By Krashnika D., Hodgkin lymphoma survivor
I did not wake up one day and suddenly feel like a survivor. For a long time, survival was not a beautiful word to me. It was not graceful, or inspiring. During the hardest parts of my Hodgkin lymphoma journey, survival simply meant getting through the next hour without knowing how I would get through the one after that.
Cancer is often spoken about from the outside with words like strength, courage, fighting, and hope. But when I was living through it, it felt much less polished. It was painful, frightening, exhausting, and lonely in ways I still find difficult to explain. There were days when my body felt like a place I could no longer trust. Even small things took more strength than I thought I had. Pain was not just something I felt; it was something I had to live through.
One memory has stayed with me very clearly. My pressure had dropped. I was weak, overwhelmed, and in more pain than I knew how to carry. I remember feeling like I had reached the edge of myself – not in a brave way, but in a very tired way. At that moment, survival did not feel meaningful. I just wanted the suffering to stop.
I remember wondering whether there was any dignity left in what I was going through. Somewhere in that pain, I think I had started to confuse dignity with escape.
My doctor told me something I have never forgotten.
He told me there is no dignity in death. Not in the way the mind sometimes imagines it when pain becomes unbearable. Death, he said, is not beautiful or admirable. The dignity is in continuing. In being alive. In surviving. In finding the strength to stay, even when staying feels impossible. He reminded me that there were many people still fighting, some with odds harder than mine. And for me, he said, there was still hope. The only hope missing in that moment was the hope within me. Those words did not change everything immediately. I did not suddenly become fearless or strong. I did not wake up the next day with perfect clarity. But something in me held on to what he said.
And I continued. At first, that was all survival was. Not bravery. Not positivity. Not some grand transformation. Just continuing – one hour, one day, one treatment, one breath, one small decision to not give up yet.
Somehow, I survived.
Four years later, I am still here.
That sentence may look simple, but it holds an entire life for me. I am still here with memories I did not ask for, with fears I sometimes carry quietly, and with a deeper understanding of how fragile life can be. I am also here with gratitude, ambition, tenderness, and the desire to make something meaningful out of the life I was given back. Survivorship is not always what people imagine. It is not a constant feeling of victory. It is not waking up every day with perfect gratitude. It is not always knowing what to do with the life you fought so hard to keep.
Some days, life feels beautifully ordinary again. I work, laugh, make plans, worry about small things, and forget for a while that there was once a time when everything felt uncertain. Then, on some days, the memory returns. I remember the version of myself who was in pain, scared, tired, and unsure if she could keep going. I remember how close I felt to giving up. And then I look at my life now and think: I made it here. That thought brings gratitude. It also brings questions. What do I do with this life now? How do I make it meaningful? How do I honor what I survived without letting it define everything I am?
Cancer became a part of my story, but I have never wanted it to become my whole identity. I do not want my life to be defined only by something that happened to me. I want it to be defined by what I choose after it – by the person I become, the work I do, the kindness I show, the courage I practice, the mistakes I learn from, and the meaning I build.
Years after my own treatment journey, I now find myself close to the world of oncology in a different way. I think about patients, treatment journeys, evidence, access, and decisions that may shape someone’s chance at more time, better time, or simply more hope.
That means something to me. Because once you have been a patient, the word “patient” never feels abstract again. It is not just a number or a term. It is a person trying to make it through the day. It is a family waiting for good news. It is a scan that can change the mood of an entire week. It is a treatment plan that carries both fear and possibility. It is someone who may look calm from the outside while privately trying very hard to keep going.
I do not want to romanticize cancer. There is nothing beautiful about suffering itself. Pain does not automatically make people stronger. Sometimes pain is just pain. Sometimes it takes things from you that no one else can see. But I do believe there is dignity in continuing. There is dignity in accepting help. There is dignity in telling your doctor, your family, or someone you trust that you are not okay. There is dignity in surviving one more day, even when you do not feel brave while doing it. There is also dignity in rebuilding a life after illness – not as the exact same person you were before, and not as someone permanently defined by cancer, but as someone still becoming.
If you are reading this while going through treatment, I will not tell you to be positive all the time. I will not tell you that everything happens for a reason. I will not ask you to turn your pain into inspiration before you have even had space to breathe. You are allowed to be tired. You are allowed to be scared. You are allowed to feel angry, weak, confused, or unlike yourself. But please do not mistake exhaustion for the absence of hope.
Sometimes hope is not a big, shining feeling. Sometimes hope is borrowed – from a doctor, a caregiver, a survivor, a stranger’s story, or one small voice inside you that says, “not yet.” I survived something I did not choose. Now I am trying to build a life through the choices I do make.
Maybe that is what survivorship means to me today: not just being alive after cancer, but learning how to live again with intention. Learning how to carry the past without being trapped inside it. Learning how to build a life that feels chosen, not just continued. I stayed. I am grateful I stayed.
And if you are in a place where hope feels far away, I hope you can borrow a little from my story until you find your own again.
Note: I am sharing this as a Hodgkin lymphoma survivor, four years after treatment, to reflect honestly on the difficult parts of survival and the meaning of continuing. My hope is that someone going through treatment or early survivorship may feel less alone after reading it.