This Body is Bullshit

There’s this weird space you land in after you’ve survived something big. People look at you like you’re a warrior, a fighter, a walking inspiration—and yeah, I’ve earned some of that. But what they don’t see is how exhausting it is to keep surviving. Every day. Quietly. Without falling apart.

I’m still in pain. All the time.

I don’t say that for sympathy—it’s just the truth. My joints ache. My body feels tight and inflamed. My skin pulls in places it didn’t before. My chest feels foreign, like someone else’s body stitched onto mine. I wake up tired. I go to bed tired. I’ve been through seven breast-related surgeries, plus a hysterectomy, gallbladder removal, abdominal incisions, drains, infections, radiation, hormone treatments—and that’s just the highlight reel. My body is beat up. It doesn’t work the way it used to, and it certainly doesn’t feel good.

But I keep going.

I think a lot of people assume I must feel better by now. That I’m “on the other side” of all this. That I’m lucky it wasn’t worse. And yes—I am lucky in some ways. I’m alive. I’m still here. But that doesn’t mean I’m okay.

It’s hard to explain the mental whiplash of being so grateful to wake up every day… and also being kind of mad that waking up still hurts. That I still have to take medications that mess with my energy, my mood, my bones. That I still live with the very real possibility that my cancer will come back in 10 or 20 years because I unknowingly carried it for two years post-mastectomy. That even on “good” days, my body feels like it’s asking me to lie down.

And somehow, in the middle of all this, life just keeps demanding more.

There’s work. And bills. And texts to answer. And people to comfort. And relationships to maintain. I love my life, I do—but it’s a lot. I work hard, probably too hard. I shop when I’m anxious, I laugh when I’m hurting, I try to be the one who lifts the room. But it’s all a delicate balance, and some days I don’t have the energy for any of it.

I’m also still grieving. My mom died in 2021, during the thick of everything—right after I had sepsis, in the middle of all the rest of the bullshit. That same year, I lost my dog Gus, who had been with me through so much. My grandmother, who was truly my anchor, passed away years before that. I’m constantly processing one kind of heartbreak or another, and yet I show up. I smile. I keep going.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m too positive. If I’ve made it look too easy. If I’ve become so good at pretending I’m okay that people stopped asking how I really am. Maybe that’s on me. Maybe I don’t know how to let people see me when I’m not “on.” Maybe I feel like I have to keep being the strong one because everyone else is just barely holding it together.

But I’m tired.

I want life to be easier. I want to feel good in my body again. I want to spend money on experiences and fixing my house, not just retail therapy to distract myself. I want peace in my bones. I want softness. I want to stop living like I’m running out of time, even though a part of me still believes I am.

I don’t need to be a beacon of anything. I just want to be me again—whatever that looks like now.

People think once the cancer is “gone,” it’s over. But for me, that was just the beginning.

After my double mastectomy in 2021, I went through a cascade of surgeries—seven in total—all tied to complications, infections, reconstruction, and recurrence. That word—recurrence—still makes my stomach drop. I did everything I was supposed to. And yet cancer was still there. It was missed. It sat in me for almost two years, undetected, while I thought I was healing.

But let’s rewind a bit.

After I recovered from sepsis (or sort of recovered—I don’t think my body ever really bounced back), the expanders that had been placed during my mastectomy had to be removed. My plastic surgeon at the time believed my body was rejecting them. So, back to the OR. New expanders went in. That lasted a few weeks before we were moving on again—to implants.

He did a decent job, technically, but I wasn’t expecting to be cut from my chest all the way to my back. I woke up to a scar I didn’t know I’d have. It was long and brutal and unexpected, and my body—already worn down from sepsis and healing slow—just couldn’t catch a break.

I was in constant pain. Tightness. Pressure. Nothing felt right. And yet, life went on. I went back to work. I smiled. I functioned. Sort of.

At some point, I noticed what I thought was a cyst near my chest. It had been there for a while—two years, maybe. I asked about it. My concerns were brushed off. Everyone seemed to think it was nothing. But eventually, I saw a new doctor who took one look at it and said, “Let’s remove that.”

It wasn’t a cyst. It was cancer.

I remember sitting there, completely numb. Like, how is this happening again? I’d already had a mastectomy. The cancer was supposed to be gone. I’d already gone through the emotional work of saying goodbye to my breasts, enduring reconstruction, trying to find some sense of normal. But all this time—two years—I’d been walking around with cancer in my body. And no one caught it.

