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.

Yesterday I completed the last day of my radiation treatment. It was a quiet ending, without bells or ceremony, but filled with deep gratitude. The side effects were stronger in the final stretch, and finishing brought a relief I felt in every part of myself. Today is Thanksgiving, and the timing adds even more meaning to this moment. This post reflects on the end of this chapter, the lessons I carried, and the quiet strength found along the way.

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.

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.

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