Sometimes, isolation doesn’t look like being alone.

Sometimes it looks like being surrounded by people you love and still not feeling like you have the energy to explain yourself.

I’ve been there lately.

I haven’t spent as much time with my family as I normally would. There are moments when isolation gets the better of me and connecting with people feels more like work than I have the capacity for.

Part of that is the strange exhaustion of having problems that feel so niche that you don’t want to risk explaining them.

You share something vulnerable and receive the “well-intended” nod.

“Everything will be okay.”

Or someone responds with their own experience.

Or they try to find the positive before you’ve even had a chance to finish saying what hurts.

None of those responses necessarily come from a bad place, but sometimes, what you need isn’t someone to solve, reframe or compare what you just said.

You just need somewhere for it to land.

And I’ve realized there can be a strange imbalance in survivorship; the people around you may feel completely under-qualified to handle whatever you’re going through, while somehow your history of cancer makes everyone assume you’re qualified to handle anything they put in front of you.

Apparently surviving cancer comes with a complimentary degree in “Emotional Everything”.

I’m still waiting for the certificate.

So, I pulled myself out of my bubble recently and went to spend time with my family.

A big part being my newborn nephew.

And partly because, sometimes the best way out of isolation isn’t a grand intervention. It’s simply showing up where you are loved.

During that visit, I was asked if I’d be interested in driving my elderly aunt to do some grocery shopping.

Now, I’m Greek. My aunt is Filipino. She married my father’s brother and has always been a foundational part of my upbringing.

She was so excited to go because it was specifically an Asian grocery store.

Not mildly interested.

Excited!

The kind of excitement that is completely contagious when you’re willing to slow down and notice it.

Without hesitation, I was in!

Let’s go!

We walked through the aisles together. I asked questions about foods and ingredients I didn’t recognize. She explained things to me. We laughed, shared little moments that probably wouldn’t make anyone’s highlight reel.

And somewhere between the grocery carts and spicy snacks that I COMPLETELY over-indulged in … something happened that I hadn’t expected.

I felt joy.

Not the enormous, inspirational, cancer survivor kind of joy that photographs well.

Just simple, child-like happiness.

I was with my aunt.

She loved me.

I loved her.

And for a little while, cancer wasn’t part of the conversation … cancer wasn’t there.

It didn’t need to be.

The experience reminded me that our relationships don’t always need to revolve around the biggest things that happen to us.

We can be survivors without every interaction being about survivorship.

We can be complicated without needing to explain every complication.

We can simply be someone’s nephew, sibling, friend, uncle, cousin, partner … or the person standing beside them trying to figure out what the hell that vegetable is.

I recognize how fortunate I am to have family relationships where that kind of warmth exists. Not everyone has that. Families can be complicated, fractured, chosen, distant or non-existent. There is no universal version of what a family should look like.

Maybe … that’s the point.

We choose our relationships.

Some people are the family we’re born into and continue to grow with. Some are the people we choose. Some arrive unexpectedly and stay. Some relationships change over time.

What matters is finding the people who see us as more than what might be the most significant thing that has ever happened to us.

The people who know our cancer story, but also know how our laughter sounds.

Our weird habits.

Our favourite foods.

Our terrible jokes.

The parts of us that existed before cancer, and the parts that grew afterward.

Those are our people … our mirrors.

Sometimes, finding our way back to ourselves doesn’t require anything profound.

Sometimes it looks like getting into a car, going to the grocery story and letting someone else’s happiness become yours for a Friday evening.

 

A Reflection for All of Us

Cancer can take a lot from us.

Time. Energy. Certainty. Parts of the identity we thought we knew.

But there are things it doesn’t get to own.

A ridiculous laugh.

A shared meal.

A family story we’ve heard a hundred times.

The excitement of discovering something new.

The feeling of being known without having to explain yourself.

The ordinary moments that remind us we are still here, and capable of being fully, wonderfully human.

We don’t always need to search for the big moment … notice the small one.

Because warmth lives in those moments.

And cancer can’t touch that.

— Written by: Peter Laneas
Advocacy & Engagement Lead
Cancer Fatigue Services