Part 3: Returning to Life After Cancer Treatment

The Space No One Talks About

There’s a quiet space after cancer treatment ends—a strange, suspended in-between that no one really talks about. When you finish the final chemo session, people cheer and say, “You did it! You’re done!” But the truth is, you're not done. You're only beginning another phase of healing—a return to a life that looks the same on the outside, but feels foreign on the inside. For me, this phase was one of the most emotionally complex parts of the journey. It wasn't just about physical recovery; it was about rediscovering how to live in a body, in a world, and in a life that would never be the same.

Letting Go of the Rope

Returning to life after the treatments ended was surreal. It’s difficult to explain, but in some ways, those arduous chemo treatments were almost easier than what came next. As terrible as they were, chemo gave me a clear mission: I was actively fighting the cancer. I had a schedule, a plan, and something tangible I was doing to survive.

But once the treatments stopped, it was like I had to let go of a rope I’d been clinging to. I was no longer "doing something" to fight. I was just... living. And that kind of living felt incredibly uncertain.

The transition to "normal life" was filled with ambiguity. Normal would never be the same again. My life started to revolve around follow-up appointments and scans. First every three months, then six, then once a year. Each time, the anxiety would creep back in, reminding me how fragile everything still felt. I learned to live by the calendar, holding my breath between checkups, always bracing myself for what the next result might reveal.

A Monumental Moment: Letting Go of the Wig

One of the most monumental steps in my journey back to life was taking off my wig and giving it back. I had been borrowing it from the hospital's loan program. I was incredibly self-conscious when I returned to work, and the wig was a kind of shield—a way to blend in, to not be seen as sick or fragile. But eventually, my hair started to grow back. It got just long enough that the wig became uncomfortable. That discomfort became a turning point.

The day I decided to go without it was terrifying... and freeing. I stepped into the world with my extremely short hair, exposed and vulnerable, but also empowered. That simple act of letting go of the wig marked the first of many steps toward reclaiming my life. It was a declaration that I was here, healing, and no longer hiding.

The Surprising Joy of Food

One of the first places I found genuine enjoyment after treatment was food.

During chemotherapy, eating had become nearly impossible. Nothing tasted right. My appetite was gone. I lost a lot of weight, and every bite felt like a battle. So when the treatments ended and my taste slowly began to return, I was shocked by how pleasurable food became again.

What had once been a source of dread became a source of joy—and hope. I remember the first time I truly savored a meal again. It wasn’t just about flavor or fullness—it was about life. It felt like proof that I was coming back to myself.

Healing Isn’t Linear

As my energy started to return, I began to look at food differently. It wasn’t just something to enjoy—it became a way to rebuild. I dove into research about nutrition, curious and determined to understand how I could support my body’s recovery. I wanted to feed myself in a way that felt healing, nourishing, and empowering.

Reconnecting with food became symbolic for me. It reminded me that healing doesn't always arrive in dramatic moments—it can also come through everyday rituals, like preparing a beautiful meal, savoring a favorite dish, or sharing laughter at the dinner table. These simple acts became sacred. They reminded me that I was alive, and that my body—though changed—was still capable of joy.

Becoming Someone New

If you’re in this place right now—this strange in-between of “after treatment” but not quite “healed”—I want you to know you’re not alone. It’s okay if life doesn’t feel normal. It’s okay if you're still figuring it out. Re-entry is a process. Healing is not just about what your body does—it’s about what your heart and mind go through too.

Take it one step at a time. Celebrate the small wins. And most importantly, be gentle with yourself. You're not going back to who you were—you’re becoming someone new, someone stronger. And that, in itself, is a beautiful thing.

As I continued to find my footing in this new life, I began to realize that survival was only the beginning. The years that followed brought their own lessons—ones about love, loss, healing, and joy. In the final part of this series, I’ll reflect on what the past twenty years have taught me, the unexpected gifts that came from such deep pain, and how I’ve come to see my journey not just as a story of survival, but as one of transformation and purpose. Part 4 is a celebration of life—one I can't wait to share with you.