The fear and pain

The Fear No One Talks About — And the Pain

 

I sit here in hospital waiting for more pain killers and thought id write 

People talk about cancer like it’s a battle, a fight, a war.

They talk about strength, bravery, positive thinking, “you’ve got this,” and all the shiny motivational words that look good on cards and Facebook posts.

 

But nobody talks about the fear.

Not the real fear.

Not the quiet, ugly, everyday fear that sits in your chest and refuses to leave.

 

And nobody talks about the pain — not just the physical, but the emotional pain that creeps into every part of your life when you’re sick.

 

So I’m going to talk about it.

Because pretending doesn’t help anyone, least of all the people who need honesty the most.

 

 

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1. The Fear of Not Knowing

 

You’d think the scariest moment would be the diagnosis.

But for me, it’s everything after.

 

The waiting.

The scans.

The results.

The appointments where the doctor takes that tiny pause before speaking — the pause that feels long enough to shatter your ribs.

 

It’s the fear of the unknown.

The fear of what the next scan might show.

The fear that every ache means something worse.

The fear that life is happening around you while you’re stuck in limbo.

 

 

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2. The Fear of Losing Yourself

 

Cancer doesn’t just attack the body.

It attacks your identity.

 

You look in the mirror and wonder where the “old you” went.

You feel like you’re watching your own life from a distance — a stranger stepping into your shoes.

 

There’s a fear that you’ll never be that person again.

That the joy, the personality, the spark you used to have won’t come back.

That you’ve become the version of yourself cancer forced you to be, not the one you chose.

 

 

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3. The Fear of the People You Love Watching You Suffer

 

This one hurts the most.

 

You worry about your kids, your mum, your friends.

You worry about the moment you see fear in their eyes.

You worry about them crying when you’re not looking.

You worry that your illness becomes their grief before anything is even final.

 

The fear isn’t just for yourself — it’s for the people who have to watch you go through it.

 

 

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4. The Fear That You Won’t Get Better

 

It’s the fear nobody wants to admit out loud.

 

The “what if this is it?”

The “what if it spreads again?”

The “what if time runs out before I’m ready?”

 

Everyone tells you to be positive, and you try — you really do — but at 2 a.m. when the house is quiet, the fear crawls out of the shadows and sits right on your chest.

 

Some nights, it feels impossible to breathe.

 

 

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And Then There’s the Pain

 

The physical pain

 

The aches, the cramps, the sharp stabs in places you never noticed before.

The soreness from treatment, the exhaustion that feels like your bones are dissolving, the stomach that never quite settles.

 

And sometimes the pain that comes out of nowhere — the one that reminds you your body is busy fighting a war you didn’t sign up for.

 

The emotional pain

 

The pain of cancelled plans.

The pain of feeling fragile.

The pain of memories you’re terrified to lose.

The pain of friendships changing.

The pain of isolation, even when you’re surrounded by people who love you.

 

The private pain

 

The parts you cry through quietly so no one hears.

The moments you whisper “I can’t do this anymore” into your pillow.

The emptiness that sits in your chest on the days where you feel like more of a diagnosis than a person.

 

 

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Here’s the Truth Nobody Says Out Loud

 

I am scared.

I am hurting.

I am tired.

But I am still here.

 

And every day I wake up is a day I didn’t give up.

 

Cancer fear isn’t weakness — it’s survival instinct.

Pain isn’t failure — it’s proof you’re still fighting.

Being honest isn’t negative — it’s brave.

 

If you’re reading this and you’re scared too, please know this:

 

You are not alone.

Your fear is valid.

Your pain is real.

You don’t have to pretend to be strong every second of every day.

 

Some days surviving is the strongest thing you’ll ever do.

 

CANCER BECOMES LONELY

How Cancer Becomes Lonely

People think cancer is full of support — family, friends, nurses, neighbours, everyone checking in. And sometimes that’s true. Sometimes you do feel surrounded.

But no one really talks about the loneliness that creeps in.
Slowly. Quietly.
Until one day you realise you’re living in a world that feels different from everyone else’s.

