cancer survivor – Betches Guide to Cancer

4 years later

The amber skyline inhales it’s last breath of light and exhales a nuclear ash glow into the expectant mouth of nightfall. One last gasp of light before the moon’s nefarious smile watches over the dark-side of Earth. Darkness so still and weightless is contrasted by a diligent symphony of tiny vampire insects that conduct an evening score with robotic transmission. Limbs moving fast and mechanically. Rhodopsin molecules regenerate and reconfigure in my retina as my vision adapts to the absence of light. Rods and cones realign; darkness fades to shades of grey. Shadows and highlights. Smoky wisps of just-snuffed candles dance with pleasure as the evil creatures of night emerge to lurk around in this dark underworld.

I sit alone on my parent’s deck in rural Maryland, eavesdropping on the screeching dialogue between cicadas that bounces erratically off the thick wet trees much like my mind does in this moment of reflection. Four years ago I was diagnosed with breast cancer, but it honestly feels like 20 years ago. I have trouble remembering things coherently from that period in my life; I was barely present most of the time due to a shitload of legally prescribed drugs in addition to my overwhelming anxiety which hardboiled a shell around my brain like a protective fence to keep all records of my innermost horrors from wandering out and scaring the shit out of me. My brain still has trouble remembering what I did two days ago, and sometimes I actually have to think and count out how old I am. Recently, I accidentally ate a fucking dog tranquilizer pill instead of a Xanax on a 3-hour plane ride because my cognitive brain function gave up a long time ago so now my frayed synapses communicate by whistling between two tin cans connected by a string.

I still struggle every single day to reconcile with post-traumatic stress and I probably will the rest of my life. I’m not a role model, I’m a realist. I’ve learned to ignore the waves of sadness and fear for my future until they occasionally drown me and I have to come up for air and face them with a painfully ugly cry and a few days spent drinking wine in my pajamas at 3pm. Then I’m good for a month or two. Writing down my deepest fears is a cathartic thing that I sometimes do—when I first began typing them out I was sobbing in self-pity, but I’ve continued to address my fears until they become infinitesimal and somewhat comical.

Fear: I may never have children.

Me: But I’m children, so do I really have any business raising a child of my own?

I dive deep into these dim cavernous tunnels of panic and anxiety, lost in a maze of nothingness, and when I come back up to the surface it is always humor that saves me, and my mind that forsakes me. Like a werewolf anticipating the moonlight, these feelings creep inside my brain during the waning hours of evenings drowned in wine until the darkness of night infects my conscious like a spreading virus that consumes my thoughts like flesh in the teeth of monsters.

Why did I survive, what did I learn, why do I feel sad on a day when I should be grateful, what if I have cancer again right now in this moment, when are these feelings going to subside? I ask myself over and over ‘how did I get here’ to the point where no answer is the best answer and the question itself becomes white noise in my head like the muted woosh of a fan blade hoovering quietly on the ceiling.

But I am here. My changed appearance and mutated cells mirror the transformed person who occupies them. I am nothing like the person I was four years ago, and I am grateful. I see things differently, I think differently, I prioritize differently; with each passing year.

I have an unpublished journal entry from last year on my 3^rd cancerversary and it reads like a different person wrote it. Who is that girl? I went through a phase where I hid my raw emotions in shopping bags or I buried them beneath the sand that I sat upon while drinking Modelo Lights and Instagramming pictures of myself or my scars with the ocean in the background just to show everybody how happy and carefree I was. I am still happy and quite carefree, but the difference now is that I don’t care who knows about it, and my most prominent cancer scars are the long, deep gashes into my psyche. And yeah it makes me feel really fucking stupid that four years later I still cannot fully grapple with the emotional side effects of one phone call from my doctor who nervously fumbled his words saying “Well, I don’t know how to tell you this. I was 99% sure that what I removed during surgery was not cancer, but the results came back positive. You have breast cancer.”

