By Linda A

There are moments in life that split everything into “before” and “after.” For me, cancer was one of those moments. I don’t say that dramatically—I say it because everything changed. My body, my routines, my identity, my sense of safety. But in the rubble of everything I lost, I found parts of myself I didn’t know existed. The fight for my life became, in many ways, a journey into who I really am.

When I first heard the word “cancer,” I froze. It felt like the world collapsed into a single, cold word. I expected fear, of course. I expected pain. But I didn’t expect clarity. As I began treatment, I discovered how little control I actually had—and how much strength I’d never tapped into until I had no choice. I learned that bravery doesn’t always look like loud defiance. Sometimes, it looks like showing up to another round of chemo with your hands shaking. Sometimes it’s allowing yourself to cry. Sometimes it’s simply making it through the day.

I learned that I had to reframe what strength meant. Society loves the image of the “strong cancer patient”—positive, upbeat, inspiring. But that’s not real life. I wasn’t strong every day. I broke down. I questioned everything. I grieved the person I used to be. And in those moments, I learned that vulnerability is strength. Asking for help, resting when needed, setting boundaries with people who didn’t understand—that was strength too.

I also came face-to-face with how much I had ignored my own needs before cancer. I had spent so long prioritizing work, being productive, saying yes to everyone. Cancer forced me to slow down, to listen to my body in a way I never had before. I had to tune in to signals I used to override: hunger, exhaustion, even joy. In the process, I started rebuilding a relationship with myself—not as someone to push harder, but someone worthy of care.

Another thing I learned was how to tolerate uncertainty. That was one of the hardest lessons. Cancer treatment is full of waiting: for test results, for side effects to subside, for your body to respond. As of 2025, even with the advances in precision medicine and immunotherapy, no doctor can give you 100% certainty. That ambiguity used to terrify me. But over time, I started to let go of the illusion of control and focused instead on what I could influence—my attitude, my reactions, my choices in the moment.

Perhaps most surprisingly, I found a different kind of presence. The kind that comes when you’re forced to live day by day. I began to appreciate the smallest things—a good meal, a breeze through the window, a kind word from a nurse. Cancer stripped away a lot of distractions and made me see what actually mattered.

If you want to dive deeper into the emotional experience of cancer, I invite you to read my article, “Cancer and Friendships: Who Stayed, Who Left, and Why It Matters,”   where I explore how I worked through fear and grief to find strength I didn’t know I had.

I wouldn’t wish cancer on anyone. But I can’t deny that it taught me more about myself than any other experience ever could. I’m still healing. Still learning. But I carry forward a deeper truth now: I’m more than what I’ve lost. I’m everything I’ve learned to hold.