“You Are No Longer in Remission”

(This one is not for the faint of heart. Every word in this is truth and none of it is pretty. If you are not ready for raw emotion, stop now. If you keep reading, grab tissues and brace yourself.)

Well shit.
I knew.
I have known for months, and I hate that I knew. I hate that my body speaks to me in symptoms I have come to recognize like unwanted old friends. I hate that I pretended not to hear them. I hate that I kept telling myself I could have one damn year. One year of breathing without fear trying to claw up my throat. One year where I could look in a mirror and not wonder if the thing that tried to kill me was creeping back in.

One year is a milestone that people outside the cancer world do not understand. Everyone talks about five years being the goal, the holy grail of remission. But five years is too big. Too far. Too unrealistic when your future depends on things you cannot control. One year was the chunk I could handle. One year meant I was actually moving toward recovery. One year meant the treatments did their job. One year meant I could finally start trusting my body again instead of treating it like an enemy I have to negotiate with.

I got 308 days.
Fifty seven days short of the finish line.

When I heard the words, I felt something inside me collapse. The only word for it is defeated. Not sad. Not surprised. Not devastated. Just completely and painfully defeated.

And the truth is, I knew before the doctors said it. I started getting the night sweats again, the ones that soak the sheets and make menopause look like a warm up act. I would change the bedding and pretend nothing was happening. I started getting phantom fevers where I felt like I was burning alive but the thermometer said otherwise. Bruising from things so small I would have laughed if it did not scare me. Scratch my leg and look like I got hit with a bat. But I still ignored it. Because the fantasy of one year felt safer than the truth that was stalking me.

Even when your body knows, your mind begs for ignorance.

I had finally started to feel like myself again. I had energy. I had creativity. I had purpose. I wrote and published a book. I launched a whole new business teaching sewing because it felt like I finally had a path again. I started TikTok Shop because I thought maybe I could create something that mattered. I traveled to Mexico with friends. I said yes to last minute plans. I was living again.

Now all of those things feel like reminders that I am failing. Or at least that is how my brain twists it. Everything that once felt like purpose now feels like proof that I am falling behind again. That cancer hijacked my bandwidth and I cannot keep up. That the business I was so damn excited about is slipping through my fingers because I cannot physically make it my priority while I am fighting for my life again.

I keep doing what is expected of me on social media. Posting, filming, photographing, editing. Trying to keep up. Trying to keep it alive. But the truth is, TikTok wants full time content creation and full time cancer treatment out of one person with one body that is already exhausted. And sure, I can complain about Walmart and get a million views, but when I pour myself into what I actually care about, no one sees it. That hurts in a way I do not know how to describe.

Defeated.
Always back to that word.

I had to cancel every one of my Christmas plans. I had to look my niece in the face and tell her our sewing days are on hold again. I have to say no to everything. I feel like my life is shrinking instead of expanding.

The biopsy was awful. I still have bruising and issues weeks later. And the new treatment plan makes me want to cry before it even begins. Two more years. The first month will be brutal. Weekly infusions. Daily chemo pills with no breaks this time. The warnings ring in my head. You will have no energy. Your immune system will crash harder than before. You will not be able to drive. Eating will be an issue. The muscle spasms will be stronger. Everything you felt before will be harsher.

Last time, I could mentally prepare. This time, all I want to do is sit in my sadness and cry. The flashbacks are already here. The memory loss. The bone deep exhaustion. The disappointment of asking for help and being ignored or brushed off. The way people assume you are exaggerating or being dramatic when you are fighting to stand, walk, think, breathe. I learned not to ask for help because being told I am doing it wrong or being dismissed hurts more than the struggle itself.

And then there are the people who either say the cruelest things in an attempt to help or they disappear completely. Or they send miracle cures or natural treatments they found on the internet as if I am choosing this path on purpose. As if I am not already drowning in medical bills. As if money grows on trees and not from the hours I cannot work because I am sick. I am so tired of being misunderstood. I am tired of yelling into the void.

Depression this time is silence. Crying out of nowhere. Getting stuck on negative words that loop in my head. I keep circling back to defeated because that is what I am. Not because I am weak, but because this is heavy. This is relentless. This is a thief that keeps coming back for whatever hope I manage to rebuild.

To the people who have truly been there for me, thank you. You know who you are. You have held space for me in ways others have not. You listened instead of fixing. You stayed instead of disappearing. I love you more than you know.

And to those who are going through something similar, or those who keep pretending not to hear me, I need you to read this in black and white. This is what recurrence looks like. This is what it feels like when your body betrays you again. This is what it means to lose momentum, identity, control, and hope all at once. This is what it looks like when someone is trying to survive while the world keeps spinning like nothing is wrong.

I will get through this round too. I know I will. But I am not going to pretend it is inspiring. I am not going to make it pretty. It is ugly. It is hard. It is full of grief and anger and sarcasm because sarcasm is the only armor I have left sometimes.

And the shoes.
God, the shoes.

People love to repeat my metaphor back to me. Put your shoes on. Keep moving. Keep showing up. But right now my shoes feel like they weigh a hundred pounds. They do not fit. They rub. They blister. They are the symbol of a fight I am too tired to fight again. But I am still putting them on. Not gracefully. Not with hope. Not with motivation. Mostly out of stubbornness and because quitting is not in my DNA.

I am still here.
Barely. Tired. Pissed off.
But here.

Raw. Unresolved.
Because that is my life right now.