What Cancer Changed for Me
In ways big and small...
Cancer is life-altering, that’s no secret. But how it changes things will be different for each person. It’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately—did cancer change me, and if so, in what ways? Here’s what I’ve noticed so far.
The hair on my legs grew back finer, and in some places, not at all. Same goes for under my arms. Because I have no feeling under my right arm after lymph node removal, shaving there feels strange. So I’ve embraced the French way and keep it natural.
I’m able to be in the present moment more. “Life is short” is no longer just another platitude when you’ve looked death square in the face.
I think about protein, and if I’m getting enough, way more than I used to.
Cancer crystallized my priorities. I don’t know how long I have here (no one does, but after cancer I can no longer ignore this reality). I’m not going to spend these precious days on things that don’t align with my values.
My libido is near zero. My cancer’s favorite food is estrogen, so I’ve had to cut off its supply. That’s good for prevention, and not great for sexual desire. There are no clear answers on how to manage it, so I’ve been left figuring it out on my own. Turns out there’s not much research on it. Women’s health and all that.
Bending down is no longer easy. I feel 100 years old when I try to stand back up, and my knees and hips creak and ache.
I’m less precious about taking medicine. I used to have this skewed idea that I needed to keep my body as “pure” as possible—I would balk at popping an ibuprofen for a headache. But during treatment, I pumped my body full of chemotherapy drugs, and here I am, standing strong and healthy. Sometimes medicine is necessary.
I’m more confident. If I find myself spinning out about something, the thought pops into my head: “You beat cancer.” Everything pales in comparison.
I lift heavy weights at least three times a week, and I love it. It helps me feel strong in a body that didn’t always feel that way. It also helps maintain muscle, protect against osteoporosis, and support the hormonal shifts that come with menopause.
I’m more aware of the seasons changing and the passing of time. Because I’m still afraid that my cancer will come back, I find myself noticing the changes around me, and wondering how many more summers I’ll get, or birthdays, or Christmases. On one hand it’s a blessing (I stop and savor the small joys) but it also comes with sadness. Even if I live to 80, I’m acutely aware that we only get a finite number days.
Rest is non-negotiable. Before cancer, I rarely rested, choosing instead to push through tiredness. Now, I incorporate it into my day the way I would a workout.
I value my relationship with my husband in a new way. “In sickness and in health” takes on new meaning when cancer knocks on the door. Seeing how he showed up for me during treatment—his deep care and love and selflessness— made something very clear: Marrying him was the best decision I ever made.
What’s good for others isn’t necessarily good for me. I used to be susceptible to all the latest health fads. If an influencer I admired cut out dairy, I’d do the same. If someone said Pilates was the reason for their washboard abs, you bet I’d start researching local studios. I know now that each body is different, and what’s right for one person might not be right for another. I have specific needs after cancer, so I can’t compare what someone my age is doing who hasn’t been through what I have.
I feel more connected to my parents. I lost both my mom and dad to cancer, and now I have a deeper understanding of what they went through that can only come from lived experience.
It showed me I can pull off short hair. I would never have cut my hair before cancer—my long hair was a core part of my identity. So shaving my head during treatment was a little scary, but I was surprisingly okay with the results. And more than that, I loved the feeling of freedom it brought me. No more hair dryers, expensive products, and angst over frizz. Honestly, I might just do it again one day, but next time it will be on my own terms.
I stopped drinking alcohol. Completely. At first, I wanted to lessen the load on my liver during treatment, and now it’s about preventing recurrence and easing my menopause symptoms. Research shows that alcohol increases breast cancer risk, so I’m not taking any chances. Cutting it out has been easier than expected, and I really like not waking up with a parched mouth and sore head.
I meditate most days. Chronic stress has been linked to an increased risk of cancer, so I’m doing what I can to keep it in check.
I’m less hung up about my appearance. I look in the mirror and I see all my scars, a reminder that I’m still here. I view my body now as more of a vessel that keeps me here, rather than the defining aspect of me. Who cares what it looks like? As long as my heart is still beating, I’m good.
But… I also miss the mental freedom that comes from taking my body for granted. Now I’m aware of how vulnerable and soft it is. It motivates me to treat it with even more care and respect.
I’m less afraid to communicate my needs. If I’m really tired, I tell my husband I need to rest. If I’m asked to handle something at work after hours, I firmly say I’ll get to it tomorrow.
I no longer get my period, and I miss it sometimes. Not the cramps, but what it represents.
I know myself better. Cancer showed me that I’m generally a positive person. I’m not talking about toxic positivity, but rather looking at things from a glass half full perspective. Eight out of ten lymph nodes were cancerous? Well, at least two weren’t. White blood count too low for chemo this week? Great, no nausea tomorrow.
I don’t care as much what people think of me. It was cancer that finally pushed me to start this Substack and put my personal writing out there.
I put less pressure on myself. I was diagnosed one month after turning 40. I remember feeling anxious about the birthday, worried that I hadn’t achieved enough—I hadn’t yet written that novel, or earned more money. Now I’m just grateful each day that I’m still here. That other stuff is nice, of course, but getting to hug my kids and see another sunset is what matters. I feel this deep in my bones.
I only wear soft, mostly non-synthetic fabrics. When I found out I would need surgery and chemotherapy, I stocked up on comfortable loungewear. I realized how good it feels to treat my skin gently, as I would a baby’s.
I listen to my body and honor what it’s telling me. Hungry? Eat. Tired? Lie down. Anxious? Slow down.
I realized that I’m not special. When I was diagnosed, I briefly fell into the “Why me?” line of thinking. Believing you’re special is protective, but illusory—if you’re special, it means you’re exempt from the pain and hardship that others endure. Cancer doesn’t make exceptions.
Thank you, as always, for reading. I’m curious—what has cancer changed for you? Do any of the above resonate? If you’re up for sharing, I’d love to know. xo
Everyone experiences cancer differently, but this one felt like it touched everything all at once. You so clearly put into words so many of the ways life shifts after a cancer diagnosis (mine was triple negative breast cancer) and it resonated deeply with me.
One thing that became unexpectedly clear was how I wanted to spend my time. When I was diagnosed, I was in the middle of pursuing a PhD. I remember asking myself, “If I only had five years to live, what would I want to be doing?” And when I looked honestly at my core values, that path wasn’t near the top of the list.
At the same time, I had been teaching university courses in semi-retirement, but a sudden cut in international student visas meant those courses disappeared. What felt like a loss at first quietly opened another door—I now get to pursue writing full time.
It’s been an adjustment, but a good one. Writing here on Substack, my cancer journey gradually became part of my publication.
Some might not frame it this way, but I now have another “before and after.” First it was marriage. Then menopause. Now cancer.
Thank you for sharing this so openly. From a fellow cancer overcomer, I appreciate it more than I can say.
thanks for taking the time and providing these rather interesting and detailed insights. obviously I am not a woman experiencing this. I am a man who is experiencing many of these same symptoms. Cancer is agnostic to gender, age, social state, race. It takes, and takes a bit more. My cancer thrives on testosterone. Fatigue and nausea are constant companions. Taking a walk is like prepping for a marathon. the things I loved - food, drink, sex, outdoor activities - are all memories. no alcohol - mixes badly with the meds. no taste or hunger - food used to be a thing for me. now its a life chore - get fuel. Intimacy is on a different level — thankfully my partner, she gets it. The things that i have learned though, and you made this point too, have been life altering. Empathy, mortality, mindfulness, gratitude, intentions were just words before. Now they play an important part of my life now. Thanks Alison.