2023: A (new) balance

This year, and once again, the weight has shifted, and a new balance ensued.

I published a text for the first time on October 13, 2023, the day that celebrates plain language and metastatic breast cancer. I could bet that not many people in the world celebrate both, but life is strange and random and it connects these two points with a line that runs right through me.

Writing has always been a big part of my life, and it really started weighing on the scale around my first diagnosis of breast cancer. For many years I had worked with environment policies, which gave me purpose, but when I asked myself what I wanted to do until the end of my life, the answer was evident, and very slowly I turned to writing (and plain language) as my full-time occupation. Writing (and re-writing, and editing) is my happy place. 

Writing is also my thinking-feeling place. So, when earlier this year I was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer (MBC), I started writing for myself, looking for answers and for the right questions, putting my worries into words, to better understand them. As months went by, I had filled many pages with «writing therapy». Some words were hopeful, some were overwhelming, some were surprising. I was talking to the empty page and it all came pouring out. 

I am not alone: I am lucky to have people I can talk with. I have people I love and that I can hug, cry with, be quiet with, go on adventures with; people that are there for me if I have an emergency at 4 am - and I’m so so very grateful for that (even if I struggle with asking for help - that’s for another session).

But…  It’s hard to talk about some topics when you worry about the other person's reaction and sensitivity to the subject. What for you is the new normal, for other people can be a big thing, especially if they have a close history with cancer. 

I am not alone, but there is a particular kind of aloneness in these circumstances. 

Then I found a subreddit for people living with MBC, during insomnia. That night I read through posts of people that are going through what I am going through. I found people who are on the same medication, talking about side effects and results. I read about one woman who had no evidence of disease, and another whose bone metastases worsened, despite ribociclib. I found people who had been in this for ten years. 

There are stories of heartache and bravery, rant sessions, scanxiety, and a good dose of good humour to go with it. It is a place where people get the ups and downs of this rollercoaster. 

It was this community that first gave me the inspiration to publish my stories and share my «therapy sessions» in a way that could be useful for someone that is searching for the same themes. 

But… Even though I've been writing for as long as I can remember, even though I've filled countless notebooks and files, even though I’ve had thousands of words published as a ghostwriter, I never had the courage to put my own words out there for the world to see.

The reasons it took me this long are boring: impostor syndrome, fear of failure, fear of not being enough, fear of rejection, fear of exposure. In 2023 those reasons became less and less important.

And then I met an angel, at a party, who told me «write about what you're going through - you'll inspire others». And then other angels heard some of my texts and said «you have to publish them». And I did it. 

This year, and once again, the weight has shifted, and a new balance ensued.

Since the 13th of October 2023, I've published, every Friday, a story or essay on substack or a reflection on instagram. I do it for the woman who is looking for answers and trying to ask the right questions. I do it for the woman who has just been diagnosed and is as lost as I was. I publish my struggles so that this woman doesn't feel so alone in hers (and I'm beginning to realise that I'm publishing so that I don't feel so alone in mine).

Thank you for reading. Thank you for being here for me, I hope I can be here for you too.

Happy new year!