There was a time when my body felt like me.
Not perfect. Not always kind. But familiar. Private. Mine.
Now it feels borrowed.
My body belongs to appointment times and infusion chairs.
To lab results and scans and numbers I don’t get to interpret for myself.
To hands that touch without asking because asking would slow things down.
Some days it feels like my body is a shared space.
Doctors. Nurses. Techs. Schedulers. Insurance codes. Treatment plans.
Everyone has access. Everyone has an opinion. Everyone needs something from it.
Except me.
And somewhere in all of that, I started to feel unfamiliar to myself.
I catch my reflection and hesitate—not because I look different, but because I don’t feel like the person looking back. My face is mine. My name is mine. But the connection feels thin, like it could snap if I tug too hard.
I don’t move the way I used to.
I don’t think the way I used to.
I don’t trust my body’s signals the way I once did.
I hesitate before plans. I measure energy like it’s currency. I second-guess sensations that used to be background noise.
Is this pain normal?
Is this fatigue real or just me being weak?
Is this fear intuition or anxiety?
I don’t always know anymore.
My body isn’t a home right now.
It’s a project.
I’ve learned new language for it.
“Side effects.”
“Tolerance.”
“Response.”
“Progression.”
Words that sound neutral but live loudly inside me.
There’s grief in this that’s hard to explain to people who haven’t lived it.
It’s not just about pain or exhaustion.
It’s about recognition.
About waking up and realizing the person you were before this would barely recognize your days now.
About feeling like your body has rewritten the rules without consulting the version of you that existed before cancer.
I grieve her sometimes.
The version of me who didn’t plan exits.
Who didn’t need recovery days for normal life.
Who didn’t flinch at every new sensation.
I’m grateful to be treated.
I’m grateful for care.
I’m grateful for medicine.
And I still miss myself.
Some days I look at myself and think, I live here, but I don’t decide much.
That doesn’t mean I’ve given up.
It means I’m learning how to exist inside a body that feels unfamiliar—without abandoning myself completely.
If you’re reading this and quietly nodding, I want you to know:
You’re not weak for feeling disconnected from yourself.
You’re not dramatic.
You’re not ungrateful.
Not recognizing yourself is part of this.
Losing ownership of your body is a loss.
Even when treatment is working.
Even when you’re “doing well.”
You’re allowed to grieve what was taken while still wanting to stay.
I’m still learning how to live inside a body that isn’t fully mine anymore—and how to recognize myself again in small, imperfect ways.
But I’m here.
And today, that counts.
🤍 A note if you’re still here
If this resonated, you’re not alone—even when it feels isolating. Writing this blog is how I make sense of things, but it only matters because people like you are here reading.
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No pressure. Just gratitude.
🖤 Stay messy. Stay human.
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