I knew it was coming; That stage — the after. When your body is clear, the surgery’s done, and the outside world expects you to get back to “normal.”

But nothing feels normal. It’s been almost four months since my breast lumpectomy. The cancer is gone and I’ve had no further treatment. By all accounts, I should be fine.

But I’ve hit the deck. And if I’m honest, having the cancer - hearing the diagnosis, making decisions, returning to healthier life choices, even facing the surgery  - was easier than this part.

Call it stubbornness, call it naïveté but I thought I’d be okay. As a therapist with years of experience, I thought I had the tools. I understand trauma. I know about nervous system regulation, emotional processing, grief, identity change, all of it.

But when it’s you, it’s different.

My body has finally caught up. And I don’t just mean physically. I mean emotionally, spiritually, mentally, all the layers. And I’m left feeling like a stranger in my own skin. Or perhaps, like my body itself has become unfamiliar to me.

I’m lost.
I’m exhausted.
And I don’t know how to begin again.

I’ve got a head full of ideas. A vision for how I want to work. Insights that I know could help people, maybe even born from this journey.

But no energy.
No capacity to bring them to life.
I start, and then.......the fatigue hits again.

I’m not writing this for sympathy or pity. I’m writing this because people don’t talk about this part. The part after you’re supposedly “better.” When the adrenaline stops. When everyone thinks you’ve survived, but inside, you’re still unravelling.

And maybe you’re reading this and you get it. Maybe you’ve been there too. Or maybe you know someone who’s here now.  If so, you’re not alone. Healing isn’t linear. It’s not neat or tidy. And it doesn’t end when the doctor says you’re “clear.”

I’m still working. Still holding space for others as they navigate their own life trials. Because that’s what I’m here to do. It’s in me - even when I feel like I have nothing left.

I’m writing this to offer hope. Not the fluffy kind that pretends everything’s fine. But the kind that quietly whispers: You can do this.

No matter what we’re going through…
No matter how deep the feelings go…
No matter how uncertain or dark it might feel…

We can keep walking through life. We can feel all the feels — the grief, the fear, the rage, the surrender — and still rise. Still breathe. Still heal.

Because beneath it all, even when we forget it, we are inherently strong enough. Strong enough to come through the other side. Even when we don’t yet know what that other side looks like. Even when it hasn’t taken shape yet. Even when we can’t quite see the light.

It’s there.

And so are we.

Still here.
Still human.
Still healing.
Still whole.

And I want you to know that I’m not doing this alone. I’ve finally reached out for extra support, because even as a counsellor and therapist myself, I’ve come to see how essential it is to let others hold space for me, too.

If you’re in this space, or know someone who is, there are beautiful organisations offering support beyond the hospital walls. Two that have been especially helpful are:

Yes to Life – a UK charity helping people with cancer explore integrative and complementary options.
Cancer Support UK – offering emotional and practical support to anyone affected by cancer.

Please know that reaching out is not weakness. It’s strength. It’s the beginning of finding your footing again. Wherever you are on your journey, I see you.

You are not alone.
You are not broken.
You are becoming.