I can keep writing these same stories about how cancer changed me and I’m grateful; I’ll reword it using different metaphors and bullshit prose intended to stir emotion, but it’s not where I am right now. My life vacillates disproportionately between overzealous recklessness and flinching fear due to the ill-fated reality that I have a loaded gun named cancer pressed to my temple that begs to expel its willpower in a cruel game of Russian roulette. Everyone encourages me to write about cancer because I know how to write those “feel good” words that inspire people going through their own personal battles. My hope is that this different view of my story—the one where I’m more honest about my struggles—will help people just the same. I’m not a role model, but I want to be a testimony to living your life however the fuck you want, and that we should be talking about all of the good and bad feelings that come with it. So this is me: a dark, sulking, emo mess on my 4-year cancerversary. It’s my 4^th birthday of feeling truly alive.

A change of tide

The tides are a changin’.

“Would you like to try that on? Can I help you find anything? Can I start you a fitting room?”

The worst thing about shopping is the nagging sales pitches that every dutiful employee is required to engage in. I hope that they hate doing it as much as the customer loathes hearing it, but it’s part of the job. Most would buy an article of clothing based on their partiality to the look or brand, but occasionally there are innate tangibles that persuade us to purchase something for more sentimental reasons. Such was the case with this sales pitch.

“This company is amazing, the founder’s father had cancer and died when he was very young, so now he has this line of shirts that say encouraging things on them.” She picks up a shirt and unfolds it to reveal the words Mind Over Matter.

Continuing her plug, “Cute, right? And on every tag there is a story from a different cancer survivor, or someone who has lost somebody to cancer. It’s really moving because it affects everybody. I mean, you probably know somebody like a friend or family member who has gone through cancer. So everybody can relate. It’s for a good cause.”

I looked down at my wrist and calmly put my hand over it to cover my tattoo. It says Mind Over Matter, but I didn’t want to show her. I self-consciously wanted to conceal my intimate knowledge of the same subject that she was passionately trying to sell me shirts through.

Why couldn’t I speak up and tell her that I was one of those people who had cancer? Lately, I just don’t feel like talking about it; I know the subsequent questions I would be asked as her happy sales-promoting face converted into a pouty lip and furrowed brow. She would look at me like I was an abandoned little puppy that needed to be adopted.

We all choose to hide certain things about ourselves in an effort to remain likeable. Although, in this case I’m certain she wouldn’t have changed her opinion of me either way, had I divulged my secret. But it wouldn’t have got me a free shirt either.

There have been countless times that I’ve been in a similar situation where I have to decide if I speak up or keep quiet about “the cancer thing.” There was a time when I couldn’t hide it because of the physical evidence of cancer—being bald for example. But my hair grew back, and there is increasingly less proof of the sick girl that I once was. Faded scars are the last trace of a bygone era.

I associated myself with my disease for so many years; it became who I was and what people knew me by—the young girl who got breast cancer. I grew fond of the label because it gave me a peculiar new sense of empowerment that I had accomplished and beat something. Now, as the years have passed, I find myself wanting to disassociate myself with my former label. I don’t want to be like that high school football player who still talks about the glory days and can’t move on in life. Stagnant. Unevolved. Those who cannot change or adapt, have already convinced themselves that they are unable to because of their current situation. “This is as good as it gets.”

As my environment is evolving away from cancer, I adapt, not to survive but to continue to improve upon myself and my understanding of the world. By changing my thinking from “sick cancer girl” to something more like “fucking badass” I’m leaving no space for excuses (although I still make them). Each experience in life is a means to get us to the next place in life; woven together to create a beautiful, intricate story that is as unique as the very DNA that flows through our veins.

What most people fail to understand is that you can write your own story—with intention, purpose, and foresight—your own paradigm shift is there for the taking if you’re willing to navigate yourself out of the prevailing winds. This is something that I’ve struggled with recently.

