In June 2024, I heard the words no one wants to hear: “You have breast cancer.” Two months later, in August, I underwent a bilateral mastectomy. And now, six months later, I’m still healing—physically, emotionally, and mentally. Because here’s the truth no one really prepares you for: healing doesn’t follow a straight line. It’s not just about scars fading or the pain subsiding. It’s an ongoing process, and some days, it feels like it will never end.

And just as I start to find a rhythm in this healing process, I’m preparing for yet another major step—DIEP flap reconstruction. In just a few weeks, I’ll undergo this intense procedure, one that comes with its own set of challenges, pain, and recovery milestones. (And if one more person refers to DIEP as a tummy tuck, I will lose my shit.  A tummy tuck doesn’t require vein harvesting, doppler wires inserted into your chest, or a three-day ICU stay. It’s way more intense than my double mastectomy was.) While I know it’s a step toward rebuilding, it’s also daunting to face another round of surgeries and healing when I’m still trying to process everything that’s already happened. In many ways, it feels like grief—just when I think I’ve accepted one loss, another hurdle appears, forcing me to process it all over again. But I keep reminding myself: healing, no matter how hard, is still moving forward.

Physically -This is More than Just Scars 

Physically, healing after a mastectomy is a marathon, not a sprint. The first few weeks were a haze of pain management, drains, limited mobility, and exhaustion. I had to relearn simple things—how to get out of bed without using my arms too much, how to sleep comfortably, and how to manage the weird, numb-yet-painful sensations that came with losing a part of my body. Some days, I can function as if nothing happened. Other days, I feel like I am trapped in someone else’s body, one that doesn’t work the way I expect it to.

Then, there’s the long-term recovery and this is often forgotten by anyone else except the patient. The stiffness. The weakness. The endless physical therapy exercises that feel minor but are absolutely necessary because mobility matters. Even now, my body reminds me daily of what it’s been through. Some days, I feel almost normal. Other days, I wonder if I’ll ever be able to do a push-up again (or if I ever really wanted to in the first place) or lift my arms up over my head without pain. 

And don’t forget the overlooked cancer side effect – lymphedema. Oh this shit is just the gift that keeps on giving. The swelling, the heaviness, the constant awareness that my arm doesn’t quite feel like it belongs to me. It’s another reminder that healing isn’t linear, that just when I think I’ve adjusted, a new challenge pops up. Lymphedema isn’t just physical—it messes with my brain too. The discomfort, the extra care required, the never-ending management of compression sleeves and drainage all add to the exhaustion. (Side note: where are all the cute compression sleeves?  This beige thing is boring as all get out.) And the BRAIN FOG.  Oh my dear fucking GAWD, the brain fog! Some days, I can’t even focus. And some days, my mood swings hit out of nowhere, making me question if I’m even in control of my own emotions anymore.

But one thing I can still do? Run. Slowly, awkwardly, stubbornly—I can still run. Running is the one physical activity that doesn’t require me to accommodate my amputation. My arms don’t have to work in some modified way, my core doesn’t have to pick up slack, and for once, I don’t have to think about what I’ve lost. I just put one foot in front of the other. Even though I’m slow, even though I’ll never win a race, running is the rare place where my body feels like it still belongs to me. And right now, that’s everything.

Goodbye, Old Self:  Feelings are Hard 

People talk about “bouncing back” after cancer, but the truth is, there’s no going back. Emotionally, I’ve had to grieve the body I once had, the version of myself that didn’t know what it was like to battle cancer. There’s a strange mix of gratitude and loss—grateful to be here, to be healing, but also mourning what was taken. I never realized how much of my identity was tied to feeling physically whole until I wasn’t whole anymore. And who ever thought so much of your identity would be tied to that?

But my body wasn’t just something to grieve—it was a body that carried and nurtured two daughters, a body that had already fought its way through multi-organ failure and an autoimmune inflammatory disease. It wasn’t perfect, but it was strong, resilient, and capable. And now, as I recover from cancer, I remind myself that strength is still in me, even when I feel anything but.

