Yasmina Rice

I remember the day the word cancer entered my life. It didn’t arrive with drama or thunder. It came in a small, white room that smelled like disinfectant, spoken softly by a doctor who couldn’t meet my eyes for long. A few sentences. A pause. Then silence so heavy it felt like it pressed on my chest harder than the disease ever could. That was a few years ago. Back then, I thought the hardest part would be the pain. I was wrong. The hardest part is waking up every day and realizing I’m fighting this alone. There is no one to call when the nights get long and my body aches in ways I can’t explain. No one to sit beside me in waiting rooms, pretending not to be scared. No one to remind me that I’m more than test results and appointment cards. My phone stays quiet. Holidays pass like ordinary days. Birthdays come and go without candles or wishes. Cancer doesn’t just take pieces of my body—it slowly erases the life I used to recognize. Some mornings, I sit on the edge of my bed and try to gather the strength just to stand. Not strength for bravery or hope—just enough to survive the day. The medication helps keep me alive, but it drains me too. The bills stack up faster than I can open them. Each envelope is another reminder that staying alive has a price I can barely afford. I never imagined I’d have to measure my worth in invoices and receipts. There are days I skip meals so I can save a little money. Days I pretend I’m not scared because there’s no one to see the truth anyway. I’ve learned how to cry without making a sound, how to smile at doctors so they don’t worry, how to be strong when strength feels like a costume I put on for survival. I don’t want luxury. I don’t want pity. I just want a chance to keep going. Fundraisers feel humiliating at first—like admitting I’ve failed at being self-sufficient. But the truth is, cancer doesn’t care how independent you are. It doesn’t care if you have family, friends, or savings. It just takes. And when it does, you’re left asking strangers for help because there’s no one else left to ask. Still, I wake up every day. Still, I fight. Not because I’m fearless—but because somewhere deep inside me, there’s a quiet hope that my life matters enough to be saved. That even if I’m alone now, my story hasn’t ended yet. That maybe surviving this misery will someday mean something more than pain and unpaid bills. Until then, I keep going. One day. One treatment. One breath at a time.

I remember the day the word cancer entered my life. It didn’t arrive with drama or thunder. It came in a small, white room that smelled like disinfectant, spoken softly by a doctor who couldn’t meet my eyes for long. A few sentences. A pause. Then silence so heavy it felt like it pressed on my chest harder than the disease ever could. That was a few years ago. Back then, I thought the hardest part would be the pain. I was wrong. The hardest part is waking up every day and realizing I’m fighting this alone. There is no one to call when the nights get long and my body aches in ways I can’t explain. No one to sit beside me in waiting rooms, pretending not to be scared. No one to remind me that I’m more than test results and appointment cards. My phone stays quiet. Holidays pass like ordinary days. Birthdays come and go without candles or wishes. Cancer doesn’t just take pieces of my body—it slowly erases the life I used to recognize. Some mornings, I sit on the edge of my bed and try to gather the strength just to stand. Not strength for bravery or hope—just enough to survive the day. The medication helps keep me alive, but it drains me too. The bills stack up faster than I can open them. Each envelope is another reminder that staying alive has a price I can barely afford. I never imagined I’d have to measure my worth in invoices and receipts. There are days I skip meals so I can save a little money. Days I pretend I’m not scared because there’s no one to see the truth anyway. I’ve learned how to cry without making a sound, how to smile at doctors so they don’t worry, how to be strong when strength feels like a costume I put on for survival. I don’t want luxury. I don’t want pity. I just want a chance to keep going. Fundraisers feel humiliating at first—like admitting I’ve failed at being self-sufficient. But the truth is, cancer doesn’t care how independent you are. It doesn’t care if you have family, friends, or savings. It just takes. And when it does, you’re left asking strangers for help because there’s no one else left to ask. Still, I wake up every day. Still, I fight. Not because I’m fearless—but because somewhere deep inside me, there’s a quiet hope that my life matters enough to be saved. That even if I’m alone now, my story hasn’t ended yet. That maybe surviving this misery will someday mean something more than pain and unpaid bills. Until then, I keep going. One day. One treatment. One breath at a time.