The Day The Cancer Was Gone - And Why It Didn’t Feel Like the End

Hi lovely people, it’s been a bit quiet here lately... after 6 months of chemotherapy, I reached the final stretch: last week, I had my big surgery. A bilateral mastectomy with breast and DIEP flap reconstruction using tissue from my legs (it's so weird how all these words didn't make sense in the beginning and now they're part of my normal vocabulary haha).

Basically, that means my breasts were reconstructed (after removing all the inside) using my own leg tissue. Fully reconnected, re-shaped, and reattached to function with blood flow again. It’s absolutely wild. It’s medical art.

The option to alternatively get implants didn't felt right for me, and although I knew this would be a much bigger procedure (in the end it took 8 hours), it still feels like the right decision.

I stayed at the hospital for 3 nights and and doctors and nurses were amazingly caring. Now being home there are nurses coming over on a daily basis and checking on me.

And while my body is getting a little stronger every day, looking back, and even in this moment, I have to say: it’s been a lot. I'm exhausted. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. I came home with drains coming out of my thighs, barely able to move on my own. I couldn’t even put on underwear without help, let alone shower by myself. It was just overwhelming.

The Quiet Hands That Carried Me

I want to take a moment here to thank Aaron with all my heart. You haven’t left my side through any of this. You carried so much of the weight and you were drying so many of my tears. Always trying to be strong.

I know this hasn’t just been hard on me. It’s been hard on you, too. The stress, the worry, the sleepless nights. And I think when you’re the one going through it physically, you sometimes forget just how much it takes from the people around you.

But I see it. I see you. And I will never forget what you’ve done for me.

I also hope you know that you’re allowed to feel all of it, too. You don’t always have to be strong. You don’t have to hold it all together for both of us. Whatever you’re carrying, you can let it out. You can be soft here. You can break down here. I won’t love you any less, only more.

And while I’m at it, I want to thank my sister Esther, too. You were there in some of the most raw, vulnerable moments. You held the razor when I lost my hair and somehow, you made it feel okay. Always putting a smile on my face.

There’s something so strong and wise about you. You show up with so much calmness and love, and you always know how to hold space, without ever needing the spotlight.

I’m so proud of who you are and who you’re becoming and being near you in those moments gave me more than you probably know.

I hate that we have to go through all this but I truly believe we’ll come out the other side stronger. Together. ✨

OMG I made it!

Yesterday, we went back to the hospital for the moment we’ve all been waiting for: the final pathology. The big question was, after seven months of treatment, is the cancer gone? Was all of this worth it?

We were so nervous. And then I got the best possible news: My body responded completely. There’s nothing left. It’s called PCR (pathological complete response) and it means there’s no trace of cancer left. I’m still trying to realise all of this. Like WTF? This is the best fucken outcome that we could get.

But as much as I’m celebrating, I’m also sitting in a strange emotional in-between.

Not in treatment anymore but still in recovery.

Starting to look for jobs again but still figuring out who I am now.

Inspecting apartments but not sure which version of myself will live in them.

I feel like I’m between two worlds: The one where everything was cancer. And the one where I’m supposed to just move on.

The shadow of BRCA1

And just as I was ready to start exhaling, my breast surgeon gently reminded me: “You carry the BRCA1 mutation. We’ll need to talk about ovarian surgery at some point.”

BRCA1 is a genetic mutation that significantly increases the risk of breast and ovarian cancer.

While the average woman has about a 1–2% chance of developing ovarian cancer in her lifetime, that risk can rise to up to 60% with BRCA1. It’s like a quiet shadow in your DNA, invisible, but always present.

And while I knew all of this, I kinda put it aside it for now. I wanted to take one step at a time.

Because this mutation is so strongly linked to aggressive cancer types, the standard medical recommendation is to remove the ovaries and fallopian tubes preventively, usually around age 35–40, or after you’ve completed your family planning.

That last part hurts too. Because even though we aren't actively planning for children, the idea that the choice might be taken from me, surgically, permanently, is something else entirely. What this removal also does. It puts you into early menopause

I’m 36. I'm not ready for that. Not now and not in 4 years! I already went through menopause during chemo, the sleepless nights, the lost libido, the emotional flatness. I barely survived that version of myself. And now I might be asked to stay there forever?

Menopause isn’t just about hot flashes and hormones. When you lose estrogen in your 30s, it affects almost every major system in your body:

• Estrogen helps regulate cholesterol and protects your heart

• It supports bone density and early menopause increases the risk of osteoporosis

• It influences brain health, skin elasticity, metabolism, and even gut function

Losing it prematurely doesn’t just speed up aging, it can dramatically impact long-term quality of life and overall health.

So when I say I don’t want to go in early menopause, it’s not just about mood or hot flushes, or sex.

It’s about wanting to feel alive in my body again. To protect my heart, my bones, my mind. To not trade one survival for another.

And the idea of not being allowed hormone replacement therapy makes me panic. Because I can’t go through all this just to survive, only to feel like a stranger in my own body again.

When survival costs too much

And this is the part people don’t often talk about.

That healing comes with choices no one wants to make. That surviving doesn’t mean it’s over. That the mutation didn’t die with the cancer, it’s still there, asking for more.

I don’t want to sound ungrateful. I am SO fucken grateful. But I’m also tired of sacrificing. Tired of constantly weighing risks against quality of life. Tired of feeling like I need permission to feel whole again.

So yes, these are tears of joy. But also tears of grief. For the parts of me I’ve already lost. And the parts I may still have to let go of of. This isn’t the end of the story. It’s a new beginning. And while I don’t yet know what this next chapter will look like, I know I want to live it fully. Not just survive it. I like to believe there’s a reason I’m still here. That somehow, this is the path I was meant to walk, even if I wouldn’t have chosen it.

And more than anything, I know I wouldn’t have made it this far without the people who’ve stood beside me. The ones who held me up when everything felt heavy. The ones who reminded me who I am when I forgot.

Whatever comes next, I know I won’t face it alone. And deep down, I trust that somehow… it’s all going to be okay. 🤍