But let’s talk about the guilt. Because my cancer only had microinvasions, I dodged the bullet called chemo. I didn’t have to go through the all-consuming exhaustion, the sickness, the hair loss. I know women who have. Women who are still fighting. And here I am, recovering, moving forward, while others are still in the trenches with this bullshit disease. It’s a weight I carry in moments of reflection, an unspoken guilt that lingers alongside the relief. Healing isn’t just about what my body has endured—it’s about reconciling the fact that I got lucky, even in the midst of all the loss.  My surgeon called it the best case of a bad diagnosis  I still don’t know how to feel about this  Survivor’s guilt doesn’t even begin to come close to describing this feeling at all. 

Then, there’s the outside world. The people who say, “You must be so relieved it’s over now!” as if the hard part ended the moment the cancer was cut out. But the fear lingers. The trauma lingers. The realization that I will never fully return to who I was before lingers. Some days, I feel surrounded by love and support, reminded that I am not alone. My husband, and my daughters have basically wrapped me in love and healing.  Same with Christine and Ariel. And Jay too. My team at work has been insanely helpful and reminding me regularly that I can do hard things and I am resilient.  Other days, even with all of that support, I feel completely isolated—because no one else is living in my skin, feeling this loss in the same way I do. Healing can be really lonely, even when you’re surrounded by people who love you. But I keep looking for the light, even on the darkest days.

But What If…

Mentally, healing is a constant battle. Cancer messes with your brain in ways no one warns you about. The anxiety before every follow-up appointment. The fear of recurrence lurking in the background. The mental exhaustion of having to “be strong” for everyone else when all you want to do is scream. Some days, I can put those thoughts away. Other days, they creep in and take over, making even the simplest tasks feel impossible.

There’s the way this disease can crumble your confidence too, eroding the trust you once had in your own body and thoughts. It sneaks into your brain and whispers that you are weak, that your body betrayed you, that you’re not as resilient as everyone says you are. And it’s hard—so damn hard—to combat those thoughts. Some days, I can fight back, remind myself that I am still here, still pushing forward. Other days, it feels like I am drowning in doubt, struggling to believe that healing is even possible. The mental weight of this journey is just as exhausting as the physical recovery, and sometimes, it feels never-ending.

But then there’s the knowledge I can’t escape—my mom died of lung cancer. It’s one thing to live with the science of recurrence and those odds and quite another to live with that personal history. It’s mind-numbing at times, knowing what cancer can do, seeing the statistics and understanding my own personal risks. I actively have to work against anxiety and panic, but some days, it’s a battle that feels minute to minute – AND NEVERENDING. The rational part of my brain tells me I’m doing everything right but the emotional part wonders if I’ll ever feel safe in my own body again. But I remind myself: I am here. I am healing. And I am choosing hope, even when it’s hard.

There is an identity shift that comes with a cancer diagnosis too. Before, I was just me. Marissa Southards, overachiever with a violent fear of failure…. Now, I’m a Cancer Survivor_^TM, whether I want that label or not. It changes the way people see me and even the way I see myself. Some days, I lean into it, finding strength in what I’ve been through. I am resilient and that’s my superpower!  Other days, I just want to be a regular person, not someone defined by a disease. I fought my way through one disease identity, but cancer feels like so much to cast off.  It’s another form of grief—the loss of the old me, the one who didn’t have to constantly think about mortality, surgery, recurrence odds, risk management, and what comes next. But through it all, I remind myself that I am more than what happened to me, although some days I REALLY struggle with that  

Why This So Messy?

Healing is messy. It’s nonlinear. It’s frustrating. But it’s also full of small victories. The first time I reached a shelf I couldn’t before – VICTORY!  The first time I went for a run again – VICTORY!  The first time I laughed without that dark cloud hanging over me – VICTORY!  But even those victories don’t erase the hard days. The days when I wake up and feel like I am stuck in a body that isn’t mine. The days when I feel like no amount of support will make this easier. The days when I just want to be done with this whole process, even though I know I still have a long way to go.

This is just the beginning of my journey in writing about what healing really looks like. Because it’s not just about surviving anymore.  I am figuring out how to live again. And even on the hardest days, I’m searching for hope. Because healing isn’t just something that happens, it’s something I choose on purpose, every single day.

And honestly? Some days, it feels like complete bullshit, right? Some days, I wonder if I’ll ever feel whole again, if I’ll ever trust my body, my mind, or this so-called healing process. That’s why this won’t be the last time I write about it. I’m really trying to figure it out, to make sense of this new reality, to understand what moving forward actually looks like. Healing is work, and I’m doing the damn work, even when it feels impossible.