People keep asking me, “How are you?”

I never know how to answer.

Not because I don’t know how I am…

Because I don’t know how much of the truth people actually want.

I think they’re hoping I’ll smile and say,

“Good.”

“I’m cancer free.”

“I’m in remission.”

“It’s behind me.”

“I’m back.”

It’s easier that way.

Because the real answer feels too heavy for the grocery store.

Too complicated for the hockey rink.

Too much for passing someone on the sidewalk.

So I smile.

I say, “I’m doing good.”

And everyone feels better.

The truth?

I’m not great.

Not yet.

I don’t even go back to work until September… and even then, only half-time.

Because this body isn’t the body I left with.

This brain isn’t the brain I had before.

This version of me doesn’t know what “normal” even means anymore.

Some mornings I forget why I walked into a room.

Again.

I lose words.

I read the same paragraph three times.

I stop mid-sentence because my brain simply… disappears for a second.

Chemo brain/brain fog sounds almost funny until it’s yours.

At night, my muscles ache so much they keep me awake.

Not sore from a good workout.

Just aching.

Deep.

Persistent.

Like my body is still carrying something it can’t quite let go of.

Then there are the hot flashes.

The insomnia.

The mood swings.

The tears that show up for absolutely no reason.

The weight that won’t budge no matter how healthy I eat or how much I move.

I ran a marathon after cancer.

A marathon.

And my body still doesn’t respond the way it used to.

Cancer treatment threw me into menopause at 38.

Thirty-eight.

A woman isn’t meant to lose those hormones this early.

People hear “menopause” and think inconvenience.

I hear “menopause” and think another thing cancer took.

Sometimes I catch a smell…

Hospital sanitizer.

Medical tape.

Alcohol wipes.

Sometimes it’s the sound of a machine on television.

Someone casually mentions chemotherapy.

A calendar reminder pops up for an oncology appointment.

A scar catches my eye in the mirror.

And just like that…

I’m back.

Back in the chemo chair.

Back waiting for pathology results.

Back counting radiation treatments.

Back holding my breath while another doctor walks into the room.

People think memories live in your mind.

Trauma lives in your nervous system.

Every follow-up brings the same thought.

What if…

Every ache.

Every pain.

Every headache.

Every swollen lymph node.

Every cough that lasts a little too long.

My brain goes there before I can stop it.

Recurrence.

It’s always sitting quietly in the corner.

Not screaming.

Just… waiting.

And every time my phone rings…

I stop breathing for a second.

Because somewhere along the way, my brain learned that phone calls can change your life.

Even when it isn’t the hospital…

My body doesn’t know that yet.

The strange thing is…

People have been so kind.

So loving.

This isn’t about anyone doing something wrong.

I think this is just something you can’t fully understand unless you’ve lived it.

Cancer doesn’t end when treatment ends.

Treatment ends.

Cancer follows you home.

I miss the version of me who didn’t overthink every pain.

Who didn’t know what an oncology waiting room looked like.

Who didn’t have a mental timeline marked by biopsies… surgeries… chemotherapy… radiation… scans… bloodwork.

I miss how light life used to feel.

Tonight I’ll clean the kitchen.

Fold the laundry.

Probably forget where I put my phone.

Laugh with my boys.

Read a book while Chris rubs my feet (got it, babe?)

Do all the ordinary things.

And underneath all of it…

Cancer is still there.

Not in my body.

But in my thoughts.

In my nervous system.

In the way I answer the phone.

In the way I schedule my life around follow-up appointments.

In the way I hesitate before saying I’m “okay.”

Maybe this is what survivorship really is…

Learning how to live a beautiful life…

while carrying something invisible every single day.

People keep asking me, “How are you?”

Tomorrow, I’ll probably smile and say,

“I’m doing good.”

And maybe that’s true.

Maybe I am okay…

Actually, I think I am.

It’s just that if you ever asked me what “okay” really means…

This is it.