I quit my job right before Thanksgiving. After cancer, it’s common to feel lost. We’re left wading in the water, surrounded by the fiery wreckage of a crashed airplane. I wanted time to decompress and find myself, but recently I feel like my time off has left me indolent and idle.

My lack of framework is mostly to blame for my barren ambition. I wrongfully assumed that when I quit my job I’d be swimming in creativity and a flurry of new projects to conquer that I’d previously never had time for. I was waiting for the “moment to strike” to want to write, but it rarely has happened. I assumed that once I was free from the daily burdens of my corporate job, that all my good ideas would flood my mind and I’d jump to it and get to work. I’ve waited around for something to strike. And here I am, nearly 8 months later in the Sahara desert of a creative drought.

How does one break free from the doldrums of complacency and zero motivation? I frequently feel ashamed and self-critical of this insidious helplessness that crept into my life like a weed slowly suffocating my garden of roses—and the neighbors have begun to notice my ill-manicured lawn. The deeper I get into this apathetic life and the less I mold structure out of my days has caused me to be a person that I hardly admire. I spend my days going to the beach and playing the role of a stay-at-home-girlfriend.

How did I get here? And am I becoming a millennial? Based on the year I was born, I am classified as a millennial. A self-interest seeking and unapologetic species who think memes are religion and marriage is outdated.

I talk shit about millennials but my ironic fate has turned me into that which I abhor. I have a short attention span. I usually write two paragraphs and excuse myself to the kitchen to go make a snack and forget about what I was originally writing altogether. Motivation = poof. I expect things to be handed to me when I know they won’t be, but that doesn’t stop me from sitting around and waiting. I procrastinate, my favorite word is tomorrow, and I spend way too much money on shoes and handbags because somehow this makes me feel like I’m worth something and hopefully convinces strangers that I’m mildly successful and I’ve got my shit together. Which, I do not. But that’s OK, there is always a low-pressure drop in the air before a hurricane approaches.

Women frequently express jealousy of my “stay at home girlfriend/dog mom” status. Nah, girl. It’s not all that great once you find yourself getting excited about a sale at Michael’s craft store, or a new season of Girlfriends Guide to Divorce that you can binge watch all night while drinking your new case of White Girl Rosé. It’s not all that great when you realize that you don’t have anything interesting to talk about except meaningless gossip. It’s not all that great when someone asks you that impending question “So what do you do for work?” And my response is usually something like “I’m a stay at home dog mom and I’m also trying to become a drug lord but it’s been really difficult breaking into the biz.”

I’ve discovered that thoughts don’t necessarily lead to generating action; contrarily, premeditated action and good habits are what generates productive thoughts. So I’m making a change. I’m placing stability and structure back into my life. I’m not going to go shopping at 1 pm followed by drinks on the beach at 3pm followed by happy hour with friends at 6 pm. I retract that—I’m not going to do that every day, but still maybe once in a while. It’s been a fabulous run, but Robert Frost had it right when he said “Nothing gold can stay.”

There is undermined value in doing absolutely nothing for a while, but I’m pushing it’s limit so I’m trying to abide by my own new rules which I’ve neatly outlined below. 🙂

I don’t try to be better than anybody else, I just try to be better than the me I was yesterday.

No one owes you anything.

Although, we’re taught to believe otherwise. My parents did an excellent job raising me and my two sisters, but yes, we were a bit coddled and spoiled. My first car was a BMW which they paid for. Was it a mistake on their part? No, they love me and just wanted the best for me, but it made me subconsciously believe that things would probably be handed to me without working for them. College too—I wasn’t paying for it so I didn’t value it as much as I should have. I mistook college as a chore. Another obligatory thing in life that I didn’t really want to do. We tend to mistake love for indebtedness—like we are owed some magical credit card fueled by the love we have for each other. Case in point is our cultural obsession with grandiose weddings and marriage proposals. My engagement ring should reflect how much my fiancé loves me. We’re going to have a huge expensive wedding because we’re so much in love that we want everybody to know. A show of money is not a show of love. LOVE should be manifested in physical and verbal acts of admiration, respect, emotional empathy, and commitment. Be kind, support each other’s mental needs, hold hands. The only thing we are owed in life, is kindness and love.

