Living in the Shadow of Doubt
Lately, I’ve been wrestling with immense doubt.
I keep asking myself whether any of the things I’m doing — or have talked about — are actually working. In November, I felt grounded in hope. I truly believed I could see a light at the end of the tunnel. Now that light feels distant, almost gone, replaced with frustration and uncertainty.
On January 27th, I underwent an open adrenalectomy. The surgery was successful. A 19 cm mass was removed along with my adrenal gland, and incredibly, no other organs had to be cut away or removed. That was a huge victory.
I’ve been recovering at home since January 31st. The fatigue has been overwhelming — a deep, full-body exhaustion that’s hard to describe unless you’ve lived it. It’s normal after such a major surgery, I know that. But when your days are filled with that kind of heaviness, depression often follows. And that’s where I’ve been.
Extremely depressed. Questioning everything. Trying to make sense of something that doesn’t seem to make sense at all.
This emotional weight isn’t just from surgery. It’s also grief.
In early December, I lost a friend to cancer. As time passes, I’m realizing how deeply his death has affected me. No matter how much money he invested in alternative therapies, how healthy he lived, how much chemotherapy and radiation he endured, how fiercely he fought — cancer still took his life. It ripped him away from the people who loved him.
From where I stand now, it can feel like all of it was for nothing.
I’ve been thinking about him a lot. Drawing uncomfortable parallels to my own life. Death can come at any moment — through a car accident, a plane crash, or some unforeseen calamity. But when you’re facing cancer, death doesn’t feel abstract. It feels personal. It feels close. It feels like it’s standing right in front of you, looking you in the eye.
And then you’re left with a choice.
Do you live in denial?
Or do you let death into the room it’s been knocking on and learn how to sit with that reality?
Lately, I’ve felt like all the alternative therapies I’ve pursued aren’t a cure. Maybe they’re just strategies to slow something that ultimately has a will of its own. That thought has shaken me.
It has forced me to confront how little control we truly have. No matter what tactics I implement, cancer seems to operate on its own timeline. I don’t always know what’s right or wrong anymore. I don’t know which path guarantees anything — because the truth is, there are no guarantees.
I apologize if this isn’t uplifting. It’s not meant to be.
This is simply where I am.
Writing this is cathartic for me. It helps me untangle the knot of emotions that the last month has tied inside my chest. And maybe, just maybe, putting these thoughts into words is one small step toward finding my way back to hope again.
Because even if hope feels distant right now… I know I’ve found it before.
And maybe that means I can find it again.
