Everyone thinks they know what cancer sickness looks like.
They picture a woman in a hospital chair with an IV in her arm, pale from chemo, throwing up between treatments — and then smiling bravely for the camera because she’s “fighting.”
But what happens when the sickness isn’t from treatment at all?
What happens when it’s your body itself that’s failing you — not the medicine?
I haven’t kept food down in a week. Not because of chemo. Not because of side effects. Because my body just… can’t anymore.
Because the cancer inside me isn’t just something that shows up on a scan — it’s something that takes pieces of me every single day.
I wake up nauseous. I go to bed nauseous. My stomach turns from water, from smells, from existing. My muscles ache like they’re made of lead, and my bones feel like they’ve been hollowed out. I’m so tired that even lying still feels like work.
And there’s no simple explanation. No quick fix. No “once you take this med, you’ll feel better.”
This isn’t the kind of sick that comes and goes. It’s not something I can sleep off.
It’s the kind that settles in.
The kind that drains you until even breathing feels like effort.
The kind that makes the smallest things — swallowing, standing up, showering — feel like climbing a mountain barefoot.
People assume that chemo is what wrecks you. That in between treatments, you get to rest and recover. But some of my worst days are the ones when I’m not being treated. When the cancer is just… doing its thing. Quietly, relentlessly, reshaping my body from the inside out.
And when people see me — when I smile for a photo, when I answer a text, when I post something that looks okay — they don’t see the bucket next to my bed. They don’t see the untouched food on the tray. They don’t see how I cry when I can’t even keep down water, because I know dehydration means another hospital visit.
They just see someone who looks tired.
Not someone who’s fighting every second to stay upright.
This is the kind of sick no one warns you about.
The kind that doesn’t have a movie montage.
The kind that doesn’t come with sympathy cards or ribbons or “you got this” messages — because people don’t know what to say when there’s nothing left to fix.
I wish I could tell you I’m okay. That this is just a rough week and it’ll pass. But the truth is, this is part of what it means to live with advanced cancer. It doesn’t just make you weak — it consumes your strength, one cell, one breath, one bite at a time.
And yet… I’m still here.
Even when I’m too sick to eat.
Even when I’m too weak to move.
Even when my body feels like it’s slipping away from me — I’m still here. Writing. Trying. Holding on.
Because somehow, even in the sickness, there’s still something worth staying for.
The people who read these words.
The prayers. The messages. The little flashes of light that remind me I’m not doing this alone.
Thank you — to everyone who keeps showing up for me when I barely can for myself.
I hope, if you’ve ever felt this kind of tired, this kind of sick, this kind of empty, you know you’re seen here.
💌 Subscriber Note:
Some days, the body gives up before the heart does. If you’re living in that space — too sick to function, too tired to explain — this is for you. You don’t have to be strong every second. You just have to hold on.
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