You’re Still You.
Some mornings I stand in front of the mirror and pause. I look at my face and feel a gap between what I see and what I expect. The scars speak for moments I never planned to explain. My body moves in a new way now. It does less. It tires faster.
Cancer changed my body in ways I could not picture six years ago. For a long time, I thought that meant it changed me. I fought that thought, but it kept coming back.
Because look at what cancer takes. Hair. Strength. Sleep. Appetite. Independence. Some days it feels like your body turns into a stranger, one new surprise at a time. When that happens, how do you not start to believe you are becoming someone else?
And when people look at you, what do they see?
Sometimes they see “the cancer patient.” Sometimes you do, too. Your name, your work, your interests, your quirks, they can fade behind the illness. Your body becomes the headline, and everything else turns into a footnote.
I resisted that. I wanted my old self back. I told myself that if I could just get my weight back, get my energy back, get my routine back, I would find myself again. I measured healing by performance. Could I move like before? Could I work like before? Could I “get back to normal”?
It wore me out. And it missed the point.
Here is what I know now. I’m still the person who finds calm in the early hours. I still love the people I love, with the same fierceness. I still light up at a good idea, a hard question, a real talk. I still laugh at the same kinds of jokes. My values are still here. The things that have always moved me still move me.
Cancer changed my body. It didn’t change who I am.
We mix these things up because we live through our bodies. Our bodies carry us into rooms, into work, into hugs, into long walks, into ordinary days. When the body changes, it can feel like the self must be changing, too.
The person who could walk five miles might be gone. The person who looked healthy and strong might be gone. That loss hurts. It deserves grief. You don’t need to pretend it’s fine.
But while I mourned what my body could no longer do, I began to notice something else. The center of me was never stored in muscle. It wasn’t hidden in stamina, speed, or looks. The heart of who I am sits in a place cancer can’t reach.
I’ve seen this in other people, too. I’ve watched friends go through hard treatment. I’ve seen hair fall out. I’ve seen weight rise from meds. I’ve seen legs that couldn’t cross a room without help. And still, the person stayed. Their humor stayed. Their kindness stayed. Their way of seeing the world stayed.
Their bodies changed. They did not.
Your body is the way you move through life. It matters. It deserves care. You have every right to feel angry about what you’ve lost. You have every right to miss the body you had.
But you are not your body.
You are the one inside it who notices the morning light. The one who feels fear and hope, sometimes in the same hour. The one who loves certain people in a way no one else can. The one who keeps showing up, even when you don’t feel brave.
Your memories still belong to you. Your relationships still shape you. Your choices still count. Cancer may take strength, change your face, limit what you can do in a day, but it cannot take your true self.
Physically, I am not the same person I was six years ago. Not even close. But I am the same in every way that matters. The parts of my personality that made me me are still here.
So are yours.
Your body is changing in ways you never asked for. That is real. It is hard. It can break your heart.
But you are still here. Still whole. Still you.
So when you look in the mirror and feel unsure, ask yourself this, what is still true about you today? What do you still care about? Who do you still love? What kind of person do you still choose to be?
Hold on to those answers. Cancer can’t take them.
