Six years ago, I started fighting cancer. Since then, I’ve been through 47 MRI scans. I’ve had dozens of treatments and procedures. I’ve heard more scary words than I can count. I’ve sat through too many talks about what might come next.
And I’m still nervous. My heart still jumps. My hands still shake. But I go anyway.
It’s not because I found some deep calm. I haven’t. I’m still scared. The difference is that I’ve learned fear doesn’t get to decide for me. It can come along, but it can’t drive.
The first time I had an MRI, I was sure I’d pass out. Every nerve in my body told me to run. I wanted to disappear. I would have gladly sat in traffic. I would have waited in line at the DMV with a smile, if it meant I didn’t have to sit in that cold room.
But I couldn’t run. So I sat there, and I got through it.
Then the next one came, and I got through it again. And again. And again. After a while, I looked back and realized something had shifted.
My brain learned a hard lesson. The MRI was still scary. For a long time, I saw it as a threat, like it could end my life. But I didn’t panic the same way anymore. My body still said, “This is awful,” but it stopped screaming, “We’re all going to die.” The reasonable fear stayed, right where it should be, front and center. The fear that freezes you started to loosen its grip.
Now I have a track record. Forty-seven times I walked into that room feeling sick with worry. Forty-seven times I walked out alive. That matters. Somewhere along the way, I built courage by accident. Each time I do the thing that scares me and make it out the other side, I file it away under, “Things I Can Handle.”
What does real courage look like?
It doesn’t look like some cool hero who never flinches. Real courage looks like shaky hands while I roll up my sleeve for a blood draw. It looks like planning my next treatment while saying out loud, “I’m terrified.” It looks like crying in the parking lot, wiping my face, and walking into the hospital anyway.
Courage isn’t being fearless. If something can hurt you, or kill you, fear makes sense. Courage is feeling that fear and showing up anyway.
I used to think strength meant being tough. Being quiet. Not crying. Never saying, “I don’t know if I can do this.” I pictured strong people as solid and unbreakable, like they never bent.
What I know now is that strength can look messy. Strength can be tears and shaking and still putting one foot in front of the other. Strength can be someone who cries through the whole treatment and shows up for the next one. Strength can be admitting you’re afraid and refusing to let that fear pick your actions.
I’ve had days when I felt wrecked, while other people called me strong. Days when I cried from pain and exhaustion, then got up the next morning and got ready to do it again. Days when I told Joyce, honestly, “I can’t do this anymore.” And then I did. Days when I was sure I had hit my limit. Spoiler alert, I hadn’t.
Cancer teaches you things, whether you want the lessons or not. It teaches you that you can live through more than you thought. It teaches you that you can survive what you were sure would break you. That worst-case part of your mind never counts your ability to adjust, to cope, to keep going.
Before cancer, I had guesses about my limits. Now I have proof. I know what I can endure because I’m doing it. I know what I can tolerate because I’m tolerating it right now. I know what I can survive because I’m still here, writing these words. There’s a big difference between an idea and evidence.
Each time I finish a treatment, my confidence grows. Not the kind of confidence that says, “I’ll win this for sure.” I don’t think that way. It’s the kind that says, “Whatever happens next, I’ll face it.” I’ll figure out the next step. I’ll find what I need, even if I can’t see it yet.
That’s where the real strength lives. In the choice to keep going, even when you’re scared.
Cancer takes a lot. Control over your body. Control over your calendar. Control over your view of the future. But it can’t take everything.
You still have choices. Every day, you get to decide if you’ll keep fighting or if you’ll stop. That choice is yours. No one else can make it for you. And choosing to continue, day after day, that’s real power.
There’s also a difference between being a victim of what’s happening and being an active part of your own life. A victim just gets carried along. An active participant asks questions. They push back when needed. They keep looking for options.
Each time I question a plan, ask for a second opinion, or look for another path, I’m using the last bit of control I still have. I’m reminding myself that I’m not a disease walking around. I’m a person living with a disease, and I still get a say in how this goes.
It feels like the difference between drowning and swimming. You might not reach shore either way. The ending might look the same. But you aren’t helpless. You aren’t quitting. You’re using what strength you have to move forward.
So here’s what I’ve learned after six years of an education I never asked for. I’m finding courage I didn’t know I had. With each scan, each treatment, each hard talk about what comes next, I’m giving myself proof that I’m stronger than I thought.
And this strength isn’t going anywhere. It’s becoming part of me. The person I’m becoming in this mess is tougher than the person I was before. Not because cancer is a gift. Not because pain makes you better. That’s nonsense. It’s because I’ve learned what I can do under pressure.
This strength will carry into whatever comes after cancer, however long “after” ends up being. Life will still hit hard sometimes. But I’ll meet it head-on, knowing I can handle hard things. I’ll meet it head-on knowing my limits are farther out than I once believed. I’ll meet it head-on with a steadier kind of confidence, built from practice. Built from showing up again and again.
I’m still scared before every scan. My hands still shake. My stomach still drops.
But I still walk in. And each time I do, I’m a little stronger than I was before.
