06/02/2026
โ๐ ๐๐๐ฌ ๐๐จ๐จ ๐๐จ๐ฎ๐ง๐ ๐๐จ ๐๐ ๐๐ข๐๐ค, ๐๐ง๐ญ๐ข๐ฅ ๐ ๐๐๐ฌ ๐๐จ๐จ ๐๐๐ญ๐โ
I used to laugh a lot.
The kind of laugh that came out too loud in cafรฉs. The kind my friends teased me about. I was 27, working full-time, always tired but always telling myself it was normal. Everyone is tired, right?
The first sign was the weight loss.
People complimented me.
โWah, you slimmed down.โ
โWhatever youโre doing, keep it up.โ
I smiled. I didnโt tell them I wasnโt trying.
Then came the fatigue. The kind that sleep couldnโt fix. Iโd wake up already exhausted, my body heavy like it hadnโt rested at all. I told myself I was just stressed. Young people are always stressed.
The lump came later.
It didnโt hurt.
So I ignored it.
I googled. Closed the tab. Googled again. Closed it again. I didnโt want to be dramatic. I didnโt want to be that person who panics over nothing.
When I finally told someone, they said,
โYouโre still young. Donโt think so much.โ
So I didnโt.
Months passed. My body changed, but my excuses stayed the same.
By the time I sat in the doctorโs office, I already knew something was wrong. I just didnโt expect the word cancer to land so quietly.
Stage 4.
No dramatic music. No warning. Just silence โ and then my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
I remember thinking:
โIf only I had listened earlier.โ
Now, people tell me Iโm brave.
They tell me Iโm strong.
They tell me they โcould never imagineโ this happening to someone my age.
Neither could I.
But cancer doesnโt wait for permission.
It doesnโt check your age, your plans, or how busy you are.
It only waits for silence.
And I gave it too much.
