healing through words

Trying to write my way back

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve sat down to write about my cancer experience. Since my diagnosis last year, I’ve opened blank documents with every intention of recording what I was going through. I told myself I’d journal through chemotherapy, reflect on surgery, document the strange, relentless rhythm of radiation. I thought I’d write as a way to make sense of it all, to feel more in control of something that, by its very nature, is out of your hands.

But each time I tried, the words slipped away.

I’d start writing, stumble through a sentence or two, then stop. I’d reread what I’d written and feel embarrassed, or overwhelmed, or just tired. I’d hit delete, shut the laptop, and promise myself I’d try again tomorrow. But tomorrow came and went, and eventually, I stopped opening the page altogether. I’ve written bits here and there, testing the waters on social media, but it hasn’t felt authentic, the words haven’t felt like they do justice to the depth of the experience.

For months, I’ve been staring at that blank screen, the cursor blinking steadily, like a pulse. Waiting.

It’s not that I didn’t want to write. It’s that I didn’t know how to begin.

Where do you even start, when your life has been completely split in two? Before cancer and after. The person I was before my diagnosis feels like a stranger to me now; optimistic, busy, future-focused. I didn’t realise how much I took my health, my energy, and my certainty for granted. Then suddenly, everything changed.

The first few weeks after being diagnosed were a blur of tests, scans, second opinions, and Google searches at 2am. I was terrified, but also weirdly calm, like I was moving through someone else’s life. I remember thinking, “I’ll get through this. I just have to put my head down and power through.”

And that’s exactly what I did. Chemo. Surgery. Radiation. One foot in front of the other. It’s amazing how quickly you adjust to the new normal; losing your hair, losing your energy, losing parts of yourself you didn’t even realise you’d miss. I became a professional patient, living appointment to appointment, measuring time in blood tests and treatment cycles. My calendar was full, my days structured by hospital visits and recovery.

Back then, I didn’t have time to process what was happening. I was in survival mode.

And now, suddenly, I’m not.

My active treatment is over. The appointments have stopped. The phone has gone quiet. There’s no more weekly contact with my doctors or nurses, no more chemo chairs or radiation machines. On paper, that’s good news. It means I’m on the other side of it. The people around me are celebrating. “You did it!” they say. “You must feel amazing!”

But the truth is, I don’t know what I feel. Not really. And I definitely don’t feel amazing.

What I feel is lost.

Like I’ve been released into a no-man’s land between the old life I can’t go back to and the new one I haven’t yet figured out. I’m untethered. Adrift. There’s nothing holding me up anymore; not the adrenaline of diagnosis, not the structure of treatment, not the illusion of control. I thought finishing treatment would feel like freedom, but it feels more like a free fall.

This is the part no one warns you about; the emotional fallout that comes after the physical battle. It turns out, healing doesn’t begin when treatment ends. That’s when it really starts. The grief, the fear, the questions. The sheer exhaustion of it all. Your body begins to recover, but your mind is only just beginning to unpack the trauma.

And that’s why, I think, I’ve found it so hard to write. I’ve been trying to tell a story I’m still in the middle of.

I kept telling myself I needed a clear beginning, middle, and end. I wanted to wrap it all up neatly before I shared it with anyone else. But real life, especially life after cancer, doesn’t follow a neat narrative arc. It’s messy. It’s complicated. And sometimes, it’s silent. Sometimes the most honest thing you can do is stare at the page and admit you don’t know what to say.

So instead of waiting for the perfect words, I’ve decided to just start. Here. With this. With the truth that I haven’t written much at all, but I want to try now.

I want to try because something inside me says it’s time.

Not because everything is resolved, or because I’ve figured it all out, but because I’m tired of holding it all in. I’m tired of pretending that I’m okay when I’m still very much putting the pieces of myself back together. I want to give myself permission to write badly, to ramble, to cry while I type. To tell the truth, even when it’s uncomfortable.

I want to write about the things that don’t get spoken out loud; the fear of recurrence, the awkwardness of intimacy post-surgery, the isolation that creeps in when the calls stop and the world expects you to bounce back. I want to write about the moments of joy too; the kindness of nurses, the deepened friendships, the strange sense of clarity that comes when you’re forced to confront your mortality.

And I want to write because I know I’m not alone.

Since finishing treatment, I’ve spoken to other women who feel exactly the same way. They too are floating in the space after cancer, unsure of how to rebuild. They too are struggling with the pressure to be “grateful” and “positive” when what they really feel is exhausted and scared. They too are wondering where the support goes once the chemo ends.

Maybe, if I can find the courage to put this into words, someone else might read it and feel less alone. Maybe they’ll see their own experience reflected here and realise they’re not failing, they’re just healing; and healing is messy.

I don’t know yet where this writing will take me. I’ve always dreamed of writing a book, and somewhere deep down inside is always the hope that one day I will actually do it. Maybe I’ll share some of it, and keep other parts tucked away. Right now, I’m not setting rules. I’m just opening the door.

Because something happens when we tell the truth. Something softens. Something shifts. Even if the story is incomplete.

So this is my starting point. A beginning without a clear direction. A few tentative steps out of silence and back into voice. I don’t have a grand conclusion or a life lesson to tie this up with. What I have is a blank page, a scarred body, and a slowly returning sense of self.

And maybe, for now, that’s enough.

If you’re reading this and you’re somewhere in that in-between space too, post-treatment, post-diagnosis, post-trauma; please know this: you’re not doing it wrong. There’s no right way to rebuild. No perfect words. Just your truth, whenever you’re ready to speak it. And I’m here, trying to write my way back too.

Love, Michelle