The Light Behind the Darkness

It was a quarter of nine, and the clock clicked quickly toward my mid-year check-up with my oncologist surgeon.

I sat in the room—all white, except for the brown medicine cabinet and clinical accessories. My nurse checked my vital signs: 117/81 blood pressure and a 97 oxygen level.

"It’s good! Just wait for your surgeon doctor ," the nurse said before stepping out.

Sitting alone in the hum of the air conditioner, images from my past filled my mind. Within seconds, my beautiful Asian-American surgeon entered with her nurse, Christy.

"Good morning!" , she greeted me with a warm smile. We hugged and exchanged congratulations.

She began the physical exam, gently massaging my surgical area. It no longer felt numb or painful, more than a year after my mastectomy. Yet being in that space brought back memories of my surgery in February 2025, when my sister was right by my side.

Every time I visit to my cancer clinic for strict surveillance, a pinch of nostalgia moves me to tears. I am reminded of the incredible nursing team who kept me comfortable through every chemo and hydration dose. I felt a deep rush of gratitude for being so loved and supported through survival.

My surgeon’s words always echo whenever life’s storms feel overwhelming: "You are tougher than cancer. You can beat it!"

"Everything is good! Your mammogram is good, too!"

Hearing those words brought immense relief, even while a quiet, familiar fear of recurrence still lingered in the back of my mind.

"Exercise even 30 minutes a day to reduce the risk of recurrence by 50 percent!" my surgeon advised.

"I do, Doctor! 30 minutes every evening."

"That’s great—you’re doing it already!"

"Oh, I remember—you told us last time that you were going to share your article with us," Christy reminded me.

I felt a quick flash of embarrassment for forgetting to bring a printed copy of "Hope With Fear," the essay I submitted to Greater Good Science Magazine. But I quickly got Christy’s email address so I could send it directly.

Relieved, thankful, and deeply validated, I walked out of the room and headed to the infusion clinic to have my port flushed—stepping forward into health, strength, and hope. Truly , there is always the light behind the darkness.