When Cancer Changes Your Timeline: Nostalgia & Grief

I haven’t posted here in a while.

Not because cancer stopped being part of my life, but because I needed distance from it. Less content, less groups, less scrolling. More life. More being a person again.

But the other day something unexpected hit me out of nowhere, and it pulled me straight back into everything I haven’t been saying out loud.

It was a stupid meme that I saw on the gram. A list of Berlin clubs. That’s it. (I know. but some of you will get it)

And I got this instant nostalgia flash, it was so intense. My brain played full scenes like a movie: dancing, meeting people, that rush of freedom, being part of a world that felt alive and endless. I could feel all the feelings. I looked at a photo of a friend, zoomed in, and suddenly I was back in the moment I first met her. Back in the version of life where people became family overnight.

And I cried. Which sounds absurd, until you realise: the banality is the point.

A random meme listing clubs that don’t even exist anymore becomes proof that time moves on whether we consent or not. Scenes dissolve. Subcultures shift. People disappear. And you can’t step into the same room twice.

At first I thought: I miss Berlin. But that wasn’t the point.

What I was feeling was grief. Not grief for a place, or a lifestyle, or even a specific time period. Grief for something cancer took without asking.

"It took my timeline.. my innocence around time."

When you’re young, you say things like “you only live once”. You may mean it, but it’s still abstract. Tomorrow exists. You assume you’ll always have more chances. Even when you’re reckless, there’s this background belief that life will keep moving forward and you’ll figure it out later.

Then cancer shows up and makes it real. Suddenly 'YOLO' stops being a slogan and becomes a fact you can’t unsee. And with that, something shifts overnight.

"You get older, not in years, but in weight."

But there’s another truth I need to hold at the same time: I wouldn’t actually want that life back.

Not the way I lived it. Too external. Too focused on intensity as a shortcut to feeling alive. Too much chasing. Too little presence.

And still, it shaped me. It taught me about myself. It brought me friendships I’ll be forever thankful for. I was a different person back then. But I love every version of me that led to who I am now.

It’s a strange feeling to miss something and also know you don’t want to go back.

That’s the confusing part of grief. It doesn’t mean “I want to go back.” It means “something mattered and it's gone.”

And I think what’s gone is a specific kind of lightness.

The kind where the pain hasn’t arrived yet.

The kind where you haven’t watched your body become fragile.

The kind where you haven’t seen illness up close, not just in yourself, but in friends, in people your age, in the world.

"Once you’ve lived through that, everything gets more serious. Not because you’re choosing seriousness, but because you can’t unknow what you know."

And then my brain does what it always does when something hits this deep: it starts trying to explain it. To put labels on it. To make it logical. Age. Memory. Nervous system. Cancer. Life.

And honestly.. I don’t think this is something to solve. I think it’s something to feel.

Writing this down makes me realize how much I missed this space. It feels good to be back and puttting words to it, to let it be messy and emotional, and to share it.

And truth is: I’m not less myself now. If anything, I’m more myself than I’ve ever been.

I’m so damn proud of the life I live now. I’m proud of the choices I’ve made to protect myself, to stay present, to build something real. I’m proud that I’m learning how to be with myself, instead of constantly running away from myself.

This nostalgia was a reminder that survivorship isn’t just about your body recovering. It’s about learning how to live in a world where time feels different.

At first, that awareness feels brutal. Like you’ve been pushed into adulthood overnight.

But there’s a gift in it too. Something shifts. You stop living like life is a rehearsal. You stop outsourcing yourself. You come home to your own life.

Maybe deep down that’s what we’re all chasing anyway: a moment where things make sense. A moment of clarity. A moment of being fully here.

Am I there yet? I don’t know..

But I’m closer than I’ve ever been.