To the ones who are sick right now.
To the ones in the middle of treatment.
To the ones clawing their way through recovery.
To the ones who know the word dying a little too well.
This is for you.
Strangers, Yet Family
Most of us will never meet. We’ll never sit in the same living room, never share coffee, never hug in person. And yet, I feel more connected to you than I do to people who have known me my whole life.
Because you know.
You know the language of cancer without me having to translate. You know the exhaustion that seeps into your bones. You know how it feels when your body betrays you, when your calendar fills up with scans and appointments instead of birthdays and vacations.
You know the silence of friends who don’t know what to say. The guilt that comes with being sick too long. The way people look at you like a ticking clock.
And in that knowing — even though it hurts that we share it — I feel less alone.
My Hurts, Your Hurts
Every time I write about the things that wreck me — the guilt of still being here, the ache of watching people move on without me, the fear of not dying fast enough or of dying too soon — I hear from you.
And it breaks me how many of you whisper back, “Me too.”
I wish none of us had to live in this place. I wish my words didn’t feel like your reflection. But at the same time, I’m grateful. Because when I pour out my hurt, you meet me in it. You remind me I’m not shouting into a void — I’m holding hands in the dark with people who get it. And there is something heartbreakingly beautiful about that.
The Ones We’ve Lost Along the Way
And then, there are the names we carry like fragile glass. The friends we made in chemo chairs and support groups. The ones we laughed with in hospital gowns. The ones who posted encouragement at 2 a.m. when we couldn’t sleep.
And now they’re gone.
Losing people in this community cuts deeper than words. Because it’s not just grief — it’s fear. Every obituary feels like a mirror. Every goodbye feels like a preview. Sometimes, when another friend dies, I feel like I’ve been left behind in a battle where survival doesn’t mean victory, it just means you get to mourn everyone else.
But even in their absence, they stay with us. In our words. In our fight. In the way we keep showing up for each other, even when it hurts.
To the Ones Still Here
If you’re fighting, I see your strength even when you feel weak.
If you’re recovering, I see your exhaustion, your bravery in trying to build a life on shaky ground.
If you’re living with a terminal diagnosis, I see your courage in carrying the unbearable.
If you’re dying, I see your love in every goodbye you’re forced to give too soon.
You are not forgotten. You are not alone.
This isn’t the kind of family anyone asks for. None of us wanted this. But here we are, together in the wreckage, finding each other in the hardest places. And that connection — raw, unpolished, often wordless — has been one of the most unexpected gifts of my life.
My Promise
So to you, reading this in the middle of your own storm: I promise to keep writing the hard things. I promise to keep saying the words most people are afraid to say out loud. Not because it makes anything easier, but because sometimes it’s enough to know you’re not the only one carrying it.
I’ll keep honoring the ones we’ve lost. I’ll keep loving the ones who are still here. And I’ll keep reminding you — and myself — that even in this impossible place, there is still connection, still tenderness, still family.
With all my love,
Izzy (and Mojo, always pressed against my side 🐾)
PS: If these words spoke to you, I’d love for you to share your story in the comments — or pass this blog along to someone you think it might resonate with. Sometimes the smallest connection can be the thing that keeps us going. 💙
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