Stop Fighting Your Body: the Perspective that Changes Everything
It was a cold Friday evening in late January. I was on the couch, waiting for my husband to come home, when a notification lit up my phone: my test results were ready. I didn’t open them right away. I sat very still, took a few deep breaths, and braced myself for what the earlier tests had been hinting at. A small, stubborn part of me hoped for a benign explanation, but I knew better. Finally, I opened the MyChart app.
At the top of the screen, in bold, was Cytology report. I clicked and held my breath. The first line landed like a physical blow: Final Diagnosis: High grade serous carcinoma. My heart raced. I scrolled through the clinical language until I reached the interpretation: malignant cells identified. It was cancer.
In those first few moments, a flood of thoughts and emotion ran through my head. My doctor had gently prepared me for this possibility, so part of me was not surprised. And yet I felt betrayed—how could this happen when I had spent years caring for my body, trying to prevent exactly this? What had I missed? Why was my body failing me?
In that moment I made a choice. I would beat this. There was no other option. I told myself—and my body—we’re going to be okay. Something inside me shifted from fear to resolve. I didn’t know how the journey would unfold, but I trusted there was a reason this had come to me. From that point on I chose positivity. I chose to trust medicine, to trust that my healthy habits had given me a better chance, and to trust my body to guide me through this.
Instead of seeing my body as an enemy, I began to see it as a partner. What felt like failure was, I decided, a redirection. Cancer was not the end of my story but a detour toward a purpose I could not yet name. I leaned into that belief and let it shape how I moved forward.
From the first chemotherapy session, blessings arrived in unexpected ways. The flood of prayers, messages, and support left me feeling profoundly grateful. Chemo’s side effects were surprisingly mild for me; in the two weeks between treatments I often felt almost normal. My body responded well, surgery went better than expected, and recovery—though not easy—progressed steadily. I credit much of that healing to the compassion I gave myself: rest when I needed it, gentle movement when I could, and constant, quiet encouragement.
I spoke to my body every day. I told it thank you, I sent it love, and I reminded it of how strong it already was. I believe the body hears what the mind speaks, and those conversations mattered. They were small rituals of care that helped me stay centered when fear tried to take over.
Now, more than seven months after that January evening, I am on maintenance therapy. Maintenance has been harder in some ways than chemo. I’ve developed high blood pressure and near-daily headaches, and my cell counts have dipped, so I must be vigilant about infections. I message my doctors often and advocate for myself relentlessly. One lesson this journey has taught me is the importance of speaking up and getting your concerns in front of the people who can help.
Mindset has been my anchor. Staying positive is not a constant state; I have had moments of doubt, fear, and exhaustion. But prayer and faith in God’s plan bring me back. Remembering what my body has already overcome steadies me. And that quiet voice from the couch on a cold January night—We’re going to be okay—still guides me.
This experience has changed how I see myself and my body. It taught me to stop fighting what is happening inside me and to start listening. When you stop resisting and begin to partner with your body, you open space for healing, purpose, and unexpected grace.
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