Being a survivor of breast cancer is a lonely, heavy burden. In the beginning, it is easy to have that “I will 100% conquer breast cancer and kick its ass” feeling when you are just diagnosed.

You want to keep that feeling as you navigate through it because you’re also trying to be strong for yourself and others around you. I had no choice but to accept it, tackle it, and conquer it. Crying or really having a moment to process all of it didn’t cross my mind. I just thought to myself:

Growing up in an Asian-American household, they always taught me to overachieve, be educated, be tough, don’t over-share personal things that you are going through, and keep some things under the radar. Not everyone has to know you are sick.

It was the end of November 2011 and at 31 years old, my doctor diagnosed me with Stage 2B Breast Cancer. I had just come back from a random one-night stay in NYC with friends. A few days before my trip, I had a doctor’s appointment to check a bump on my breast that left me worried, but I thought little about it after my visit. I was younger, carefree, and did not think my life was about to change. That sparkle wore off within the hour of returning to Boston with that fatal phone call. I remember it was a cold and sunny day. The light was shining through the blinds in my room and hitting the floral pattern on my bedding. I stared at it during the phone call for a while. I heard the words, but I didn’t process them.

And then it was all a cloudy blur. Appointments to get a port put in, my first chemo treatment, and then scheduling subsequent rounds and rounds of sessions. Followed by a bombardment of doctors’ appointments, radiation, and tons of surgeries. I opted for a double mastectomy, because of my history with my grandmother. All of this became a routine and part of my regular day-to-day life. I was handling it. I was fine. I was ok, right?

I thought about my grandma (we called her “Yan-Yan”). In hindsight, she was the toughest person I knew. A strong New York import from rural China, she battled breast cancer, had a mastectomy, and then had to battle ovarian cancer. She tried her hardest to hang in there, and my dad tried everything from our Eastern medication to ease her pain. Growing up, I was always slightly distant from her. My brother was much closer, and they had a strong bond. I was in my annoying teenage years and was selfish.

But I remember that every time she got sicker, she stuck it out. She had moved to Boston and now lived a few minutes from us in her own apartment. She would make us these beautiful ornate dinners with all our favorites. I sometimes dreaded going to dinner as if it imposed on my weekends because I did not fully understand the meaning behind them. It wasn’t until my mom told me, after her death, just how sick she felt after her chemo or how difficult it was for her to cook those dinners that I really appreciated she wanted to still feel like herself and do those things for her family.

I always regret not having a closer connection. Maybe I was trying to run away from the fact that we are alike. Strong-willed, tough on the exterior, but inside we were battling this sick disease yet still wanting to look strong. Now I feel her with me all the time. Her resilient spirit lives within me. My mother handed down her old rings and I never take them off. Ironically, one has a beautiful bright pink stone that always glimmers in the light.

I had the support of family, various amazing friends, and relationships while dealing with it all. Friends and family called me “Strong.” I did the walks for breast cancer, went to conferences, became a survivor advocate for LBBC, contributed to blogs, started my blog, and was asked to speak at a few events. I felt like I was helping others with their journey and recovery. And then I took a break.

I did not participate as much. I stopped doing the walks. I needed some breathing space. Survivorship is also sometimes about guilt. The guilt of losing great friends (whom I met over the years) and the guilt of why:

Why was I able to survive?
Why was I able to get a decent job afterward?

I had the chance and privilege to heal mentally and physically, while some of my friends have metastatic cancer and continue to battle every day.

I still quietly go to the hospital every 3 months to get my shot. I have uncomfortable conversations with my oncologist and still take medication every day. Scars adorn my body as if they were little estuaries of rivers running through my body. I am self-conscious of certain things, no matter how strong I appear. But I did it.

As Lao Tzu once said, “Silence is a source of great strength”, and indeed I refuse to let cancer dim any of my lights. Yan-Yan knew this and would be proud.