Reflections on a year after cancer

Things I'm celebrating, grieving, and accepting about this season of healing

This past weekend marked the one-year anniversary since I completed my breast cancer treatment. 🎉

When I mention it to friends, many of them have said “Wow, a year already?” For me, it feels simultaneously like it’s been a few months and an eternity. I’ve lived many lives since then and experienced so much healing and growth and yet…so much still—resentfully—remains the same.

I didn’t know that last day one year ago was, in fact, the last day—I wouldn’t know that for two more weeks. What I did know was that I was completing the last of the “big” hurdles in my marathon that included two surgeries, egg freezing, chemotherapy, and finally, radiation. The plan after that was to continue receiving infusions of a medication called Herceptin for at least eight more months.

So while there was celebration that day, it was tentative and unsettling, laced with the heaviness of not really being complete—not just yet.

But when I went in two weeks later for my next scheduled infusion, I had a conversation with my oncologist that would change my life in an instant. After reviewing the data and having a thorough discussion, we decided that I could be finished if I wanted to be—and oh, did I.

That will go down as one of the best days of my life.

Of course, I wasn’t actually “done done” because as anyone with cancer or chronic illness will tell you, the fun truly never ends. I still had to get surgery to remove my port and then, later, I opted to get a fat grafting surgery for some light reconstruction, which would then set off several months of grappling with a surprise, undiagnosable chronic illness, triggering my hypervigilance back into motion.

But in that moment, and for weeks and months after, I experienced a relief and elation so physical and immediate, it was like my whole world opened up to me again and I saw color for the first time, wondering how I ever survived living in a windowless house painted in the same three shades of gray.

As we’ve inched closer to this one year anniversary—the one where I didn’t know that my marathon was, in fact, over—I’ve been imagining how that weary, brave woman who rang that bell a second time would feel about where I am today.

I don’t necessarily recommend that as a thought exercise—at least not in this kind of extreme situation—unless you’re prepared to have a whole lot of feelings about your current reality. Unless you’re prepared to acknowledge it all: the things to celebrate, the things to grieve, and the things to accept.

Whether or not I felt prepared, acknowledge it all, I am. So here we are: one year out—still healing, still stumbling, still finding her way.

Things I’m Celebrating

I look like myself again.

I finished treatment 40 pounds heavier, with my eyebrows and eyelashes falling out, and my curls adjusting to life after cold capping and chemo. There were many times when I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror, when I didn’t feel like my radiant, beautiful self, when I had to keep buying new clothes every season to feel comfortable.

Eventually, my brows and lashes came back in (and partially fell out once more before finally sticking around because WHY NOT). My hair isn’t quite as voluminous as it used to be and it’s stringier than I remember it ever being, but my curls are curling and I’d be really pleased to see how long it is.

I started strength training after chemo and kept up with it for the past year, slowly increasing the frequency and intensity even when I couldn’t see results, and I took my nutrition more seriously. This eventually started to pay off many, many months later. Most recently, I’ve been following a low inflammation diet to heal some of my OTHER issues, but it’s helped to clear up my skin and bring me closer to a body that is familiar to me.

But most importantly, there’s more life behind my eyes and when I look at a picture of myself, I think “There I am.”

I gave my creativity a new (public) outlet.

After taking a business sabbatical months before my diagnosis, I have spent the last two years decoupling my identity from that of “business owner” and feeling the gut-wrenching agony of not having as much access to my creative life force or a way to express it freely.

I’m still shaking off the creative atrophy, but I officially pulled the trigger on this Substack and have been showing up here, imperfectly, irregularly, and, despite not really knowing what I’m doing or where I’m going, I’m truly enjoying it.

I firmly believe that this decision has helped me return to my roots in the most supportive way while also holding a brand new vision for where I might like to go in the future. I would have been thrilled to know that this was something I followed through on!

The relational skills I worked so hard on implementing before cancer have become way more integrated.

One thing that people don’t tell you before getting cancer (or really, going through any sudden, unexpected loss or challenging season) is that you are forced to get really good at certain relational skills really fast—all during a time when you have zero energy or patience or brain power at your disposal.

I’m talking about things like setting boundaries, asking for what you need, communicating expectations and desires, navigating conflict with loved ones, and saying no.

I’m not saying I’m an expert at any of these things, but I can tell you that the areas that I was actively working on before cancer are now areas that I feel are actually integrated into who I am and how I operate. I am extremely proud of this!

Things I’m Grieving

My health journey didn’t stop at the end of treatment.

This one is really hard for me to write because it’s probably the area that I’d be most devastated by if I had known a year ago what was still ahead for me in my health journey—after everything I had already gone through. After several months of healing with no issues whatsoever, I enthusiastically went into my fat grafting surgery to fully close this chapter and found myself on the other side plagued with awful, inexplicable, and terrifying symptoms that lead to months of endless tests and inconclusive results.

Being the kind of person I am and as traumatized as this journey has left me, I’ve tirelessly (jk, this has been incredibly tiring) thrown myself into all of the research and reddit boards and have been willing to try any and everything to get better, from red light therapy to somatic healing to supplements to changing my diet to coherent breathing techniques.

I’ve improved a LOT, thanks to these tenacious efforts, but in the same way that I didn’t feel like I had the green light to fully celebrate at the end of radiation, I don’t feel like I’m quite out of the woods yet.

I am in a very different place than many of my friends and peers—and it’s lonely.

