Alive, but Not Invited Back

Alive, but Not Invited Back

I hate that I still cry at night.
I hate that after 18 months, this diagnosis still feels like a bomb went off in the middle of my life.
I hate that I wish I could rewind — go back and do it all differently.
I hate that cancer keeps writing itself into every part of my story, even when I try to write about something else.

I hate the scar on my head that will never go away.
I hate that my hair grows in patches now, like even my body is unsure how to move forward.
I hate the cold, fluorescent-lit MRI appointments I sit through every three months, waiting for a scan to tell me if I still get to live.
I hate what this has done to my husband, to my family — the unthinkable fear and sadness I could not protect them from.

But I keep writing — because this is how I survive it.
I write to make sense of the chaos. I write so others like me do not feel so alone.
I write to share my experiences — the good, the hard, the brutally complicated.

Recently, I applied for a position at my job.
That might not seem like a big deal to most people, but for me, it meant something deeper.

Because not long ago, I was told I had less than a year to live.

That kind of sentence pulls the floor out from under you. Suddenly, your calendar disappears. Your plans vanish. Everything that once felt steady — your career, your routines, your role in the world — dissolves into one question: How long do I have?

So, I stepped back. I said no to things I used to lead. I let go of responsibilities I once owned. I did it because I thought I had to — because I genuinely believed I would not be here much longer.

But here is something I have learned the hard way:
Be careful when you step away… because you never know if you will be asked to step forward again. Sometimes, the door you leave gently swings closed behind you — and when you come back ready to walk through it, you find it locked, or worse, forgotten.

But now... I am still here.
Still breathing. Still working. Still showing up.

And something unexpected happened: I realized I want back in. I want more to do. I want the chance to grow, to lead, to be part of something meaningful again.

But here is what no one tells you after cancer:
People do not always know what to do with you once you survive.

They are kind. They are careful. They are supportive.
But you feel it — that space they place between you and the real work.
You feel the shift in how people speak to you, the quiet way you are left out of things you once belonged to.

It is like being alive disqualifies you in a different way now.
Not because you are not capable, but because you were once fragile.
Because they remember the version of you that was scared, tired, and sick — and they are unsure what to do with the version of you that came back ready to fight again.

And that hurts.

Not because I feel entitled.
Not because I want sympathy.
But because I know what I am capable of — and I want the chance to prove that I still matter.

The truth is: I am not angry. I am not even disappointed.
I am just sad. Sad that surviving something as brutal as cancer does not come with a return ticket to your old life. Sad that being “still here” does not always mean being truly seen.

So yes, I put myself out there. Not because I want a favor — but because I know I still have something real to offer. I am here, I am ready, and I refuse to let survival be the end of my story.

If you are in this same space — if you have made it through the unthinkable and now find yourself standing on the outside of the life you once knew — I see you.

I know how much it hurts to be diminished when you are so ready to rise.

And I want to remind you — and myself — that we are not broken.
We are not fragile.
We are not done.

We are still here, we are human.
And we are still so, so capable.

– Johnathan
JohnVsGBM