Value your real relationships in life.

Shift your values. What do you want people to remember you by, when you die? That you had 100K followers on Instagram, or that you were a genuinely nice person who sought to help others in need? Sure, you can do both of those things. But our generation places increasingly too much value on the narcissistic fueled spectacles of a fake universe we call social media. If you have a strong influence on Instagram or Twitter, use it wisely, be helpful and encouraging to your followers. Think about the message you’re sending when you post an obviously-set-up-but-looks-candid photo and pretend to have a perfect life/perfect children/perfect ass, etc. I try to post the good with the bad, but sometimes I need to step away and not post anything at all.

Stop complaining.

I wouldn’t trade places with anybody in the world. If you’re feeling sorry for yourself—that’s okay—you’re allowed to feel that way. Verbalizing your unhappiness in the form of bitching and projecting it on other people is not okay, and PS—nobody cares, so STFU. Instead of complaining, ask somebody you admire for advice regarding your situation. The only person who can help you is yourself.

If you keep letting down yourself, you’ll eventually let everybody else down.

I struggle with this one a lot. It’s something I have to remind myself of daily. When we keep procrastinating and putting things off, that has an impact on who we are perceived as a person. If I can’t rely on myself to do something in a timely matter, why would anybody else rely on me for anything?

Work fucking harder for the life you want.

Nobody is going to do it for you. I worked and saved money so that I could quit my job for up to a year, because that’s the life I wanted. I don’t regret it; I learned from it.

Pray more.

God is real and wants to help you.

When the vodka runs out, your problems are still there.

Sure, I like to drink just as much as any other young person, but drinking should be a reward to celebrate your accomplishments, and not a crutch for when your life isn’t going as planned.

Take more risks.

The world is scary and we’re afraid to fail because we’ve been handed participation trophies our entire lives. High risks = high reward.

Get the fuck off Facebook.

This is mostly for everybody else, because I’m hardly ever on Facebook. If you’re posting more than one time a day, then you’re on there too much. Go back to my #2 point.

Stop comparing yourself to others.

We are taught to drive a car by looking ahead of us in our own lane. If you are constantly staring to your right and left at the nicer cars going faster than you, you’ll inevitably crash. You are unique in your own way, and nobody deserves comparison to you. It’s natural to be competitive and compare ourselves with others, but instead of thinking “I’m jealous of that person because they have (insert desirable attribute here),” try to think to yourself “I’m happy for that person, good for them.”

I’m at the point in my life where I don’t know what the hell I REALLY want to do. I got my real estate license, along with a slew of other useless licensees and laurels that are unprofitable additions to my repertoire. Like, a motorcycle license when I don’t own a motorcycle.

It took me thirty three and a half years to realize that I don’t always have to be DOING something. Sometimes, being alive is an accomplishment in itself. Sometimes we need time to reinvent ourselves. I’m not the same person that I was three years ago, so why should I be doing the same things as my old self?

I am resetting my life. I still don’t know what I want to “do” after my fun-employed life reboot. I’d like to find a way to comfortably exist with a job that doesn’t make me want to put my laptop in a panini press. Some people search their whole lives for that. But I have new goals, and I’ll be out there like Christopher Columbus with a wine glass in hand searching for my next conquest in life.

“The more you see yourself as what you’d like to become, and act as if what you want is already there, the more you’ll activate those dormant forces that will collaborate to transform your dream into your reality.” – Wayne Dyer

To the girl on the left…

Two years apart.

Same Lululemon hoodie; different body and soul occupying it.

