January, 18th 2025: Join us for food, drinks, dancing, and author sharing — all to support our mission. Learn more here!
AYA Cancer
Dear Cancer, Enough is Enough
If I were to write a letter to cancer, where would I start. Well guess what, I started. To Cancer, the big C word that causes the most amount of panic in a person.
Read More...Dear Cancer, I am a Survivor
You came into my life like a storm I never asked for. Uninvited, destructive, and determined to shake the very foundation of my world. You thought you could silence me, strip me of my identity, my confidence, my beauty.
Read More...Dear Leukemia
Dear Cancer, If I could ask you one question, it would be a single word: why? Why did you storm into my life four years ago? Do you even know the darkness you brought? The way you made my heart tremble, my body ache, my mind scream for peace.
Read More...The Quiet Battle: Navigating Life After Cancer
“The end of treatment isn’t the end of cancer—it’s the beginning of everything no one warned you about.” I used to think survivorship was the finish line. That once treatment ended, I’d be “back to normal.” I imagined life picking up right where I left it.
Read More...Cancer, You’ve Changed Me
I know last time I wrote a letter I said I would always call you by your full name but for brevity’s sake, I will call you that (or your even cooler nickname, LGLL).
Read More...What’s Your History?
Do you have a history of this? No. Do you have a history of that? No. Sorry, these are just routine questions. I must ask some more.
Read More...Done, right?
So you’re done, right? You’re back to normal! Are you going to be increasing your work hours? See, I told you you’d put this behind you!
Read More...Cancer is…
Cancer is… an uncomfortable high heel which the heel broke on, and is squeezing your baby toe
Read More...Everywhere and Always
Dear Cancer, As far as I know I’m not supposed to be stopped in the grocery store in front of all the bread, frozen in my body by a sudden wave of dread and images of sickness. I’m not supposed to be listing chemo drugs in my head as I drive or zoning out of a conversation with my neighbor wondering whether they are scared of death too.
Read More...The Plan
You lie in a hospital bed. People in and out of your room, introductions, tests, bloodwork, scans, IVs, all a blur. This wasn’t part of the plan. You repeat your speech: name, date of birth, and why you’re here to all the hospital staff who enter all day and night. This wasn’t part of the plan.
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