And What It Says About Who Stays

I’ve known for some time that cancer changes your body and your future. But long ago I began to realize that I wasn’t prepared how it would change my inner circle. I hadn’t expected to lose people that were once close and now are gone.

The Loud Grief No One Talks About

There’s a loud grief that comes with the illness that isn’t discussed in treatment rooms. Nor have I written about. It’s one that I’ve just sat on for the past three years. Until now.

It’s about those friends and associates that once called or messaged regularly and grew silent. Those conversations skim the surface now if anything at all.

Some people don’t know what to say, I get that. Others don’t want to stand too close as if something is too heavy, uncertain, or unreal for them. I understand this as well.

But none imagine how I feel. Or if they do simply don’t care.

Then there’s the math.

I’ve probably spoken to every one of the 361 people I follow on Instagram at various times. I’ve exchanged messages and video chats with them and have exchanged phone numbers and addresses too.

That’s who I am.

I believe in connection. I reach out. I remember birthdays. I support fundraisers. I send encouragement. I’ve written interviews highlighting other people’s accomplishments and passions. I’ve celebrated others publicly and privately because I believe relationships should be mutual not transactional.

But since my diagnosis in 2023, if I’m honest, maybe 20 have reciprocated through the years in any consistent way. That number seems to be dwindling even lower.

That forces questions l never thought I would ask of myself.

Is my journey that fruitless?
Is it that uncomfortable?
Is it so threatening to someone’s carefully protected world? How can I be ignored without as much as a ‘you got this’ or a ❤️ after a post?

These people are the ones I’ve showed up most for in their time of need or celebration. Yet are absent from mine.

I’m not looking for grand gestures. I’m not asking anyone to carry my weight. Just to be seen. Just presence. Just a small fraction of the energy I’ve poured into others for years. Mere breadcrumbs are all, a small expectation of grace. There’s a special ache in realizing the support I once gave so freely can’t find its way back. Especially battling this disease.

Numbers vs. Roots

Recently, I removed 2,500 Instagram followers who weren’t active or engaging. They were numbers, not roots.

That decision clarified something deeper. If I can release silent observers, why wouldn’t I unfollow those who once had ties to me? After all, they chose silence when things mattered most to me.

Why should access stay where presence disappeared?

Cancer didn’t just weaken my body; it sharpened my vision. It revealed emotional capacity. It exposed who can sit with me and who avoids me. But what stings most isn’t strangers staying quiet. It’s the ones I’ve invested in.

The Secondary Loss

The friendship loss cuts just as deeply as the diagnosis itself. When my body is fighting, emotional abandonment feels amplified. It reminds me of my youth and young adult life.

I don’t resent those who left. Not everyone is built for long roads. Not everyone can handle proximity to mortality, vulnerability, or transformation. But cancer has also given me something unexpected: discernment.

I’m no longer interested in numbers. I’m interested in roots. Depth. Reciprocity. People who don’t just consume the image of resilience but are willing to stand in the reality with my struggle.

What Cancer Hasn’t Taken

Cancer hasn’t just been testing my body and mind. It’s testing every relationship I’ve ever had in life. Including those that have failed, have strengthened and the newly revealed ones. But here’s what cancer hasn’t taken from me. My capacity to love. If anything, it has refined it.

I understand now. People leave for reasons that often have more to do with their own fears than with my worth. Discomfort makes people retreat. Vulnerability exposes cracks they’re not ready to face. And while their absence hurts, it didn’t harden me.

I won’t become distant just because others did. I won’t measure compassion based on whether it was returned in equal portions. That’s not who I am.

Even in my hardest season when I’m feeling forgotten, I won’t stop being someone that shows up. If one day those who stepped back find themselves in their own storm, I won’t meet them with silence. I won’t meet them with score keeping. I will meet them the same way I always have, with presence. Not because they earned it. But because I refuse to let pain dictate my character.

Cancer has revealed who would stay. Yet it also confirmed who I am. And I’m here to stay for those in need because ‘I Am Me‘ and I’m, ‘Rooted in Love‘.

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