This is another layer of the after, one I did not anticipate when treatment ended, but one that has quietly shaped how I experience survivorship now. One of the strangest parts of life after treatment is the silence. During diagnosis and treatment, everything is loud. Appointments, phone calls, instructions, schedules, people checking in. Your days are shaped by what comes next, and even when it is overwhelming, there is a strange sense of containment in being constantly guid

Treatment ends, but the story does not. One month into the steady phase, I am learning that cancer is not an on off switch, and that returning to normal is not the goal. This is about finding a new steady, living with uncertainty, and moving forward without pretending nothing changed.

A grounded reflection on my first days of radiation. The routine, the unexpected reactions, the quiet internal shift, and the way this treatment is shaping my journey both in life and in running

A reflective look at the emotional overwhelm of a cancer journey, through the eyes of a marathon runner navigating fear, fatigue, and the quiet strength of showing up.

Radiation is the next step in my breast cancer treatment, and stepping into this phase brings a mix of clarity, uncertainty, and unexpected calm. In this post, I share what I’ve learned so far — the difference between full and partial breast radiation, what the daily appointments involve, the side effects I’m preparing for, and the emotional layers that come with it. If you’re entering this phase too, I hope this gives you company.

After surgery, before the next step — life sits in a quiet pause that feels both endless and full. Between appointments and test results, time stretches in strange ways. This is a reflection on the waiting, the anxiety, and the small anchors that keep me grounded when life feels suspended.

I went into surgery with fear, hope, and an empty stomach. I woke up tumor free, with one incision, clean margins, and a new sense of strength. This is that story.

The Silence After the diagnosis There’s a strange kind of time that exists between diagnosis and treatment :not the kind marked by calendars or clocks, but by phone calls, test results, and the sound of your own heartbeat while waiting for news. Everything feels both urgent and suspended, like life is holding its breath. When I first heard the word cancer, I moved fast. It’s how I cope. I’m a doer by nature, a “give me the next step and I’ll run with it” kind of person. So I

After my diagnosis, I chose a small circle. Not out of secrecy, but self-protection. Here’s how I told my husband and kids, set boundaries, and found steady, simple support.

What it feels like to receive a breast cancer diagnosis: shock, denial, and the strange normal of the early days. Personal reflection and coping tips.

Nothing can prepare you to see this sentence in a medical report: “You have breast cancer.” I was in the middle of a work meeting when I got a notification on my phone telling me that my breast biopsy resultswere available. Being the anxious person I am, of course I opened it right away, and when I read that sentence, I felt like I was having an out-of-body experience—almost like a dream (or nightmare, if you prefer). From that moment on, nothing else felt real for a while. I