When people imagine cancer, they usually picture someone shrinking — thin, pale, fragile. But here’s a plot twist: I gained weight.
Not the kind you laugh off after a weekend of takeout. Not the soft, gradual kind that sneaks up in your twenties. The kind that happens fast and without your permission — from steroids, chemo, inflammation, stress, and survival.
And suddenly, I don’t recognize the person in the mirror.
This Wasn’t the Body I Was Fighting to Save
It’s a cruel irony. I’m fighting every day to stay alive, but I’ve lost my sense of self in the process. I didn’t just lose hair, energy, and freedom — I lost the way I used to move through the world. The way clothes fit. The confidence I once carried. The comfort I used to feel in my own skin.
Now everything feels foreign. My face is rounder. My body is heavier. My reflection feels like a stranger who’s wearing my old life.
And the worst part? I feel guilty for even caring.
The Shame That Hides Under Gratitude
People say, “At least you’re alive.”
As if survival should be enough.
As if I should accept these changes without grief.
But just because I’m grateful to still be here doesn’t mean I don’t mourn who I was — or how I felt in my body before cancer bulldozed its way through it.
I didn’t choose this body. I didn’t earn it through bad habits or laziness. It was handed to me as the price of trying to stay alive. But still, I carry the shame. The sideways glances. The internalized pressure to “bounce back,” even when I’m still in the middle of fighting.
More Than Skin Deep
This isn’t just about vanity.
It’s about identity. About feeling like your body no longer reflects you. About struggling to feel attractive, feminine, whole — when you’ve been poked, cut, scarred, and swollen beyond recognition.
It’s about wondering if anyone will ever see you the way you used to see yourself. About losing the rhythm of movement, the joy of dressing up, the ease of intimacy.
I miss feeling powerful in my body. I miss feeling me.
What I’m Learning (Slowly)
I’m trying to make peace with this body. The one that’s still showing up for me, even when I resent it. The one that’s carried me through surgeries and side effects and soul-shattering fatigue. The one that deserves softness, even when I don’t feel beautiful.
I’m learning that grief for your body is real — and valid. That you don’t need to shrink your pain to make others comfortable. That it’s okay to mourn the version of you that existed before cancer, and still honor the one who’s surviving through it.
To Anyone Else Struggling With Their Reflection
You are not shallow.
You are not vain.
You are not wrong for wanting to feel good in your skin — even while fighting for your life.
This post isn’t wrapped in a bow. I haven’t reached body acceptance nirvana. But I am here, saying it out loud. Because silence makes it worse.
This is what it means to survive with a body that doesn’t feel like home anymore.
This is what it means to lose yourself — and try to find your way back, one day at a time.
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