Part Two: The Loneliness of Cancer Treatment

The first day of chemo is when the reality of my cancer journey truly set in. Sitting in that sterile room, surrounded by IV bags and the quiet hum of machines, I couldn’t help but ask myself, How did I get here? I had spent so many weeks consumed by fear, dread, and the endless “what ifs,” but nothing really prepared me for this moment. What would it feel like to have these drugs coursing through my veins? How long would it take before I stopped recognizing myself in the mirror?

The emotional impact of cancer was overwhelming. I worried about my girls constantly—how could I help them walk this journey with me without letting them see my own fear? I didn’t want them to be scared, but deep down, I was terrified. Coping with cancer as a mother was a battle on its own, and the mental toll of cancer started to weigh heavy on me.

In the early days, I turned to Facebook groups, hoping to find support from others going through breast cancer treatment. I thought, If I could just connect with others who had been here, maybe this wouldn’t feel so impossible. But the truth is, every cancer is different. Every journey is different. And while I found moments of solidarity, the constant flood of complications and side effects shared by others only made me more afraid. It was hard to filter out what might happen to me versus what was happening to someone else. It made coping with cancer emotionally feel even harder.

I quickly realized that most people didn’t post about their victories or share stories of the good days. Instead, the focus was on complications and fears—things I had never even heard of but now couldn’t stop thinking about. It was overwhelming. Cancer support groups didn’t offer the relief I was hoping for, and eventually, I had to mute the groups to avoid the fear spiral.

In the beginning, friends and family rallied around us. They wanted to help, listen, bring meals, and take care of the small things that seemed impossible in those early days. And while that support was invaluable—it took a weight off my family—it was hard for anyone to truly understand the storm that was raging inside me. Beneath the smile, the brave front I put on for everyone else, I was dealing with the emotional challenges of breast cancer. The mental health toll of cancer treatment was immense, but it was hard for others to see.

As the weeks wore on, I watched as the world slowly moved on. The shock had faded, life resumed. Work needed to be done. The kids had to get to their activities. The dog still needed his walks. I felt a strange mixture of relief and sadness. It was nice to no longer feel the constant pressure of being watched, of having people hover around me, waiting for the next update. But at the same time, it was a hard realization to face: the world was moving on, and it felt like I was stuck in place.

I longed for someone to truly see me—to hear me and understand what I was going through. But no one really could. Coping with breast cancer felt lonely in a way I couldn’t have imagined. How could they truly understand the emotional toll of cancer treatment? I didn’t want anyone to experience what I was feeling, but I was also desperate for connection, for someone who could really get it.

People would say, “I understand” or “You’re so strong.” And I know they meant well. But on some days, their words made it harder. It confirmed the painful truth: no one truly understood. The well-meaning cheerleading, while pure and full of love, only served to highlight how alone I felt in this battle.

It took me some time to come to terms with the fact that, in many ways, this was a journey I would have to walk alone. We’re all on our own path, with our own lessons to learn. And so, I started to accept help from others with the practical things—taking care of the kids, meals, errands—but emotionally, I had to learn how to be with myself. Truly be with myself. No distractions, no avoidance.

I had to learn how to like my own company again. To be my own friend in this new reality, and that, perhaps, is one of the hardest parts of the emotional journey of cancer—learning how to be there for yourself.