In my memoir, I compared being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer to the suffocating sensation of drowning. 

Although I’ve never had a genuine near-death experience from drowning, the image came to me instantly. 

The racing heart, the frantic grasping for something, anything, to hold on to. 

A piece of driftwood floats by, hope, but the current rips it away before you can clutch it.

In that moment of panic, the world goes silent except for the thundering of fear in your chest.

You flail not to swim, but simply to survive.

That’s what cancer life felt like.

Cancer’s Grip on Mind and Body

Cancer is an insidious beast, taking a toll on the body but also creeping into the mind with cruelty. 

Spreading doubt like ink in water, eroding any sense of hope, the shadow of this dormant demon lurked alongside me, whispering doubts and dragging me closer to the depths of despair.

“My life shrank into a single objective, staying alive and keeping on living, really living.“
– Dr. Yvette Colón

But the what-ifs lingered.

I share more of my journey as a survivor on my About Page

Opening Pandora’s Box Through Writing

For a long time, I couldn’t talk about it; I barely mentioned it to those closest to me. 

When I finally found the courage to share my story, an unexpected torrent hidden deep within Pandora’s box burst forward. 

I sat down at the keyboard and began to write. 

And when I did, the emotions I had buried so deep that even I forgot they were there, came erupting, like a dormant volcano. 

Rage. Fear. Grief. Helplessness. 

They all vied for my attention, each demanding to be seen. 

Tears streamed down my face as I typed, ugly cry. 

The unfiltered sobs left me gasping for air. 

But I didn’t stop. 

The memories were so vivid, I could feel them in my body, a suffocating weight to my chest, left me breathless.

Much of this process shaped what I later put into my upcoming memoir, Fruit from the Manchineel Tree.

Choosing to Face the Truth

Eventually, something shifted. It wasn’t so much courage that motivated me to write my story; rather, it was a quiet willingness to explore the depths of my experiences. 

I’m ready now. 

Ready to unbox the grief I had hidden behind a practiced smile. 

Ready to sit with the truth I had kept tucked away in the dark corners of my mind.

I thought I had been strong by pretending to be fine. But it turns out, the real strength came in allowing myself to break.

Redefining Courage in Everyday Life

Courage isn’t always loud. 

Sometimes it’s simply the act of waking up, brushing your teeth, and facing a day you’d rather not. 

Sometimes it’s dragging yourself out of bed, even if the only place you’re going is the sofa. 

And sometimes, courage is staring down the truth of your own story and choosing to speak it out loud, even if your voice trembles.

Telling my story didn’t heal me overnight. 

But it gave shape to the chaos. It helped me reclaim parts of myself that had been lost to silence. 

Maybe my words might speak to someone like you: thrashing in your own storm, desperate for something to hold on to.

If you’re looking for tools and communities that can help, I’ve gathered a collection of supportive advocacy resources.

Taking the First Step to Tell Your Story

Your story might not look like mine. 

You may not be ready now. 

But when that moment comes, when you feel even the smallest willingness to speak your truth, know that: 

Courage doesn’t have to be monumental; it simply requires a willingness to take the first step.

If you’re curious about the lessons that shaped my writing journey, you might find my post on 5 Things I Learned After My Pancreatic Cancer Diagnosis meaningful. Click below to read it.