Some people are fixers. They’re the ones people call when something goes wrong. They listen, offer advice, make the phone call, solve the problem, smooth things over. They notice what needs to be done, often before anyone asks. And they worry. They worry about their children, their partners, their parents, their friends. They think about the conversation long after it has ended. They imagine what might happen next. They rehearse possible solutions. Sometimes the people they w

Cancer can sometimes feel like becoming a passenger in your own life. A reflection on control, choice, and what remains available to us when we’re no longer the only one behind the wheel.

A psycho-oncology reflection on finding your way after cancer changes the path ahead—and learning that sometimes the way forward appears only as you begin to walk it.

A psycho-oncology reflection on bravery, fear, and curiosity—and how living with cancer sometimes asks for something other than being brave.

On the Interior of Intimacy Under Illness “Since I got cancer, intimacy has disappeared from my relationship.” Patients have said versions of this to me many times. And there are understandable reasons why physical intimacy may change after cancer enters a relationship. Illness and treatment can bring fatigue, nausea, pain, neuropathy, and changes to the body. Time becomes organized around appointments and medications. Couples find themselves learning medical language they ne

A patient recently reminded me of the familiar saying, “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” Then he added something I had never considered. “What makes it lemonade is what you add to the lemon.” I had always understood the saying as an invitation to make the best of something difficult. But his words suggested a different way of looking at it. Consider what happens when we make lemonade. Adding sweetness doesn’t erase the lemon’s tartness, and water doesn’t ask the le

"I don’t know why I cried." A patient said this to me not long ago. She described an afternoon sitting outside with her family, watching the children play. Nothing remarkable had happened. It was one of those ordinary afternoons that unexpectedly become beautiful while we’re living them. Without warning, tears came to her eyes. A family member noticed and asked what was wrong. "I don’t know," she replied. "I just want more moments like this." Her family knew she had recently

We’ve all said some version of it before. “I love you, but you drive me crazy.” “I’m grateful, but I wish things were different.” “I’m excited, but I’m terrified.” Read those again. Where did the weight of your attention go? If you’re like most of us, your mind probably settled almost immediately on whatever came after the word but. I’ve long wondered why that is. It’s only three letters. Yet somehow, this tiny word has a significant influence on the way we experience our liv

On the Grief of Cancer You’ve just realized that something you can’t imagine living without is gone. Unexpectedly vanished, and you may never be able to replace it. Your heart lifts and drops at the same time. Racing and falling into a dark pit you didn’t know you had inside you. You start frantically searching. Reversing the last hours in your mind. Trying to remember when you last saw it, when it was still yours. Your world narrows until there is only it. What if I never fi

A Test of Patience Impatience is a feeling most of us know well. Stuck in traffic when you need to be somewhere. Waiting in a long line when you have other things to do. Watching the phone for an important call that hasn’t come yet. The wanting of something to happen faster than it is. Most of us learn to live with these moments. They soon pass. But when cancer enters your life, impatience rises to a level few have experienced before. There's an alien threat inside your body

A Reflection on Cancer as a Chronic Condition You know the feeling. Getting up every Monday for work. Weekly laundry that's never done for good. Driving in rush hour traffic. Mentally managing the daily stressors that arrive, whether you are ready for them or not. Most people learn to live with these returning demands. They make peace with them, even if they don’t like them. But there is a particular kind of weariness reserved for the demands that accompany a body that requir

A Reflection About Holding On When I ask patients how they've been doing since our last appointment, they often answer with a small, tired laugh, "It's been a roller coaster." I've come to believe that is exactly the right description because it's true in ways that most metaphors aren't. The roller coaster doesn't just describe the ups and downs of your life after cancer enters it. It illuminates it. Let's stay with the image for a moment. A roller coaster has two essential e

A Reflection on the Weight of Being Called Strong It's said with the best intentions. It's meant to provide encouragement. Sometimes it's said from not knowing what else to say in the presence of something so frightening. But somewhere inside you, when you hear the words "You are so strong," you close just a little. Because there are at least two ways you are so strong can be felt, and both place something heavy in your hands without knowing it. The first is encouragement — y

The scan results are encouraging. The treatment appears to be working. The tumor has shrunk. Things are moving in the direction everyone hoped they would. Relief appears. And then, almost before it has fully arrived, a thought steps in front of it. “Well, let’s see what happens next.” I hear versions of this often. Not because people don’t appreciate good news, and not because they doubt the results. It’s something more protective. Cancer introduces you to a kind of uncertain

Something begins to happen in families when cancer enters their lives. A shift in what they share with each other. The person living with cancer doesn't want to worry the people they love, so they start holding things back. And the people who love them start holding things back—not wanting to upset the person who is already going through enough. Everyone is trying to take care of each other. At the same time. And no one is quite saying what they actually need or how they feel

The body feels heavier than it should. As if chainmail is pressing down on you. And nothing you do seems to lift it. Cancer fatigue isn't ordinary tiredness. It can declare itself in the middle of something ordinary. A shower that takes longer than expected. A short walk that leaves you needing to sit down. A simple task that feels surprisingly heavier than it should. At first, it's easy to dismiss. A bad night of sleep. A difficult day. The effects of treatment. But it keeps

How do I cope with all the changes and the ups and downs? It’s a question I hear again and again from the people I sit beside in cancer care. It’s not really a question about medical management. Not about stages, symptoms, or what the next scan might reveal. It’s a question about finding your footing. How do you stay steady when the ground beneath you keeps shifting? If you’ve been moving through this for a while, you may have noticed something. You’re more than only coping w

Have you ever looked at something for so long that you thought you knew exactly what it was— only for something to shift— the light in the room, the angle of your gaze— and suddenly you begin to notice parts of it you hadn’t seen before? It doesn’t mean the object has changed. But your relationship to it has. And sometimes, that changes everything. For many people living alongside cancer, the body becomes something they learn to see in only one way. Through loss. Through chan

When pain is loud enough, it becomes the center of everything. Not because you want it to— but because it keeps asking for your attention. Again and again. You may notice how difficult it becomes to focus on anything else. A conversation. A moment with your children. Even something as simple as following a train of thought. Not because these things matter less— but because your attention is already occupied. Pain has a way of narrowing the world. Sleep becomes harder to find.

“It’s not just that time feels shorter. It feels more visible.” Most of us move through time without thinking much about it. Days fill. Schedules move. Life unfolds at a pace we rarely stop to question. Time sits quietly in the background. “I’ll get around to that at some point. There’s always tomorrow.” We assume time will continue, and we rarely feel the need to examine it. Until something happens that brings it into clearer view. In my work with people facing cancer, I s