I’m not here to bullshit with all the champions who are going through chemo right now and tell you “everything will be ok!” because we all know that’s not always true. And in those daunting hours, days, months of treatment we often can’t see the light because we’re literally confined indoors to our homes and hospitals under the stale fluorescence of fake lighting and saccharin enthusiasm.

I found my light by observing others who had walked the path before me. They have hair! They are going on vacations! They have cleavage! I was bald and puffy. I felt left behind and sorry for myself. But I saw my future in the other cancer survivors who were years ahead of me in remission. I realized that my new normal—crushing exhaustion as I would draw on my eyebrows every morning and glue on fake eyelashes just so I could look halfway decent and avoid sneers and stares if I even dared to venture into the outside world–would not be my forever normal.

So, to the girl on the left, I’d like you to meet the girl on the right. She is one of those future cancer survivors that you’re going to enviously admire. Let her be a testimony to all of the doubts and insecurities you’re feeling right now. Let her show you how life can be normal again. Although you feel small and helpless now, she is evidence that miracles are being planted in the ashes that surround you, and they will grow into oak trees with roots so deep they do not fear the changing seasons.

She is proof that –although you cannot see the plan God has for you—you are right on track.

To the girl on the left: I know you nearly had a panic attack before you posted that picture of yourself bald on social media. You were flustered and frightened by what the response would be because you cared what other people thought. And you will be criticized but not in a way you are prepared for. You will be judged for wearing wigs to “hide” your cancer. You will be condemned for saying the word “fuck” in your blog. You will be chastised for posting photos of your mastectomy scar and surgeries. You will get fusilladed by a sea of eye-rolls as you perpetually forget important dates and can’t even recall what you said in a conversation two hours ago.

The girl on the right is proof that as time passes and people pass judgement, you’ll learn to care a little less about those things. She is proof that you can and should do whatever the hell makes you happy because by the time you’ve caught up to the girl on the right, you’ll have earned every ounce of that happiness.

She is proof that one day you’ll become a stranger in the oncology department which now seems so familiar and where everybody knows your name. She is proof that there will be weeks that go by before the word “cancer” is spoken. And when it is, that word will slip from your mouth like a vase full of flowers tumbling to their demise while you flinch at the piercing explosion on the cold marble floor. It will rattle you. But also remember that the girl on the right is a fucking badass so she asks someone to grab a broom and everybody laughs because she says “I hated that ugly vase anyways.”

She is proof that as your life changes, you will learn more about yourself than you could ever imagine.

She is proof that you are not alone in your fight. Stay strong, whatever you’re going through now is just the test before you learn the lesson.

My Love-Hate Relationship with Social Media

It’s 8:47 p.m. on a Monday. I flip open my personal laptop and the bright screen practically blinds my eyes in the evening light. Annoyed, I dim the screen’s light and go to Facebook. To be honest, I loathe Facebook, but I feel obligated to give it a brief scan to make sure I haven’t missed anything important like National Chicken & Waffles Day.

One headline jumps out at me. My heart starts beating steadily faster and I can’t decide if I’m going to cry or throw my laptop off the balcony. The post says that cancer isn’t real. Cancer is actually caused by a vitamin deficiency and is a government hoax. Vitamins. Well, Holy Shit Balls, I guess the answer has been under our noses all along?

The sins of social media are flourishing in an already credulous time. I’ve considered taking a break from it recently; it’s just all too much. I’ve seen people with GoFundMe links asking for money who will also post photos with their $4,000 handbag casually in the background. I’ve seen spineless comments made on Facebook that cancer is population control and we shouldn’t fight it. The lies, the negativity, the advertisements, the duck lips. And WE ALL DO IT, in some way or another. I don’t post an ugly picture of myself because I don’t want people to think I’m ugly. However, I DID look ugly in that photo. It’s social manipulation.

I try to project honesty through my social media, but I’m not always straightforward. I’m not as strong or healthy as I portray myself. I’m not as witty in person — I’m better at writing than I am at speaking. Social media is amazing, but lately, I find it leaving me emotionally exhausted. Why do I keep doing it?

