Almost six years ago, I was diagnosed with Stage IIIb inflammatory breast cancer.

Today, I’m cancer-free.

People hear those words and understandably think, “She’s okay now.”

I am okay. I am incredibly grateful. I know how lucky I am to still be here.

But surviving cancer isn’t the same as being finished with it.

Since 2021 alone, I’ve had more than 400 medical appointments ( I counted- that’s like 70 a year!) Hundreds of blood draws, scans, MRIs, PET scans, X-rays, specialist visits, therapies, and follow-up appointments. I still average multiple appointments every month. Next week alone, I have four.

Every month, I get a Lupron injection to keep my ovaries shut down. Every single day, I take an estrogen blocker that I’ll be on for at least 10 years. The treatment that saved my life also threw me into instant menopause in my 30s, bringing joint pain, brain fog, weight gain, and changes I never expected to face so young.

Cancer also left me with neuropathy, migraines, POTS, anemia, anxiety, OCD, and enough medications, exercises, therapies, and routines to make staying healthy feel like a part-time job.

Exercise isn’t just about fitness anymore, it’s one of the best tools I have to reduce my risk of recurrence. But the body I have now isn’t the one I had before cancer. Some days I feel strong. Other days, my hands go numb while I’m typing, I forget simple words, or I have to decide whether I have enough energy left to chase my kids after work.

Then there’s the part no one really talks about.

The mental load.

Every new ache. Every headache. Every pulled muscle. Every strange symptom.

My brain doesn’t think, “I probably slept funny.”

It thinks, “What if it’s back?”

And there are the people.

The friends I met through cancer who didn’t get the same ending I did. More than half of them are gone now. Carrying their memories, and sometimes survivor’s guilt, is part of survivorship too.

Today, I was sitting at physical therapy when they asked if I’d had any previous surgeries or medical issues. I laughed because…where do you even start? My medical history feels like a novel.

This isn’t a post asking for sympathy.

If anything, it’s the opposite.

I am deeply, unbelievably grateful.

I get to watch my kids grow up. I get to work. I get to laugh with friends. I get to complain about wrinkles, even if I’m also trying to figure out why my hands are tingling or whether this new pain is something to worry about.

I am thriving. But I’m also still surviving.

I think that’s something many people don’t realize about cancer survivors. Just because treatment ends doesn’t mean the journey does. Recovery isn’t a finish line, it’s something we carry with us every day, often quietly.

So if there’s one thing I hope this reminds you, it’s this:

Everyone you meet is carrying something you probably can’t see.

Be patient. Be kind. Give people grace.

You never know what they’re managing behind the scenes.

And if you’re one of the people who has checked in on me, sat with me, texted me, prayed for me, listened to me, or simply continued to care years after treatment ended…

Thank you.

You have no idea how much it still means.