Cancer becomes lonely in ways that are hard to explain unless you’ve lived it.

So I’m going to try.


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1. Your world shrinks while everyone else’s stays the same.

Your life becomes:

hospital appointments

waiting rooms

blood tests

medication schedules

side effects

fatigue

fear


Everyone else carries on with work, plans, holidays, school runs, relationships, everyday normality.

And you sit there, watching life happen like you’re pressed up against the glass.

You want to join in.
You want to feel normal.
But cancer has its own timetable, and it doesn’t care about yours.

That separation — even if no one means it — becomes lonely.


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2. People don’t know what to say, so they say nothing.

At first, your phone won’t stop buzzing.
“I’m here if you need anything.” “Thinking of you.” “Stay strong.”

But as time goes on, the messages stop.
Not because people don’t care, but because they don’t know what to say anymore.

They’re scared of saying the wrong thing.
They don’t know if they should ask how you are, or if that will upset you.
They don’t understand the day-to-day reality.

So they step back.
And the silence can feel like abandonment even when it isn’t.

Sometimes the loneliest part isn’t the illness — it’s the distance that grows between you and the people who once felt close.


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3. You hide how you really feel to protect others.

You don’t want to worry your family.
You don’t want your mum to cry.
You don’t want your friends to look at you like you’re fragile.

So you say you’re fine.
You smile.
You make jokes.
You soften the edges of your fear so it doesn’t cut anyone else.

But hiding your truth creates its own loneliness — because no one sees the full picture.

You’re protecting them, but who’s protecting you?


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4. The emotional battles happen in silence.

The nights are the worst.

The fear hits harder when the house is quiet.
The thoughts you avoid in the daytime creep back.
You replay conversations with doctors.
You search your body for new pains.
You wonder about the future in ways that hurt to admit out loud.

These moments are lonely because only you can feel them.
Only you are inside your own head.
Only you are living this experience minute by minute.

Even with people around you, cancer can feel like a private storm no one else can stand in.


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5. You lose parts of your life that once made you feel connected.

Work.
Social events.
Dating.
Hobbies.
Energy.
Confidence.
Routine.

Piece by piece, cancer takes things from you.
And when you lose the things that anchor you to the world, you start to drift.

Sometimes the loneliness isn’t about people.
It’s about losing the version of yourself who felt like she belonged somewhere.


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6. People expect you to “be strong,” so there’s no room to fall apart.

No one means to pressure you, but phrases like:

“you’re so strong”

“you’ve got this”

“you’re a fighter”

“you’re so brave”


…can make you feel like breaking down is a failure.

So you hold it in.
You don’t cry in front of people.
You don’t scream.
You don’t admit you’re terrified.

And pretending to be strong is one of the loneliest performances in the world.


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7. The worst loneliness is the one you feel even when you’re not alone.

You can be in a room full of people and still feel isolated because no one truly understands what your body and mind are going through.

You can be hugged and still feel empty.
You can be surrounded by love and still feel alone.
Cancer changes the way you experience the world, and sometimes it feels like you’re existing in a different reality than everyone else.

That’s a loneliness that hits deep.


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But here’s what I’ve learned: Loneliness doesn’t mean weakness.

It doesn’t mean you’re ungrateful.
It doesn’t mean you’re dramatic.
It doesn’t mean you’re failing at coping.

It means you’re human.

Cancer is lonely because it forces you into a life you didn’t choose, with emotions you never asked for, and battles you fight inside your own skin.

But loneliness doesn’t mean you’re unloved or forgotten.

Some people don’t know how to show up — but others will surprise you.
Some days will feel impossible — but others will feel lighter.
And slowly, you start finding connection in unexpected places:

A nurse who remembers your name.
A stranger who smiles at you in the waiting room.
A friend who messages you at the right moment.
A therapist who listens.
A mum who never gives up on you.
A small moment of peace you didn’t expect.

Loneliness is part of the journey — but it isn’t the whole story.

You’re still here.
You’re still fighting.
You’re still you.

And you don’t have to face any of this completely alone — not anymore.