I check my phone probably 80 times a day. I rapidly double-tap my screen on as many cancer survivor’s Instagram photos as I can. I make comments, responses, hearts. As I was clicking through my phone on Monday, I decided to check up on a young breast cancer friend whom I hadn’t seen post in a while. I searched for her name and looked at her Instagram. She died one month ago. My heart feels like broken glass scraping through my chest.

Those moments are the worst aspects of social media, but also the most honest, unadulterated ones. Because, I had never met her, but I felt so connected with her and some of these women that it doesn’t matter. We share an intangible bond that was manifested through the internet, with people we’ve never physically met. This is the pure, beautiful part of social media that keeps me encouraged. The relationships we build with other kindred souls is what gives meaning to life.

It doesn’t matter if your relationships are made through social media or real life. They don’t need to be defined by anything other than their value, because physical proximity is increasingly invalid in a globally connected world. Cultivate the ones you care about and spread virtue.

We tend to sit behind our glowing screens and become separate, and sometimes worse, versions of ourselves. As children, we’re taught to think before we speak. But today, we need to think before we post. To the people out there who spam me with unsubstantiated articles that cancer is fake, I invite you to come to Florida and tell me that cancer isn’t real to my face. I’ll take you on a field trip to the oncology wing of my hospital.

Social media is a blessing and a curse, but I’m challenging myself to live with less of it and with more integrity. Last weekend, I had so much fun going on adventures with my friends that I forgot to take any pictures! I encourage you to do the same this holiday weekend, because I’m going to wear a unicorn costume and light fireworks off the roof and not take a single picture. When it’s not on social media, you’ll never know if it really happened.

P.S. Put your phone down and go outside. Namaste.

A Rising Tide Lifts All Boats

Go ahead, insult me. I dare you.

There is a disheveled little karaoke bar that is walking distance from my old address. It’s across from a strip of beach that’s lined with predominantly vacant snowbird condo buildings that are older than me. Inside the nautical-themed bar, it’s a sea of peppered gray and balding heads bobbing above a tide of Tommy Bahama button-ups and sun-bleached T-shirts advertising various Key West bars. It’s the least pretentious bar you could ever imagine visiting.

The South Florida city where I live is famously pretentious. It’s a place where money and beauty are common, and deciding whether to drive the Bentley or the Maybach to the grocery store is an actual choice for a lot of people. Where the hard-bodied weekend warriors masquerade through the sleek nightlife in their designer camouflage to atone for their insecurities. They’re peacocks fanning out their Chanel feathers.

The karaoke bar is a sanctuary away from the peacocks. After chemo, I sought out these safe places where I could avoid the size 0 birds and their irrationally beautiful skin and hair. Girls can be cruel, and when you don’t have hair, eyebrows, or eyelashes, the thought of being caught in the sightline of a Regina George-type (Mean Girls) will make you sweat like a polar bear on South Beach.

That evening, I was wearing a long, brown wig and a floppy, black hat. I had on fake eyelashes and stenciled eyebrows. It always was quite exhausting to get my face ready for public view, but I did it wearily because I needed a liquid remedy with friends after my week. Upon ordering our drinks at the bar, I overheard a male voice near me say, “Why would she wear a hat indoors at night? It’s dark out. You’d look better in that hat, anyways, babe.”

I froze. I came here to escape those exact words that he spoke, and yet here I was in my secure little nest being judged. The peacocks had infiltrated. I could have pretended that I didn’t hear it. But I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t stand up to this pejorative frat boy in the name of all of those who have been victims of the mean girls and boys in life.

So, I turned slowly to him with squinty eyes and said,“Oh, you don’t like my hat? If you want to know why I’m wearing a hat indoors, then you should just ask me. Because this is why.” I dramatically ripped off my hat and wig to reveal my bald head. “I had cancer. So, NEXT TIME … before you open your mouth to judge someone, you’d better think about me (insert expletive).” Drop mic.

