The Hot Messy Middle of a Post-Cancer Healing Journey

I survived cancer. I stared it in the face and didn’t blink. I got the BRCA2 badge, didn’t ring the bell–until finally, I did. I got new boobs and lost a few organs. And still, here I am, having a temper tantrum. Where’s the gratitude? Why am I complaining?

Because the truth no one tells you is this: healing doesn’t end when the treatment does. Sometimes, the hardest part comes after.

Welcome to my life–the messier middle–where the road back to yourself is nothing like the yellow brick road we want it to be. This is the post-cancer healing journey they don’t advertise–not even in those mile-long side effect lists where you’re supposed to “ask your doctor if it’s right for you.”

You can call it a post-cancer healing journey if you want. Mine? It’s been more of a hot mess–and I’m okay with that. Turns out, that might be exactly what healing is supposed to look like.

The Cancer Appointment That Still Feels Like a Mystery

I’m still a newbie at the check-ins. Only five years out from cancer, and I still ask myself–why do I keep showing up?

I walk into the geneticist’s office again, only to leave with the same lingering question, “Hello, Stephanie, anyone home in there?”

Oh right, the caner pilgrimage. The visit I somehow feel obligated to take, though I can never quite remember why–or what my doctor even looks like. I’m the BRCA2 girl, after all. Doesn’t that mean I’m supposed to know these things?

BRCA2: My Not-So-Fairy-Tale Mutation

Let’s recap. I got diagnosed with cancer five years ago. Zap! Pow! Bam!

If Angelina Jolie is Cinderella with BRCA1, I’m the overlooked stepsister with BRCA2–less famous, more real, and apparently the unofficial spokesperson for a gene mutation no one’s glamorizing.

Chemo Clarity: I Miss the Weird Freedom of Being Sick

I miss chemo. There, I said it.

Not the port, not the people with their good intentions–though we always got a kick out of that pun: mean well. Did they mean well, or were they, well, mean?

But chemo gave me clarity. Orders. A schedule. I didn’t have to figure anything out. Just show up, sit still, and survive.

I slept when I wanted to sleep. I could say no with abandon. I was holding the get-out-of-jail card in the game of Life.

Now I’m supposed to be normal. Law-abiding. On top of things.

Yet, I missed two vet appointments for the dog, and I can no longer blame it on chemo brain.

Post-Cancer Life: The Quiet, Invisible Mess

I get annoyed when I have to go to the doctor.

I complain about my hair–even though I have hair to complain about.

Healing is messy, quiet, and invisible. No one brings casseroles for post-cancer growing pains.

We show up to baby showers and ooh over the baby, but when it cries? We hand it back. Cancer survivors don’t get that luxury. We get to keep the crying baby.

This is the part of the post-cancer healing journey that no one warns you about–the part where you still feel like you’re falling apart, long after the doctors have stopped calling.

Survivor Status: Now What?

During treatment, I didn’t have my wits about me, but I didn’t care. I lost all inhibitions. I told stories. I was present. The nurses got me. I wasn’t complaining–I was connecting.

There was a strange freedom in being sick. Now? I’m a “survivor,” expecting myself to get on with it. Get over it. Get grateful.

But I’m not. Not all the time.

I complain. I miss clarity. I question why I had to give up body parts I didn’t even want to lose. The MRI that could have once saved my life now feels like an insult.

But the jokes? They were always real. I could flash my breasts before the doctor even asked to see them. Sometimes, the complaints were hiding in the punchlines.

Healing Doesn’t Have to Be Pretty

Before the real doctor sees me, a grad student asks if I’ll give blood for a BRCA2 study. I say yes before she finishes.

Then she starts talking.

And I start thinking. Why give 11 vials of blood for experimentation when I’m still pretty busy in my own lab, patching myself together?

At the peak k of my annoyance, the geneticist walks in.

She remembers me. She remembers I swore off MRIs.

She sees me. And I begin to soften.

Maybe healing isn’t about gratitude first. Perhaps it’s about being honest enough to admit that feeling like a hot mess is part of the journey, too.

The post-cancer healing journey can’t begin until I start giving myself some slack for not being the perfect cancer patient or the girl who’s completely healed. I’ve got to love the me, which is somewhere in the middle.

News Flash: Maybe–just maybe–you can be grateful and complain at the same time.

Coming Home to Love (Even if You’re A Total Hot Mess Along the Way)

But the jokes? They were always real. The ability to flash my breasts before the doctor even asked to see them. Sometimes, the complaints were just hiding in the punchlines.

Because here’s the truth: When I fought cancer, I worried about what healing would look like. What would all those dizzying lists of side effects mean for me, and how would I get on with my life?

But instead, it’s shocking. I went through cancer to learn how to accept love from others. I heal from cancer by learning how to love myself.

I complain. I miss clarity. I question why I had to give up body parts I didn’t even want to lose. The MRI that could have once saved my life now feels like an insult.

And yet…this is what healing looks like. Messy. Emotional. Funny. Honest.

I wanted the post-cancer healing journey to be a clean recovery. Instead, it’s been anything but–a beautiful, brutal, hot mess of learning to love myself anyway.

Turns out, maybe loving yourself is the ultimate punchline.

That girl screaming in the mirror with her microphone? She’s been “looking for love in all the wrong places”—you know the song. But maybe she didn’t need to look far. Maybe she just needed permission to love herself through the mess.

Now it’s your turn.

How are you showing up for yourself–even when it’s messy?

I’d love to hear in the comments.

P.S. I wrote my way through my cancer journey–raw, honest, and somehow still full of laughs. If you’d like to start at the beginning and walk that road with me (I don’t blame you, it’s a ride), it all began with a post called To Catch The Cow.