One of the things I struggled with most during my treatment was having to put so much of my life on hold—things like finding my partner, putting down roots, investing in an in-person community, and progressing in my creative endeavors—without knowing when I could pick it all back up again. I was very much open to those things finding me during that time (many, many people expressed their wish for me to meet some hot doctor along the way, as that seemed only fair), but sadly, they did not.

While my life came to a screeching halt, my peers’ lives carried on, as they should. Only recently have I realized the full impact of that. One day, it suddenly dawned on me that I only had one single friend left in town, and she was a newer friend of mine. And then a few months later, I realized with genuine shock that soon I’ll only have one close friend left IN town—everyone else has moved or is planning to move out to the suburbs.

I don’t know why these things surprised me—how they hadn’t occurred to me sooner. Of course I am so genuinely happy for my people and thrilled to celebrate these big life changes and upgrades. I also fully recognize that they will have their own seasons on hold, too, at some point. But it did shine a glaring spotlight on what I had been feeling in my bones for some time now.

For me, it’s not so much that I feel “behind” or like I should be “further ahead,” but more so like I feel the vastness in the gap between myself and the people around me very strongly now, even a year after I could hit play on my life again.

When you literally become singled out and you don’t see your shared situation reflected in nearly any of the lives of the people around you anymore, it’s painful and tender in a way I haven’t been brave enough to describe, even to myself.

Many of the same big life challenges I had before cancer are challenges I’m still facing now—and amplified.

Before I received my diagnosis, I was already sitting with some big life questions in every area of my life. Things like: Where do I want to live? What do I want to do with my business? How satisfied am I with my career? How will I meet my person and start building a life together? How can I foster more community? What does socializing look like now after covid? How can I move forward in my financial goals while still maintaining the freedom and flexibility I value?

I am still sitting with these exact same questions today and the itchiness to answer them is at an all-time high. After feeling like I’ve “lost” precious time, I’m even more anxious to “get moving” and gain clarity in at least a few of those areas.

Though I’ve definitely had some movement, I’m still very much in the “in between.” I firmly believe that change is imminent and it likely will be significant, but I’ve been sitting on the edge of that precipice, kicking my dangling feet in impatience for far longer than I care to admit.

Things I’m Accepting

No matter how much “juice” you squeeze from a traumatic experience or how well you process in the moment, there’s still cleanup to do in the aftermath—and it’s not linear.

I am extremely proud of the way I showed up to the experience of cancer and how I’ve navigated life “after.” I love the depth at which I am willing to engage in life now. I am grateful for the invitations I’ve accepted along the way. And…no amount of preparation or support or emotional regulation can prevent the imprint that trauma has on us.

For me, this past year has really been my personal rehabilitation of sorts. Detoxing from what came before, acknowledging who is no longer part of my story, reckoning with the puzzle pieces that no longer fit together, figuring out how to “do life” after both covid and cancer, literally healing my body, asking myself what I want now. I will always have the fear of recurrence, a burden that is heavy to bear, and I have friends with their own (sometimes terminal) diagnoses, that is gut-wrenching and precious.

Healing, of course, isn’t linear—nor is it something you can skip over or rush. It takes as long as it takes and there’s no guidebook for how to do it.

I hate that I have to do it in the first place. And…I am willing. (Because, what other way is there to be, really and truly?)

People come in and out of your life—even those you never expect.

One of the often inevitable outcomes of going through a really tough season is that not all of the people who entered that season alongside you will come out with you on the other side—and they usually aren’t the ones you ever imagine. I had two incredibly close friends drop off somewhere along the way and it was confusing and deeply painful—and also confronting.

How often do we fail each other when it matters most? How much of it really has nothing to do with you but still impacts you? What do you do when you both are going through a tough time and can’t be there in the ways you both need and expect? What happens when one of you wants to move forward but the other can’t?

It took me time—I felt really angry and hurt and betrayed—but I don’t villainize these treasured former friends for not having the means to show up for me, for I’m certain I have done the very same thing in the past. What it did do is highlight certain dynamics that I no longer want to continue in my relationships moving forward and it deepened my gratitude and love for those who stayed.

I’ve recently seen this quote floating around social media a few times and I love it:

“You still haven’t met all of the people who are going to love you.” 

I’m grateful to say I’ve welcomed a few new people into my orbit over the past year and I really look forward to seeing who else I get to love and be loved by in the future.

Even though I can’t always see my progress, I trust that I am in motion.

I know I’ve said a lot about life feeling relentlessly static, but it would be unfair to believe the lie my brain wants to make up that things haven’t really changed—that I remain in the same place I was a year or even a few months ago. Because it’s certifiably untrue. A lot has happened.

Ultimately, this season has been about faith. Can I believe that things are happening, even if it doesn’t feel like they are? Can I recognize the seeds that have been planted and watered and trust that they will bloom in time? Can I trust in the goodness of life after a period of such deep pain?

I accept that things are not always what they seem and that there’s a lot more happening below the surface than I give the universe—or myself—credit for.

Things I’m Taking with Me

There are some nuggets of wisdom that I am taking with me as I continue my journey—touchstones tucked away in my wallet for just the right moment like tiny slips of paper from a fortune cookie. Maybe you can benefit from hearing them, too:

• Laughter truly is the best medicine for deep healing.

• The trip is always, always, always worth taking.

• Moments of magic can and will find you.

• Life can (and does) change in an instant.

• You can do anything.

Whether you’ve been with me from the start or you’re just joining me now, thank you for being part of my journey. Here’s to another year of health, in every sense of the word.