There are plenty of valid reasons to pack up right now. To shut my mouth. To walk away from more than a few fights.
But I can’t. Not completely. Not yet.
Cancer complicates things, of course. There’s not much to do besides practice relentless self-care. Stay alive. Stay away from stress and toxic environments. That’s the prescription. That’s the only way survival might stretch just a little longer.
I’ve grown. I can feel it. But even now, there’s this one thread of darkness that won’t leave us alone. It keeps tugging, keeps trying to unravel everything I’ve worked to rebuild.
People say I present as strong. That I show all the signs of a survivor. And maybe I do. But no one would willingly choose a life of constant scrapping and survival. Especially knowing someone or something out there might be working against you just to see you fall. That takes a different kind of endurance.
Sometimes I ask You, How long will this storm last?
From where I sit, this cancer feels like the result of years of emotional erosion. Stressors that ran too deep. Toxic relationships that stretched across time. I’ve done what I can to heal. I’ve made changes. Progress is there—I see it—but there are some issues that have been invisible, yet very real, for nearly two decades.
And now, I’m thinking about what the second half of surviving looks like.
Because survival isn’t just about staying alive—it’s about learning how to live again. And yes, I have it on good authority. Anyone who’s set on harming others probably won’t give up easily. But the silver lining? I’ve learned how to breathe again. How to ground myself. How to walk away from what doesn’t serve me. That, too, is survival.
Storms don’t last forever.
Life goes on—with or without us. But if we want to move forward, we have to check our attitude every day. Faith, hope, strength—these aren’t optional. They’re vital.
And above all, I’m learning this: I have to forgive myself. For the things I couldn’t fix. For the choices I had to make. For simply doing my best when everything else felt out of control.
That’s where my healing begins.
Dear Cancer,
I never thought I’d say this—but thank you.
Thank you for showing up and forcing me into a two-month hospital stay. Two months of stillness. Two months of what can only be described as the only “vacation” I had in 14 years. No alarm clocks, no school pickups, no endless juggling. Just me, IVs, and the quiet hum of machines. Alone time. Rest.
Thank you, Multiple Myeloma, for slamming me into the “terminal illness” category. Because without that label, I wouldn’t have qualified for the minimal financial benefits that helped me care for my kids. You gave me a kind of stability that the rest of the world didn’t. So yes—thank you for that.
Thank you for showing me what real fear feels like. Not the surface-level stuff, but the kind that echoes in your bones and creeps into your prayers. The fear of not waking up. The fear of not seeing your children grow. And thank you—honestly—for not finishing me off. I faced you, and I survived.
And in doing so, I found the strength to face all the other monsters in my life.
Because fighting cancer? As brutal as it’s been, it showed me something that no other struggle ever could. It gave me clarity. Courage. The ability to spot the truly toxic people and situations—and the nerve to finally walk away. After fighting you, cancer, everything else feels like a cake walk. The betrayal, the abuse, the injustices I’ve seen? Terrible, yes. But now I know what I’m made of.
You almost killed me.
But instead, you gave me the power to live.
So thank you, cancer.
Now get out of my way.
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