When the Bell Isn’t Magic

Read Chelsey’s article and see her original artwork in our September 2025 magazine, “Struggles of Survivorship”.

When the Bell Isn’t Magic: Unpacking Life After Cancer

Walking into my first chemotherapy treatment was terrifying. The reality hit me immediately: a large room with at least 10 patients already hooked up to IV poles and one empty chair waiting for me. It was hard to believe how dramatically my life had changed in just a few weeks. Every part of me wanted to run, to pretend it wasn’t happening, but I knew I couldn’t. I had to sit in that chair and voluntarily let lifesaving “poison” enter my body. I had to tell myself this was “normal,” my “new normal.” I just needed to push through these treatments, and then I could get back to my life. At least, that’s what I believed. The truth is that life after cancer feels nothing close to normal.

My relationship with survivorship is complicated—whose isn’t? Mine, especially having faced it not once but twice. The first time I finished treatment in April 2019, I was desperate to be done with cancer. I wanted to pretend it never happened, to scrub every inch of my skin that cancer had touched. We left my final chemo, I rang that bell, and on the drive home with my husband, the celebratory high immediately faded. For months, I’d stared at that damn bell, believing ringing it would fix everything, fix me. I’d be done with cancer; I’d move on. Unfortunately, that bell wasn’t magical, it was just a piece of metal on the wall. The reality hit me hard the moment I got home: I had just lived through the unimaginable. I barely recognized myself, inside or out. I was lost at sea. I was alone.

Of course, I wasn’t truly alone on the outside. My amazing, supportive husband, my wonderful, loving daughter, and my parents were all right there. But inside, I was profoundly alone, and I was struggling. It honestly felt like I’d been abducted by aliens, returned to Earth, and just expected to act like everything was the same. About a month after treatment, I had my follow up scan and results appointment. At the end, my oncologist told me, “See ya in three months!”—a three-month “get out of jail free” card. “Go live your life,” he said. How? I screamed inside. I don’t remember how to. Instead, I just smiled and “celebrated” with my family, pretending everything was OK. I decided pretending was easier than confronting the truth.

Part of my act involved fully embracing my pre-cancer routine. I returned to work just six weeks after finishing treatment, brushing off sympathetic stares and pretending cancer hadn’t changed me. I was still the hardworking, capable person I’d been before. I would still chase my goals and be everything to everyone, just as I always have. For a little while, this pretending worked. I slipped right back into old routines, interacting with the same people, never letting anyone see a shred of weakness or vulnerability. This was my coping mechanism. That was until the day I was driving home from work, and it all hit me at once: Holy shit, I had cancer. I had cancer, and I am not the same. I am not handling everything well. I am a hot mess. I am falling apart. I am living and existing in the same places, but something has profoundly changed. I have changed.

I finally gathered the courage to call my oncologist’s office, not for my body, but for my mind. I wasn’t doing well. The nurse called back and informed me they’d sent an Ativan prescription to the pharmacy. That was it. That was the extent of their support—no mention of mental health services or therapy, there was nothing. I was on my own. Unsure of what else to do, I filled the prescription and kept pretending until cancer knocked down my door again. In October 2019, I learned my cancer was officially back, and it felt like the rug had been pulled out from under me. Even though I wasn’t “great,” I thought I was doing better than the girl who had a permanent residency in the chemo chair. Now, suddenly, my “survivorship” card was revoked, and I was sent back to jail without passing GO or collecting $200. I first heard the news of my probable relapse at work—the job I’d rushed back to, the one that didn’t make me happy at all. I remember my boss asking if I could stay and finish up. I started crying, threw down all my stuff, and said, “I don’t like this job. I don’t like anyone here. I am leaving.” When your mortality comes into such sharp focus, you truly wake up and realize what is and isn’t important. That job certainly wasn’t. I walked out and never went back.

After that moment of defiance, though more lost than ever, I found a strange comfort falling back into the patient “routine.” It felt safe and familiar. I connected with the people at the cancer center in a way I never did with my co-workers. I wasn’t doing this alone anymore. I had incredible nurses and doctors dedicated to my care. It’s tough to admit, but there was a sense of relief when my cancer returned. I didn’t have to keep looking over my shoulder, constantly worrying; the monster had finally caught me. My entire mindset shifted from “fight or flight” to leaving something meaningful behind. While I never thought cancer would be the end of my story, I wasn’t so sure anymore. I knew I had to take back my narrative. So, I began sharing my story online, talking about being ghosted, and how much survivorship truly sucks. I remembered that girl who called for help after treatment and got nothing. I wanted to make sure other people knew they weren’t alone.

This year marks five years since my stem cell transplant and seven since my original diagnosis. Over the years, I’ve uncovered many shared truths about cancer survivorship, and my commitment to helping others feel less isolated is stronger than ever. In that spirit, I want to share some of these lessons with you.

Survivorship is hard. Sometimes, it feels even harder than the cancer treatment itself. It may feel strange to admit, but if you’re feeling this way, it’s normal. The person you were before cancer is still there. Cancer tends to peel away the layers of expectation placed on you by the rest of the world. It strips you down to an uncomfortable place, forcing you to evaluate who you are and what you want. I once thought the person I was before cancer “died,” but I came to find out that I am more “me” than I ever was. There is no magical day when everything feels better. It takes time, and the process is marked by many highs and lows. Most days, it feels like there is nothing but lows, but slowly, you start rebuilding and reconnecting with yourself. There is no set timeline for healing other than the one you create for yourself. Do not let anyone rush you.

The path of survivorship is winding, unpredictable, and often requires immense courage just to exist within it. If you’re reading this and feeling lost, please know it’s not just you. I, and so many others in the cancer community, see you. Your feelings are valid. Try to embrace this new version of your life, even if it feels messy and unpredictable. Allow yourself the space and the grace to become again, to grow and blossom. This is your story and your life. You do not have to answer to anyone. You are free.

Original artwork by Chelsey Gomez