I didn’t plan to write this. I needed to get it out.
Chemo doesn’t end when treatment ends.
It stays in the body. In the nervous system. In the way fear shows up before logic has a chance to speak.
This is what chemo trauma feels like—for me.
Chemo Trauma
I don’t know how to explain this without sounding ungrateful.
I hate that I even have to worry about that.
Chemo saved me.
Chemo hurt me.
Both are true and my body hasn’t figured out how to hold that without panicking.
When I think about starting treatment again, my chest tightens before I even finish the thought. Not anxiety exactly—more like my body is already there, already bracing, already remembering things I didn’t ask it to store.
People say you’re strong and I nod because it’s easier than explaining that strength has nothing to do with this part. This part is muscle memory. This part is my veins remembering being overused. My stomach remembering nausea before it happens. My brain remembering the countdown—days after infusion, when the crash hits.
I hate that walking into an infusion room feels like walking back into a version of myself I barely survived.
I hate that I’m scared of something meant to help me.
I keep telling myself this is different. New drugs. New research. New plan.
But my body doesn’t care about statistics. It remembers the bathroom floor. The way food betrayed me. The way time split into before chemo and after.
What no one prepares you for is how little control you feel. How quickly your body becomes a place things happen to. How many decisions are made around you instead of with you.
I’m afraid of losing myself again.
I’m afraid of what it will take from me this time.
I’m afraid of how easily I could disappear into survival mode and not come back out the same.
And still—I’m choosing to try.
Not because I’m shiny-hopeful.
Because fear doesn’t get to make every decision.
I don’t feel brave. I feel cautious. I feel watchful. I feel like someone who’s been burned and is testing the heat before stepping closer.
Some days I’m proud of myself for agreeing to another plan.
Some days I resent the hell out of having to make that choice at all.
Both can exist.
If this is chemo trauma, then maybe it doesn’t look dramatic. Maybe it looks like quietly signing consent forms with a shaking hand and going home to stare at the wall for a while.
If my body is scared, it’s because it learned something the hard way.
I’m trying to honor that—without letting it decide everything for me.
That’s where I am tonight.
Not okay.
Not done.
Just here.
Mojo
Mojo is curled up next to me while I write this. He doesn’t know words like chemo or trauma or treatment plan. He just knows when I’m quiet longer than usual. He presses his weight into my side like he’s anchoring me to the couch, to this moment, to now.
He doesn’t ask me to be brave.
He doesn’t ask me to explain.
He stays.
And maybe that’s enough for tonight.
If You’re Here Too
If you’re walking into treatment again…
If your body remembers before your mind does…
If you’re scared and still saying yes…
You are not weak.
You are not dramatic.
You are responding exactly the way someone who’s been through this would.
Thank you for sitting with me.
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If these words feel familiar, you’re not alone here. I write honestly about cancer, treatment, fear, and finding ways to stay human through it.
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