I wish I could say that once treatment ends, the fear ends with it.
I wish I could tell you that life goes back to “normal” and you never have to look over your shoulder again.
But here’s the truth: cancer leaves you with ghosts.
I’m writing this with a pit in my stomach. I’ve found a new lump. I’m waiting for the appointments, the tests, the answers.
I’ve been here before—and I hate that I know exactly what this waiting feels like.
It’s the not knowing that eats at you.
The “what if” that follows you into the shower, to bed, even into moments when you’re trying to laugh.
Part of me wants to be strong, optimistic, the picture of resilience I’ve been told I am.
But the truth? Right now, I’m scared. I’m tired. I’m already imagining all the scenarios, and none of them feel fair.
People sometimes think survivors “beat” cancer and move on.
But moving on isn’t linear. It’s messy. It’s hospital gowns you thought you’d never wear again. It’s reliving memories you never wanted. It’s having to tell your family, “There’s something they need to check.”
If you’re reading this and you’re in your own waiting period—whether it’s for a scan, a test, or an answer—you’re not alone.
We can sit in this unknown together. We don’t have to sugarcoat it. We don’t have to wrap it in a bow.
Some days, strength looks like facing the fear head-on.
Other days, it’s just getting out of bed.
Today, I’m doing both. ❤️
