Learning a New Word: Survivor Dissonance After a Terminal Prognosis

Learning a New Word: Survivor Dissonance After a Terminal Prognosis

I recently learned a phrase that stopped me in my tracks:

Survivor dissonance after a terminal prognosis.

I did not find it in a self-help book or on social media. I stumbled into it while trying to put words to something I have been feeling but did not quite know how to explain.

This post is my attempt to do that. Not dramatically. Not with despair. Just honestly.

Because I am pretty sure I am not the only one.

Loving life and still feeling conflicted

Let me say this clearly first, because context matters.

I love being alive.

I love my husband. I love the small routines we have built. I love waking up and realizing I still get to participate in the world. I do not sit around wishing I were dead. That is not what this is.

But here is the part that feels strange to admit out loud.

When I was told I had about twelve months to live, part of me made peace with that ending. I prepared for it emotionally. I reorganized my thoughts around it. I imagined what it might be like to step into the one experience every human eventually faces.

Death stopped being only fear. It became mystery. An unknown. Maybe even, in some abstract way, an adventure.

And then it did not happen.

I survived.

The dissonance no one talks about

Most people assume survival only brings relief and gratitude. And yes, those things are real. But there is another layer that is rarely acknowledged.

When you are told you are going to die, your mind adapts to that reality. You grieve yourself in advance. You loosen your grip on the future. You say quiet goodbyes internally, even if you do not realize you are doing it.

When survival disrupts that process, something gets stuck.

You are alive, but part of your psyche had already crossed a threshold.

That is where survivor dissonance comes in. The tension between the life you expected to end and the life you are still living.

It does not mean you want to die.
It does not mean you are ungrateful.
It does not mean something is wrong with you.

It means grief does not always follow a neat timeline.

Curiosity is not the same as wanting to escape

One of the hardest parts to explain is this.

I was not looking forward to death because I hated life. I was curious because I had already been forced to stare directly at it. Death became less abstract and more contemplative.

Curiosity about death does not cancel joy in living.

They can exist at the same time.

But because death is such a taboo topic, especially for survivors, it can feel shameful to admit that part of you still wonders. Still reflects. Still remembers what it felt like to stand at the edge of the unknown.

That curiosity is not a desire to leave life behind. It is a byproduct of having been told, with certainty, that life was ending.

The grief that lingers after survival

Survival does not erase grief. It reshapes it.

There is grief for the version of yourself that accepted death.
Grief for the clarity that came with a timeline.
Grief for the permission to stop planning so far ahead.
Grief for the certainty that is now gone.

Living after a terminal prognosis often means learning how to grieve something that did not happen, while still honoring the life that did.

That is a strange place to stand.

Moving into 2026 with intention

As I look toward 2026, I am realizing that part of my work now is not just physical survival. It is emotional integration.

I want to acknowledge this grief instead of pushing it away.
I want to name the dissonance instead of judging it.
I want to make space for curiosity without letting it turn into guilt.

For me, coping looks like this:

• Writing instead of suppressing

• Talking honestly instead of performing gratitude

• Letting complexity exist without needing to resolve it

• Accepting that healing does not mean forgetting the edge I once stood on

This is not about fixing myself. It is about understanding myself.

If you feel this too

If you are a survivor who was once given an expiration date, and part of this resonates, I want you to know something.

You are not broken.
You are not dark.
You are not ungrateful.

You are someone who walked closer to death than most people ever do, and then had to turn around and keep living.

That leaves a mark.

Learning the phrase survivor dissonance did not magically solve anything for me. But it gave me language. And sometimes, language is the first step toward gentleness.

I am still here. I still love life. And I am still learning how to hold everything that came with almost losing it.