Some Days I Fucking Hate Cancer

Some Days I Fucking Hate Cancer

🌼 Date: Sunday, June 7, 2026

⚡ Energy: Heavy, raw, and emotionally done

💔 Status: In a funk, and not pretending otherwise

😢 Outlook: Today is not inspirational. Today is honest.

You know how some days you wake up in a funk?

Guess what?

So do cancer patients.

And today was one of those days.

The kind of day where I woke up and everything just felt heavy.

Not one specific thing.

Not one clear reason.

Just all of it.

The body changes.

The exhaustion.

The scars.

The expanders.

The tightness.

The neuropathy.

The lymphedema.

The appointments.

The waiting.

The “new normal.”

The old Tina I miss.

The future Tina I am still trying to figure out.

All of it decided to climb into bed with me this morning and sit on my chest.

Rude.

Very rude.

Some days, I fucking hate cancer.

There.

I said it.

Not because I am not grateful.

I am grateful.

Not because I am giving up.

I am not giving up.

Not because I am not fighting.

I have been fighting.

I am still fighting.

But sometimes I am just tired.

Tired in my body.

Tired in my bones.

Tired in my brain.

Tired in the places that do not show up on a lab report.

Tired of looking in the mirror and not fully recognizing the person staring back at me.

Tired of feeling like my body has been through a war I never signed up for.

Tired of seeing scars, expanders, swelling, compression sleeves, short hair, tender nails, and constant reminders of something I never asked for.

My hair is finally growing back, and everyone tells me how great that is.

And it is great.

I know it is.

I am happy it is growing.

I am happy I can officially call it hair now and not peach fuzz, lint, or mystery head fluff.

But if I am being real, I still do not feel like myself.

Not all the way.

Not yet.

Maybe not for a while.

And that is hard.

Because people see the hair coming back and think, Oh good, she is getting back to normal.

They see me laugh and think I am okay.

They see me post something funny and think the hard part must be over.

They hear “you’re clear” and think the fear packed its bags and left.

But inside?

Inside is more complicated.

Inside, I am still trying to learn this body.

Still trying to accept it.

Still trying to trust it.

Still trying to not flinch every time something feels strange.

Still trying to look at myself with kindness instead of grief.

I still struggle with my body image.

A lot.

I still have moments where I look down at my chest and feel overwhelmed by how much has changed.

The missing pieces.

The added pieces.

The deflated bag.

The expander.

The scars.

The shape that is not mine and yet somehow is mine now.

It is a lot to carry.

And today, I did not carry it gracefully.

Today was one of those days where the weight of everything hit me all at once.

The kind of day where I cried until I had nothing left.

The kind of day where I wished none of this had ever happened.

The kind of day where I did not want to be strong.

I did not want to be brave.

I did not want to be inspiring.

I did not want to turn pain into a lesson or grief into a cute little ribbon-wrapped moment.

I just wanted it to not be true.

I wanted to wake up in my old body.

With my old energy.

My old hair.

My old chest.

My old clothes that fit.

My old shoes that actually got worn somewhere besides doctor appointments and Mexican food.

My old sense of safety.

My old life.

And yes, I know that is not how this works.

I know I cannot go backward.

I know I have to build forward.

I know this body survived something brutal.

I know these scars are proof that I am still here.

I know the treatments did what they were supposed to do.

I know all of that.

But knowing all of that does not mean I do not get to grieve.

Cancer does not just affect your body.

It affects your confidence.

Your identity.

Your mental health.

Your relationships.

Your routines.

Your independence.

Your sense of safety.

Your ability to trust your own reflection.

It affects the way you see yourself.

The way you move through the world.

The way people look at you.

The way you plan your day.

The way you think about the future.

The way you hear the word “normal.”

And some days, that is just too damn much.

Most days, I keep going.

Most days, I find the strength.

Most days, I make the joke.

Most days, I turn the hard thing into a blog post with a little Tina spice sprinkled on top.

