When I was told I had cancer, I was furious—at the world, at fate, at anything that could have put me here.
But almost instantly, that rage turned outward. And soon, into inward anger.

I did not want to be the reason anyone cried.
I did not want to change the energy in a room.
I did not want to be “a problem.”

So I put on smiles. I gave the pep talks.
When I told my loved ones, I watched their faces: as soon as I saw the fear, I shifted into my role—the comforter.
You’re scared I might die? Let me soothe you.
You’re overwhelmed by my illness? I’ll help you process it.
I made myself the emotional shield for everyone around me.
It felt like love. It felt noble.

But it was also slowly breaking me.
That was the price I had decided to pay. I called it strength.
But that price was starting to cost me too much...

Because the truth is, I am not OK.
I cry alone.
I panic alone.
And when I most need comfort, I make sure no one notices.

The more time went by, the less I was in a position to comfort myself—everything was overwhelming.

And then one day, something inside me snapped.
I was sitting with a friend, telling her I was “totally fine”—and I watched her sort of believe me.
That moment crushed me. Not because she was not there for me, but because I had worked so hard to disappear.
I had to deny my pain to comfort her. I was putting her first for her own good—but where was mine in all this?
How was my behavior helping me? Not to mention that I was preventing anyone from comforting me by pretending I was fine.

It hit me that I had defined love as “protecting others from pain.”
But in doing so, I had turned love into isolation.
I had made myself invisible, again and again. I put myself second, again and again.
Like I was not worth their worries—and that idea made me really sad.

I realized in that moment how much pressure I was putting on myself.
“Miss Perfect,” I thought, with a smile.
Tears started rolling: I had been so hard on myself—containing all these feelings and all the stress.

With my behavior, I had also pushed the people I loved away—keeping them outside of what I was really living.
I assumed, instead of asking, that they could not take it. That they needed protection from my disease.
…But what if I was wrong?! What if some could take it—and stand by me on that journey?

That was my wake-up call.
Immediately followed by the idea that feelings are not threats—they are signals.
And if I could feel them without filtering them through guilt or shame, I might find clarity. And relief.

As my friend saw me crying, she asked what was going on - and for the first time in a long time, I told the truth. And it fell good.

So I began small.

The next time someone asked how I was doing, I did not lie.
I did not collapse, either. I just said: “Some days are hard.”
And I watched their reaction very closely, expecting them to collapse—and ready to help pick up the pieces.
Instead, they nodded. And stayed.

It was not dramatic—but it was real.
This was my beginning—where I started letting others show up for me.

It gave me confidence that it was OK for me to share how I was truly experiencing all this.

One dear friend and I cried so much as she shared how worried she was to see me pretend all was well. She was so happy when I started telling the truth.
She said she could not take more denial from me—and that my behavior was pushing her away. She was on the edge of not wanting to see me any more!

She told me I did not have to be her hero: I was already her hero just by standing in the middle of this chaos.
And she gave me a huge gift: she reminded me that I am not in other people’s heads.
I do not know if they can take it—unless I ask.
So rather than assume and put everyone in the same bucket, I should trust that some of them can be there for me.

Little by little, I gave myself permission to share how I feel—rather than just manage everyone else’s.
I am still learning to put myself first. Because now I know: protecting others should not be at the cost of myself.
That is not strength. That is erasure.

And I also opened my eyes: protecting other people against their will is pushing them away!
So now I let others decide to which extent they can handle my disease.
Some cannot—and that is OK.
Because I gain strength from those who do.
So I keep on protecting a few, while I have honest and open conversations with others.
We share our fears. We cry and we laugh together.

We also have difficult conversations—for instance, when we talk about death, and what will happen to those who stay, or to me.
I really do not like to talk about it, but I also realize they need to. “The crappiest option of all,” we call it!
It would be foolish of me to think I am the only one suffering from the situation.
We are not there yet—not by far—and I cannot always take those concerns on top of my own.
Yet, letting people in also means I am willing and open to let them express themselves too.

There is one thing for sure: when you go through such a big challenge, you experience bonding at another level.
I will never forget the love and support I am getting—and all the strong emotions we go through together.

I have also learned another big lesson: I do not have to carry everything alone to be worthy of love.
And I can have any conversation with these people. There is no taboo.
I am not a burden when I am vulnerable.

I am loved. And I am not alone.
And that makes my life a lot easier—and lighter!