Living in the After

I think the hardest part of all of this has been the unknown. The what-ifs. But it also feels like a different hard part might come after that's all over. Now that I am past diagnosis, treatment, and even past bracing for side effects or praying for clean margins. The new hard comes later - when the appointments slow down, when the machines fall silent, and everyone around you exhales with relief. That’s when a new fear settles in, the bigger unknowns.

What if it comes back? What if it never really left? What if it shows up somewhere else? What if the next time, I’m not so lucky?

During radiation, it wasn’t just the treatment itself that was difficult - it was the constant fear of side effects, of damage, of something going wrong. It was the dread that this might turn into something worse. That maybe I wouldn’t be okay after all.

You try to move on. You try to feel normal. And on the outside, maybe you do. You’re healing well. You’re getting stronger. But inside, something’s shifted. You’re not the same version of yourself. And no one prepares you for how permanent that feels.

Now, every choice feels heavier. What you eat, what you drink, how you sleep, how you move. It’s like you’re living under a microscope - your own. Every day becomes a quiet calculation of risk.

And even now, while I’m healing and starting to feel better, I still don’t feel like myself. Not the self I was before. I don’t know if I ever will. I don’t think I’ll ever fully relax again. Because now I know too much. I’m forever changed.

I think constantly about what I need to do to protect myself. What can I change? What can I cut out? How do I make sure this never happens again?

At some point, I started thinking of cancer like a lottery. Not the kind you want to win.

Every choice we make in life, everything you do either buys you another ticket - or it doesn’t.

• Drinking alcohol? Extra tickets.
• Smoking? More tickets.
• Eat sugar? That’s a ticket.
• Family history? Even more tickets.
• And in my case, a genetic mutation? That’s a whole stack of tickets handed to me without asking.

The more tickets you have, the higher your chances of being picked. But even someone with only a few tickets can get unlucky. There are people with no tickets at all who get sick - and others holding a whole fistful who walk free for decades. It’s random. Unfair. Completely out of our control.

And yet I still find myself wondering… Was it me? Did I invite this? Is this somehow my fault? I want to believe I didn’t. But guilt has a way of slipping in when no one’s looking.

That randomness is what makes it so overwhelming. I’ve never smoked. I don’t use drugs. I’ve never eaten meat. That should count for something, right?

I try to do things right. I really do. But I am only human. So I do drink alcohol. I eat sweets. And recently I realized exactly how much cancer runs in my family. I’ve gained and lost weight over the years. Maybe I’ve used the wrong deodorant or taken vaccines or wore the wrong bra. But also, I lived in a world full of chemicals and plastic and stress.

Now that I can breathe and think more clearly, I don’t want to fall into guilt or depression - but it feels like it’s just under the surface. There’s this strange sensation of, is this my fault?

The weight of survivorship - especially when the adrenaline of diagnosis and treatment fades - can bring a surprising kind of emptiness.

Now that the dust has settled, I keep thinking I should feel relieved. I should be grateful. And I am. But beneath that is a restlessness I can’t quite shake. Like I’ve crossed some finish line only to find… there’s nothing waiting on the other side.

Life feels quieter now. Flatter. Boring. A little bit hollow. Facing a cancer diagnosis can take the light out of your life.

When my kids were younger, there was always something to do, somewhere to go, someone who needed me. Everything felt more vibrant. Life was fuller, busier, messier, more alive. There was always something to plan or celebrate or discover. The days had shape and color and motion. But now, the hours blend together - laundry, errands, figuring out what’s for dinner, and then doing it all again tomorrow. And yes, this is part of my existing “empty nest syndrome.” I can’t blame cancer entirely for this feeling, but still, I catch myself wondering… What am I even fighting for anymore?

Even if you’ve walked alongside people facing illness and death, even if you were deeply empathetic and thought you understood what they were going through - it’s not the same when it happens to you.

There’s a point when it stops being philosophical. It’s no longer the distant idea that “everyone dies someday.” Suddenly, it’s you. Your body. Your life. Your death. The thought crashes down like a wave: I could die. I could vanish from this world. I might not finish this story. And there’s no way to talk yourself out of it. No back door to slip through. No one can save you. It’s a quiet, inescapable horror - to realize that your body, the one you’ve lived in all your life, can turn against you.

It’s not just a diagnosis. It’s an existential rupture. And once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

Survivorship, it turns out, is a strange kind of limbo. You’re no longer sick, but you’re never exactly well. You’re just… aware. Aware of how fragile everything is. Aware of the shadow that follows you. Aware that joy now comes with strings attached.

Because even the good things - especially the good things - feel dangerous.

• A cocktail with dinner? - Alcohol is a carcinogen.
• A bite of something sweet? - Sugar feeds cancer.
• A soft body with a few extra pounds? - Fat creates estrogen. Estrogen fuels tumors.

It’s endless. The warnings, the rules, the judgment disguised as advice or concern. And suddenly, being alive starts to feel like a game you’re not allowed to enjoy. Every pleasure becomes a threat. Every comfort, a calculated risk.

And that’s the part no one talks about.

How exhausting it is to live like that.

How it chips away at your peace, your spontaneity, your sense of safety in your own skin.

How it makes surviving feel like something you have to earn over and over again.

And hovering over it all is this fear of cancer coming back. Like a shadow that never leaves. Here I am, supposedly “cured” and “cancer free,” yet I already find myself waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s a strange kind of punishment. As if surviving means I’m supposed to live smaller, tighter, more afraid.

And how sometimes, when the house is quiet and the world is still, you wonder - if this is what survival looks like, how do I make it worth it? Because sometimes, this just doesn’t feel like a very livable life.