There’s a weird kind of whiplash that comes with a cancer diagnosis. One moment, life feels routine—annoying even. Emails, errands, that mess in the backseat you’ve been meaning to clean. Then someone says, “We found something,” and suddenly your world turns into scans, specialists, and trying to remember what it felt like to not be scared all the time. Staying positive doesn’t come naturally when you’re fighting to get out of bed, when your body won’t cooperate, and when people keep offering advice you didn’t ask for. But that doesn’t mean it’s off the table. Sometimes, positivity isn’t a mindset—it’s a choice you make over and over again in tiny, gritty moments.
The Emotional Whiplash of It All
No one talks enough about how many emotions hit you at once. You’re expected to rally like it’s your job, but also be gracious when people don’t know what to say. You might feel guilty for being angry, or mad at yourself for being scared. Some days you’re proud of how well you’re holding it together, and then suddenly a song on the radio guts you in the middle of traffic.
And the pressure to “stay strong”? That can turn into a performance. You end up curating your reactions to make other people feel better. But here’s the thing: real strength doesn’t always look like cheerfulness. It looks like showing up for the appointment even though you’d rather be anywhere else. It looks like asking for help when you hate doing that. It looks like saying, “I’m not okay today,” and letting that be enough.
What Control Actually Looks Like
You don’t get to pick the diagnosis. You don’t get to veto the side effects. But there are things—small, steady things—you do control. That might be what you eat on a day when everything tastes off, or what hoodie you wear to the infusion center. It might mean shutting your phone off for an hour just to escape the noise of everyone checking in.
Some people lean into meditation, journaling, or talking it out with a therapist. Others go full spreadsheet-mode, tracking every lab result like it’s game film. What matters is that you find something that gives you back even a shred of agency. For a lot of patients, that includes looking into alternative cancer treatments—acupuncture, diet changes, IV vitamin therapy, hyperbaric oxygen. Not because they’re magical, but because they offer a sense of participation. You’re not just waiting around for your next scan. You’re doing something.
Finding A Rhythm in the Chaos
Cancer messes with your schedule in a way that feels almost personal. Doctor’s visits don’t care if you had plans. Chemo doesn’t ask if you’re tired of rearranging your whole life around it. At a certain point, you start to feel like you’re working a job you never applied for. One that pays in side effects and copays.
That’s where tools start to matter more than ever. One of the unexpected lifesavers is something most people don’t think about until they need it—healthcare scheduling software makes quick work of staying on top of everything. It keeps the labs, imaging, consults, and follow-ups from swallowing your calendar whole. It sounds simple, but not juggling appointment cards or playing phone tag every week? That can seriously lighten the mental load. It’s not about being more productive. It’s about preserving the little bit of peace you have left.
And once you’ve got that under control, you start to see where the empty spots are—spaces for rest that aren’t just recovery, but actual downtime. That’s when the haze starts to lift a little.
The Unseen Parts of Support
Not everyone knows how to show up. Some people ghost, and that hurts in ways you don’t even want to admit out loud. Others surprise you. An old friend sends dinner without making it weird. A neighbor mows your lawn without needing applause. These tiny gestures add up. They remind you that even when your body is betraying you, the world hasn’t entirely let you down.
It’s okay to need help. That sentence probably makes your stomach clench if you’ve spent most of your life being the helper, the planner, the do-it-yourselfer. But cancer doesn’t care about your pride. Accepting a ride to treatment or asking someone to handle your grocery run isn’t failure. It’s a survival strategy.
Support doesn’t have to be grand. A group text where you don’t have to pretend. A friend who knows not to offer solutions, just snacks. And sometimes support means boundaries too. Not picking up the phone when you don’t have the energy to hear someone say “everything happens for a reason.”
Giving Yourself Permission to Laugh Again
Grief and joy don’t take turns. They overlap. There are days you’ll cry from frustration in the morning and laugh so hard at a dumb meme that night you almost forget what you’re going through. Let that be okay. You’re not betraying the seriousness of your diagnosis by having a sense of humor. You’re proving that the disease didn’t get all of you.
Laughter doesn’t cure anything, but it does something else—something important. It interrupts the mental doom loop. It reminds your nervous system what lightness feels like. You don’t have to force it, and you definitely don’t have to fake it, but when it shows up? Let it in. Let yourself laugh without disclaimers.
The same goes for joy, even if it comes in weird forms. A really good piece of toast. That 3-minute window where you feel almost normal again. Petting a dog you don’t even know. The cancer’s still there. But so are you.
Still You, Still Here
You’re allowed to be tired. You’re allowed to be terrified. But you’re also allowed to live in spite of all that. Some days that will look like doing everything “right”—going to treatment, eating well, resting when you should. Other days, it means crying in your car for twenty minutes before walking into the clinic. Both are valid. Both count.
This isn’t about silver linings or toxic positivity. It’s about carving out space for yourself in the middle of a life that’s been hijacked. You don’t owe anyone a performance. What you owe yourself is honesty, gentleness, and the occasional break from being “the strong one.” Let the strength be in the showing up. And on the days when that feels like too much? Let the strength be in just breathing through it until tomorrow.