Most days, I can say, Okay, this sucks, but we are still moving.

But some days?

Some days I break.

Today was a breaking day.

And I am trying not to shame myself for that.

Because breaking does not mean I am weak.

Breaking does not mean I am failing.

Breaking does not mean I am ungrateful.

Breaking does not erase the fight.

Breaking does not cancel the hope.

Breaking means I am human.

A human who has been through surgery, chemo, radiation, side effects, body changes, pain, fear, grief, and months of waking up inside a life that looks nothing like the one I had before.

Of course I break sometimes.

How could I not?

I think that is one of the lies of survivorship.

People expect you to survive and then smile.

Survive and be grateful.

Survive and move on.

Survive and be inspiring.

Survive and get back to normal.

Survive and make everyone else comfortable with the fact that the scary part is “over.”

But the real version is messier.

Sometimes surviving looks like crying in the bathroom.

Sometimes it looks like avoiding the mirror.

Sometimes it looks like touching your scars and feeling angry.

Sometimes it looks like missing your breasts.

Sometimes it looks like missing your hair even though it is growing back.

Sometimes it looks like being furious that your body became a medical project.

Sometimes it looks like saying, I have had enough.

And if you have ever had one of those moments, me too.

I have had enough moments.

I have “I can’t do this today” moments.

I have “I miss myself” moments.

I have “why did this happen to me?” moments.

I have “I am grateful but also pissed” moments.

I have moments where I look in the mirror and think, Who is this woman, and how do I learn to love her?

That is not weakness.

That is the truth.

And today, I am sharing the tears too.

Because cancer is not just bravery and pink ribbons and inspirational quotes.

It is not just smiling photos and “you’ve got this” and warrior language.

Sometimes cancer is grief.

Sometimes it is anger.

Sometimes it is body image issues.

Sometimes it is fear.

Sometimes it is staring at your reflection and missing the person you used to be.

Sometimes it is feeling lonely even when you are loved.

Sometimes it is mourning the pieces of yourself that nobody else realizes are gone.

And sometimes it is waking up in a funk and realizing you do not have the energy to pretend your way out of it.

So today, I am not pretending.

Today I am telling the truth.

I hate cancer.

I hate what it took.

I hate what it changed.

I hate how much space it still takes up, even now that I am clear.

I hate that I am still healing.

I hate that I am still tired.

I hate that I still have to negotiate with my own body over things that used to be easy.

I hate that I have to rebuild confidence in a body that feels unfamiliar.

I hate that I can be so grateful to be alive and still feel so sad about what survival cost.

Both things can be true.

They are true today.

And if you are in this too, or if you have ever had a day where the weight of it all finally cracked something open, I need you to know this:

You are not weak.

You are not failing.

You are not ungrateful.

You are not doing survivorship wrong.

You are human.

You are allowed to have bad days.

You are allowed to cry.

You are allowed to be angry.

You are allowed to miss who you were.

You are allowed to hate what happened to you.

You are allowed to be tired of being strong.

You are allowed to want more than survival.

And you are allowed to say, I have had enough, even while you keep going.

Today was not a pretty day.

It was not a brave little sparkle day.

It was not a “look how far I’ve come” day.

It was a crying day.

A grief day.

A fuck cancer day.

A day where I missed myself.

And I am posting it anyway.

Because this is part of the journey too.

The raw part.

The ugly part.

The part we do not always put in the pictures.

The part that happens after the treatment ends and everyone thinks the worst is behind you, but your heart and mind are still trying to catch up with your body.

So if today is heavy for you too, sit with me for a minute.

No fixing.

No pretending.

No forced positivity.

Just truth.

This is hard.

This hurts.

We did not ask for this.

And we are not alone.

Some days we sparkle.

Some days we survive.

And some days we cry until there is nothing left, wipe our faces, and whisper:

Not today, cancer.

You do not get all of me.

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💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time