Remission, Part One: I Quit My Job.

First of all: I saw that there are a few new subscribers here and wanted to say Hi and whatever the reason is you're here, you're so welcome in this community. 💖

This blog started as a place to write about the very practical, very messy reality of breast cancer treatment. Scalp cooling. Ports. Chemo. Surgery. The things I was desperately googling myself when I was thrown into this world and wanted real experiences.

But now I've entered a new phase: Remission. An this might even become a little series itself, because honestly.. remission is sooooo much stranger than I thought it would be. I imagined this part somehow differently. I thought it would feel clearer. Maybe lighter? Like I would finish treatment, slowly get my strength back, and then return to my life with a deeper appreciation for everything.

And yes, there are moments like that. I do feel grateful. I do look at my life sometimes and think: I cannot believe I get to be here. I'm not in pain anymore. I can move my body. I can make plans. I can think about things that are not only scans, blood tests, infusions and surgery dates.

But remission has also been messy, confusing and much less linear than I expected. Because all of a sudden life starts moving again before you fully understand what happened to you.

And last week, I did something that felt both terrifying and very honest. I quit my job.

Leaving something that looked good on paper

It wasn't some some random job that I didn't care about. On paper, it made so much sense. A good company. A good role. A good salary. A chance to step back into a part of myself I used to know very well.

For me, work has always been a big part of my identity. I have worked in People & Culture for the past 12 years.. in very human, messy, complex spaces. And I loved it. So when I went back into that world, a part of me thought: this is familiar. This is what I know. This is what I am good at.

And I think that is exactly why it was so confusing. After cancer, there is such a strong pull to return to the version of yourself you knew before. You want proof that you are still you. You want to pick things back up where you left them. You want to feel capable again, useful again, normal again.

But it is not really fair to keep comparing myself to a version of me who had not been through this. A version who had not gone through chemo, surgeries, body changes, fertility grief, months of fear, and all the ways cancer changes your sense of safety in the world.

And maybe that is what I had to admit to myself: I wasn't getting the same fulfilment out ot it, that I used to. And that felt weird.

The same questions were coming back: What problems am I actually solving? Do I still want to spend most of my days sitting and staring at a screen? Do I want my work to become more and more about tools, prompts, iterations and efficiency, when something in me is craving almost the opposite?

Less screen. More movement. More connection.

'Maybe caring for myself now means learning to listen earlier. To stop overriding my body just because the old me might have pushed through. To be more compassionate with myself, instead of constantly asking how I can make myself function.'

The grief of not being who you were before

I think this is one of the hardest things to explain about life after cancer. You do not only grieve what happened to your body. You also grieve the version of yourself who existed before all of this. The version who could keep going for longer. The version who had more capacity for stress. The version who still moved through life with a kind of innocence, because she had not yet been forced to face how fragile and short it can be. That version served me for so long. And she got me far. She built a life. She survived things before cancer too. She was ambitious, capable, resilient, sensitive, driven, intuitive, and she worked hard. But I don't want to live by her rules for this next chapter.

'Something about life that feels different after cancer. It's hard to describe. Shorter and more precious. Less like something you can keep postponing until everything finally makes sense.'

Before all of this, I probably would have stayed longer. I would have tried to make it work, explain the feeling away, wait for a clearer plan or a better reason. But this time, I could feel myself moving further away from myself. And after everything, I don't wanna keep doing that just to prove that I can. I'm so done with proving myself.

Maybe remission is not about going back

And funnily I always thought remission would feel like getting my life back. Now I am starting to wonder whether it is more about building a life that actually fits the person who made it through.

Most days, that does not look like some huge transformation. It is more subtle than that.

A job that looks right but does not feel right. An old identity that still holds pieces of truth, but no longer feels like the full story. A quiet sense that something inside has shifted, and the outside of my life has not fully caught up yet.

I do not know exactly what comes next. But one thing keeps coming back.

Movement. Strength. Being in my body. Learning something new... studying personal training. And maybe one day supporting women who are rebuilding strength after breast cancer, after treatment, through perimenopause or menopause, or after any life phase that made them feel disconnected from themselves.

I feel something there. Not a business plan. Not the next thing I need to immediately turn into something huge. Just a calling and a strong passion of mine. Something that feels more connected to the person I am becoming, not only the person I was before.

Right now I do not want to rush into the next version of doing. I want to sit with what is here first.

I want to let myself actually understand what happened this past year. The diagnosis. The treatment. The surgeries. The body changes. The fertility grief. The fear. The life that kept moving while I was trying to survive. All of it.

Maybe that is part of remission too. Not just going back to work. Not just rebuilding strength. Not just making plans again. But finally having enough space to realise what you have been through.

So yes, I quit my job. I do not have the whole plan. I am scared, but I also feel proud. Proud that I listened.

Proud that I did not stay only to prove a point.

Proud that after a year where so many choices were taken away from me, I made a choice that felt like mine.