The Waiting Is the Worst

The Waiting Is the Worst

🌼 Date: Sunday, July 12, 2026

⚡ Energy: Heavy, restless, and trying not to spiral

❤️‍🩹 Status: Living in the in-between

🤕 Outlook: Waiting is part of healing, but damn, it is hard

The waiting is the worst.

There.

I said it.

You finish your last treatment, whether that was chemo or radiation, and everyone sort of expects this big celebration moment.

Ring the bell.

Take the picture.

Smile.

Cry happy tears.

Say “I did it.”

And yes, those moments matter.

They absolutely matter.

But then what?

You go home.

And you wait.

You wait for the next appointment.

The next lab.

The next scan.

The next follow-up.

The next “we’ll just keep an eye on it.”

The next thing your body decides to do that makes your brain immediately scream, What fresh hell is this?

No one really talks about what that waiting period feels like.

Not enough.

Because this in-between space is one of the hardest parts of the entire journey.

Treatment is done, but cancer is not really done with your brain.

Your calendar may have fewer appointments, but your mind is still running a full-time surveillance operation.

Every ache.

Every pain.

Every weird sensation.

Every twinge.

Every headache.

Every sore spot.

Every change.

Every “was that there before?”

Suddenly everything feels suspicious.

My body makes one strange noise, and my brain is already holding a flashlight under its chin telling ghost stories.

You try to pretend everything is normal.

You try to go to dinner.

You try to go camping.

You try to write.

You try to laugh.

You try to make plans.

You try to act like you are just a regular person living a regular life and not someone who has had their body cut, poisoned, burned, scanned, drained, expanded, deflated, refilled, and medically micromanaged for months.

But normal does not feel normal anymore.

Normal feels like a costume I am still figuring out how to wear.

People are excited for you.

And I get that.

I really do.

They want you to be okay.

They want the hard part to be over.

They want the story to have a neat ending.

Treatment is done.

Cancer is gone.

Cue the confetti.

But inside, it is not that simple.

Sometimes I feel like I should be celebrating, but I cannot quite feel the joy yet.

Not fully.

Not without the “but what if” sitting in the corner like an unwanted houseguest with its shoes on my couch.

What if it comes back?

What if the ache means something?

What if the next scan finds something?

What if my body has been hiding something again?

What if I missed a sign?

What if I make plans and then everything changes?

Cancer teaches you that your body can betray you quietly.

And once you know that, it is hard to unknow it.

That is the part I was not prepared for.

The waiting.

The uncertainty.

The lying awake at night running through every possible outcome.

The brave face.

The smile.

The “I’m doing okay.”

The “just tired.”

The “one day at a time.”

Meanwhile, inside, your brain is running through a whole disaster slideshow like it is getting paid overtime.

And then comes the guilt.

Because of course it does.

You feel guilty for not being more positive.

Guilty for not feeling more grateful.

Guilty because you survived and other people did not.

Guilty because people are happy for you and you are still scared.

Guilty because you know it could be worse.

Guilty because you should be celebrating, but instead you are standing in the kitchen wondering if that random pain is cancer or gas.

And let me tell you, that is a very specific kind of emotional whiplash.

You want to hope.

You really do.

But hope feels risky now.

Making future plans feels risky.

Getting excited feels risky.

Believing your body is safe feels risky.

Because cancer took the ease away.

That is one of the biggest things I grieve.

The ease I used to feel in my own body.

Before cancer, a random ache was just a random ache.

A headache was just a headache.

Feeling tired meant I probably did too much.

Now everything comes with a question mark.

Everything feels like it needs to be monitored, explained, justified, or mentally filed under “probably fine but let’s panic anyway.”

I miss trusting my body.

I miss not thinking about lymph nodes.

I miss not knowing my neutrophil count.

I miss not having opinions about protein grams, expanders, scar tissue, radiation changes, and whether my fake boobs should have nipples.

I miss the old boring.

The old boring was underrated.

And this waiting space?

It is lonely.

Because from the outside, it can look like the worst is over.

But inside, you are still walking through it.

Maybe not the same way.

Maybe not with chemo bags or radiation beams or drains hanging from your body.

But emotionally?

Mentally?

You are still in it.

Still healing.

Still grieving.

Still watching.

Still wondering.

Still trying to figure out how to live after surviving.

And then, because life is rude and oddly poetic, I realized yesterday’s post was officially post #200.

I did not even realize it until after it was live, which feels very on brand.

Two hundred posts.

Two hundred pieces of this wild, messy, scary, funny, heartbreaking, healing journey.

And somehow post #200 ended up being about Maizy making it home safe.

Honestly?

I will take that as a sign.

Because maybe that is what this part of the journey is too.

Getting scared.

Running in circles.

Feeling lost.

Hearing the voices of the people who love you calling you home.

And slowly, carefully, finding your way back.

If you are in this waiting space right now, I see you.

If you are done with treatment but do not feel done, I see you.

If everyone thinks you should be celebrating but you are still scared, I see you.

If you are analyzing every ache and pain like your body is a crime scene, I see you.

If you are grateful and terrified at the same time, I see you.

If you feel guilty for not being more positive, I see you.

If you are grieving the ease you used to feel in your body, I see you.

If hope feels fragile, I see you.

This is one of the loneliest parts of the journey.

And everything you are feeling is valid.

The fear.

The anger.

The grief.

The gratitude.

The exhaustion.

The hope.

The lack of hope.

The brave face.

The private tears.

All of it.

Valid.

Healing is not just getting through treatment.

Sometimes healing is learning how to live in the waiting.

Learning how to make plans while still being scared.

Learning how to laugh while still checking for signs.

Learning how to trust your body in tiny pieces.

Learning how to hold joy in one hand and fear in the other.

Learning how to keep going when there is no clear finish line.

So today, I am naming the waiting.

Because it deserves to be named.

It is real.

It is hard.

It is lonely.

And if you are there too, you are not alone.

I am right here with you.

Still waiting.

Still healing.

Still trying.

Still taking it one badass day at a time.

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💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time