepping into survivorship. Or did it start the moment I got diagnosed?

It was all a blur. I was in disbelief, angry, and scared. I could no longer trust my body. “Stage 3,” no one said. I knew at that moment my life would never be the same again. The treatment plan was laid out, and the endless doctor appointments and scans began. I started breaking the news to family and friends, even though I didn’t fully understand what was happening myself. My family was far away, which made it even harder. I felt isolated, unsure, and overwhelmed.

I’m not too young to have cancer—despite what people think. That was one of the hardest realities to face.

In the beginning, everyone was extremely supportive. But there were a lot of questions—some even asked if it was real. And after treatment ended, I was ghosted by many. The weekly or daily check-ins faded away as I rang the bell for the second time, marking the end of radiation. It was one of the most bittersweet moments of my life.

Cancer survivorship makes you realize who is really there for you—regardless of whether they’re a friend or family. Because when things get hard, people walk away. There’s no handbook for how to navigate cancer, and even less for what comes after. You don’t just go back to “normal.” You’re left holding pieces of a life you no longer recognize.

Months of physical therapy followed, along with starting maintenance medications and returning to work full-time after taking time off. I felt out of place. Everyone assumed I was “fine” now. My hair was growing back. I no longer looked sick—but I wasn’t prepared for the tears I’d cry alone in my car after work. Life after cancer, in a society that doesn’t understand survivorship, felt crushing.

Managing side effects, fear of recurrence, medical debt, and a weakened immune system—all while trying to adjust to life post-cancer—is overwhelming. There’s no clear path anymore. No one is telling you what to do. My mental health took a major hit. I tried to keep going as if nothing had happened, but I had to face the new reality of living with a chronic illness. Even the people closest to me had no idea what kind of hell I was silently living.

Everyday moments that used to be simple became complicated. Even trying on clothes became a painful reminder—of what my body used to be, of what it had endured, and of what I had lost. Shopping in dressing rooms, seeing my reflection, or trying to find something that fit my post-surgery body without highlighting my scars was triggering. Sometimes I’d leave in tears or just walk out empty-handed, defeated.

Flying, which once gave me a sense of freedom, now comes with anxiety and a compression sleeve. Lymphedema is a risk no one prepares you for. Having to wear the sleeve on every flight serves as a constant physical and visual reminder of the invisible battles I’m still fighting—long after the chemo has ended. It’s not just the airports or the discomfort; it’s the mental load of always needing to anticipate what your body might do next.

Healing is not linear. Some days I feel strong and hopeful; other days, I’m overwhelmed by fear and sadness. Accepting this has been one of the hardest lessons on this journey.

No, I’m not “okay” now. I have good days, and I have really dark ones—days when I feel like giving up. But I’ve learned the importance of leaning on community. Other survivors get it. Everyone’s cancer journey is different, but we all face this strange pressure to be grateful for surviving—to live our “best life” because we got a second chance. But I didn’t choose cancer. And no, not everything happens for a reason.

I’m learning to welcome all my emotions and not label them. I’m slowly building the life I want to live.

Survivorship is a journey with many turns. I’m still discovering this new version of myself. Therapy has been one of the most important tools in my healing. I wish everyone had access to it. I’m working through trauma, anxiety, and depression—building emotional skills, routines, and learning what works for me. I look in the mirror and sometimes don’t recognize myself. Losing my breasts, being burned, scarred, and poisoned has been incredibly painful. Some days, I scroll through social media and compare myself to others—but I remind myself that I am still lovable, scars and all.

I don’t want to carry guilt or shame. Cancer can happen to anyone. I won’t hide. And if sharing a part of my struggle helps even one person make that appointment or advocate for themselves, it’s worth it.

This is the duality of me, Valerie. I can’t worry about what’s out of my control. I remind myself every day: take it one breath, one step, one day at a time.

Use your voice. Ask for help. We are not meant to do life alone—we need each other. Whether it’s a friend, a support group, a therapist, or another survivor, reach out. There is strength in community, and healing doesn’t happen in isolation.