I had another surgery to remove the cancer, followed by radiation. Then came the latissimus flap surgery. They took muscle and skin from my back to try to rebuild my chest. More expanders. More drains. More healing. Another infection. Another setback. Another surgery.

It was endless. I felt like a project no one could finish.

This wasn’t just about physical pain—though that’s constant. It was the emotional toll of never getting to feel done. Every time I thought I’d made it through the hard part, something else popped up. Another surgery. Another round of antibiotics. Another wave of fear.

And the world moves on. People forget. You look “fine,” so you must be okay. But I wasn’t. My body felt foreign. Heavy. Tight. Disconnected. My spirit felt tired. There’s only so much cutting and stitching and scarring a person can take before they stop recognizing themselves.

Sometimes I think about how many drains I’ve had. How many times I’ve woken up groggy, groaning, with fresh stitches in a new place. How many days I’ve spent recovering from procedures I didn’t even want but needed. And for what? To stay alive. To keep going. To try to feel whole in a body that’s been through war.

There’s no “after” in my story. Just wave after wave. I don’t share this for drama or sympathy—I share it because it’s real. This is survivorship. It’s not pink ribbons and ringing bells. It’s long recoveries, missed diagnoses, and never-ending scans. It’s exhaustion. It’s fear wrapped in hope.

But I’m still here. And even when I don’t feel strong, I guess I am.

Because I haven’t quit.

I was diagnosed with breast cancer in December 2020, in the middle of a global pandemic. I don’t know if people realize what that meant at the time, but everything was different. Hospitals weren’t allowing visitors. Waiting rooms were quiet and sterile. Everyone was scared. Everything felt uncertain—even the air.

I had to do so much of it alone.

There were tests, biopsies, MRIs, consults with surgeons—things I barely understood at the time, and no one could come with me. I was scared, and even though I had amazing support at home, it’s just not the same as having someone next to you in those moments. No one was there to hear the explanations with me or hold my hand when I got the news. My husband had to drop me off at the hospital doors, and then I had to walk in and face the biggest day of my life—my double mastectomy—completely by myself.

That’s a very specific kind of alone.

In March 2021, I had the surgery—both breasts removed, expanders put in at the same time. I thought that would be the worst of it. I thought that was the scary part. But it wasn’t.

The morning of my mastectomy, Matt drove me to the hospital and had to drop me off at the front door. That was the rule—no visitors, no one allowed inside because of COVID. I remember looking at him, both of us trying to be strong, and I could see how much it broke his heart to leave me there. He didn’t say it, but I know he cried on the way home. I know because I know him. He really loves me. And I’m lucky—I know that too.

We got through it together, just not side by side in the way we wanted. That’s what the pandemic stole from so many people: the presence. He would’ve been right there holding my hand if he could have. But instead, he waited and worried and held it all together from afar.

A month later, I started feeling sick. Really sick. It started slowly and got worse, until I was convinced I had COVID. I ended up at a local hospital, and that’s when they told me I had sepsis.

Sepsis was the scariest part.

My body was shutting down. My veins were collapsing. I felt myself fading. I didn’t tell anyone how bad it was until a year later, because I didn’t want to scare anyone. I do that—I minimize. I survive by staying calm. But looking back, I was absolutely on death’s door. I spent eight days in the hospital. Again, limited visitors. Again, mostly alone.

That experience changed everything for me.

It’s hard to explain what it does to your body and your mind, going through that kind of trauma with no one really around to see it. I remember sitting in that hospital bed thinking, This is it. I thought I had survived cancer only to die from something else. I left the hospital with a PICC line in my arm and had to continue antibiotics for days. And that was just the beginning of the complications.

My plastic surgeon at the time—well, let’s just say he vanished. It felt like he didn’t want to deal with what was happening to me, like I had become a “problem” patient. He was fine when things were textbook, but when they weren’t, he was suddenly out of reach. His PA did a flush in the office that didn’t work. I ended up needing another surgery. New expanders. More drains. And on and on it went.

COVID added this extra layer of silence to everything. I didn’t want to burden people. Everyone was already stressed. The world was upside down. So I smiled when I could. Said I was doing fine. Tried to be “positive.” And I think people believed me. But inside, I was terrified and angry and confused and tired.

So yeah—alone, but not alone. I had support. I had people who loved me. But no one could go through it with me. No one really saw what was happening behind closed doors. No one really saw me nearly die. And I think that made me start carrying everything quietly, like maybe that’s just what I was supposed to do.

Sometimes I still do.

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.