Cancer changes you. It’s a phrase that can feel cheesy, almost like something you’d read on a motivational poster, but I can tell you from experience—it’s undeniably true. I’ve changed in ways I never expected, both physically and emotionally. And the most surprising shift of all? Somehow, cancer helped me finally calm the hell down.
It all started during a routine physical exam with my gynecologist. I had recently switched doctors and finally felt like I was in capable hands. This was clear almost immediately, because up until then, no OBGYN had ever touched me above the shoulders. Most exams barely went beyond the obvious areas. But this one was different. She began behind my ears, checking my lymph nodes thoroughly, then worked down the sides of my neck. I felt her pause, press, move, and then return to the same spot—three times—before she quietly said, “I feel something.”
A week later, I had an ultrasound. Two weeks after that, a biopsy. And then, two weeks later, I received the news: Papillary Thyroid Carcinoma. I had thyroid cancer. Surgery followed, removing my entire thyroid, and then in-patient radiation treatment. That was when everything shifted.
Physically, I am undeniably different. I no longer have the organ that produces hormones regulating metabolism, heart function, body temperature, and so much more. Heat overwhelms me, my hair has changed, indigestion is a constant companion, and my periods are wildly irregular. I take a synthetic thyroid hormone, and so far, it keeps me functioning—but I can’t help but wait for the rest of my body to stage a rebellion. (Fingers crossed it doesn’t.)
Mentally, I’m different, too. I used to be razor-sharp. I could remember the tiniest details of conversations, down to what everyone was wearing, recall sources and dates professionally, and answer almost anything immediately. I had a hyper-awareness that kept me constantly “on.” I remembered every interaction, followed up with everyone, and rarely missed a beat. I was quick, always thinking, and always prepared. But that hyper-vigilance, I now realize, was exhausting.
After cancer, my brain no longer works the same way. At first, I panicked. I found myself out in the world, doing everyday things, and suddenly my autopilot wasn’t working. I didn’t immediately have answers to questions I would have once known without hesitation. I had to stop and think about things I had previously done instinctively. My memory didn’t fail completely, but it no longer served me as it once did.
Anxiety crept in. I became cautious, nervous, and hyper-aware, constantly treading lightly so no one would notice I wasn’t “on top of it.” I forced my brain to work overtime to maintain appearances, and the effort was draining. I was running on a frantic pace that served no one, least of all me.
Then summer arrived—and with it, a revelation. For countless reasons, it became the best summer my family had ever experienced. I was forced to let go, completely and unapologetically, and the world didn’t stop. No disasters occurred. Life continued, just lighter and freer. In letting go, I discovered the gift I didn’t know I needed: peace. I let life unfold, and it turned out exactly how it should—calm, joyful, and unexpectedly fulfilling.
Now, I remember less. Not everything, of course—nothing vital—but generally, the minutiae escapes me. I don’t recall every detail of a conversation or our last meeting. Yet, there’s a surprising benefit: my interactions are more authentic, grounded in the present. I speak from what I feel and think in the moment, rather than performing a rehearsed memory of past interactions.
I feel less pressure to have all the answers, which is liberating. The truth is, I never had them anyway. I have instincts, opinions, and beliefs, but not answers—and that’s okay. I allow myself the time to consider and respond thoughtfully. I am more compassionate with my children, patient with my own uncertainties, and comfortable taking the time and space I need.
I show the world my incomplete, uncertain, human self, and I’m okay with it. My neck may resemble that of an elderly chicken—thanks, surgery—but I am transformed in ways far more meaningful. Cancer turned me into the hippie child-adult I didn’t know I needed to be: calmer, more present, and genuinely alive. And for that, I am grateful.