The horrified faces of the frat boy and the girl almost made me feel bad for what I had done. Almost.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the only time something like that happened. Cancer can make you fragile, but its moments like these that will ignite a fire deep within. We have a confidence that is unshakable because it does not rely on our outward appearance. Go ahead, insult me. I dare you.

By condemning each other, we’re only breaking ourselves and submerging our own insecurities — women, especially. We need to stick together. We need to empower each other instead of condemning, because a rising tide lifts all boats. I encourage you to strip away your own intangible veils the way I ripped off my wig. If we remove the façade, we’ll realize we’re all just men and women fighting the same struggles.

Bury the gossip, the office chatter, the neighborhood rants. Who are you really competing with or trying to impress? Think about it. And then go watch Mean Girls for a good laugh.

This article first appeared on breastcancer-news.com.

White Lies, Rainbows and Puppies

White Lies, Rainbows and Puppies: Sometimes We Just Need a Good Cry

Sometimes I get really sick of talking about cancer. I get sick of hearing my own voice, of talking about wigs and boobs, of posting photos of my chemo-hair updates with the inflated enthusiasm of an elf on crack. At times, I want to pretend that it all never happened. To never speak the word cancer again. To never write a single syllable or utter a single breath on the topic. Sometimes, my overzealous optimism becomes too full and embellished; it collapses beneath the burden of its own weight. It’s a difficult job to always be a cheerleader.

Sometimes I just want to talk about cat memes and tacos. Like, what’s cancer?

When a person asks about my cancer experiences, it can be an out-of-body experience. I am standing right next to this human who looks like me, watching her talk. “Chemo didn’t even make me sick. Me and my friends went out to a beach bar and drank vodka martinis a few days after my second chemo!” Remember that show VH1 Pop Up Videos? A white conversation bubble pops on the screen. “True Story: She had one drink, 8 days after chemo and had to leave the bar because she was nauseous and had unbearable heartburn! LOL.” That info nugget indicts me of my white lies. Of my cancer propaganda that narrates an altered story.

I will never outwardly admit that things weren’t all rainbows and puppies. It’s the big sister in me who is being intrinsically protective. I’m hiding the callous truths from my friends and family who may get cancer at some point in their lives. I’m guarding my own ego. Because, as bad as things may get, I am the type who never will admit to it. It’s mind over matter.

As a cancer survivor, we all have a myriad of internal struggles about coming to terms with what we’ve been through. Everyone will say “You’re so strong, you’re so brave.” In truth, we don’t feel that way. We try to act fearless for everyone else’s sake. Brave? Me? Bravery is when you run into a burning building to save a baby. We’re not running head-first into cancer. We didn’t choose this. We’re running head first into survival. And it can be exhausting.

So, forgive me and forgive us, when we’re not always standing tall with our hands on our hips and projecting a rainbow beacon of bravery like a pink Care Bear. As much as we wish we were a magical cartoon with superpowers, we’re mortal humans who still put on our unicorn yoga pants one leg at a time.

So, if you’re a friend or family member aboard this ugly rollercoaster with us, just know that sometimes we just want stillness. Sometimes we don’t want to talk about cancer like it was an educational summer camp we attended and came home adorned in badges and medals. Sometimes we just need to hide in a closet and cry.

We are grateful and happy to be alive, but it’s equally gratifying to occasionally have a good ugly-faced cry and think about how far we’ve come. We recall those little white lies that we told our friends and family, “Oh, I feel great! Surgery was a breeze.” Because, unless you’ve been there, you’ll never be able to handle our horror stores of physical pain and aching despair.

But we know the real truth. The stories we tell others may have a fake sparkly tint to them, but it’s not without reason. We rewrite them to selflessly protect you. And that’s what I believe makes us brave.

*Article first published 4/28/17 at Breastcancer-news.com by me, duh.