What folks don’t see, or what doesn’t get talked about enough, when you’re living with MBC is that it’s this constant dance between faith and fear.
I mean that quiet belief that somehow I’ll find my footing again, even when everything feels shaky. That deep-down knowing that I’ve made it through every hard day before this one, so I probably can handle this one too.
But fear still shows up. It always does. Sometimes it’s loud, sometimes it whispers. It’s the voice that pops up before every scan, every new ache, every “we need to talk about your results.” It’s the part of me that wants to prepare for the worst even while I’m hoping for the best.
People see me smiling, working, showing up, cracking jokes—but they don’t see the exhaustion of living in a body that keeps reminding you it’s fighting for its life. Or the quiet moments when I’m alone, just trying to breathe through the weight of it all.
Living with MBC means holding both truths at the same time—the faith that things can still be okay and the fear that they might not. And somehow, between the two, I find my balance.
