This Body is Bullshit

Today feels heavy. Not in a dramatic way—more like a slow, quiet ache in the background. The kind that creeps in when you’re trying to be strong for someone else, and it reminds you just how long you’ve been holding it all together.

My best friend just had a mastectomy. She’s in that beginning stage—the part where everything is raw and new and terrifying. She’s overwhelmed by the thought of the medications, the side effects, the sheer unfairness of having to walk this road. And I get it. I truly, deeply do. I sat with her yesterday as she cried and poured her heart out, and I felt a strange mix of heartbreak and… something else I’m still unpacking. Maybe grief. Maybe frustration. Maybe the quiet hope that, just maybe, she finally sees what I’ve been carrying.

Sometimes I wonder if anyone ever really understood what this was like for me. And I never wanted people to have to understand, but sometimes I wish they could see the full picture—the surgeries, the complications, the fear I didn’t always show, the years of just trying to feel okay in a body that hasn’t felt okay in a long time.

It’s hard to explain, but I don’t think I ever really processed any of this. I didn’t cry much when I was diagnosed. I didn’t spiral. I didn’t panic. I just… did the next thing. And then the next. Maybe I’m still doing that—just checking the boxes, holding the pieces, and waiting to exhale.

Because the truth is, I’ve been surviving for years. But that’s not the same as living. I smile. I work. I love my family. I show up. But I don’t always feel like I’m in my body. I don’t always feel good. In fact, I rarely do. And yet, I keep going, because that’s what survivors do. We keep going. We find joy where we can. We try not to be the downer in the room. We hold everything in our hands and hope no one sees them shaking.

I’m not writing this because I want pity. The fact is, I’m actually uncomfortable with sympathy—I never really know how to handle it. I’d rather crack a joke or change the subject than sit in that kind of attention. But I’m writing this because I don’t want to forget what this feels like—to be a person who has survived so much and still longs to feel well. I don’t know if I ever really will. But I do know this: I’m allowed to feel what I feel. I’m allowed to have bad days, even if I look like I have it together. I’m allowed to want more than just survival.

And maybe, someday, I’ll be brave enough to share this out loud.