Entering My Last Year in My 30s: Cancer (Again) Wasn’t in the Cards, But Here’s What I’ve Learned
If you had asked me a few years ago how I thought I’d be spending the last year of my 30s, I probably would’ve said something like traveling more, maybe throwing a big party, getting stronger, building my career, making memories with my family.
What I didn’t expect was to be facing cancer. Again.
It wasn’t in the cards. It wasn’t part of my plan. But here I am—standing, fighting, living.
As I enter my final year in my 30s, it feels heavier and more meaningful than I ever expected. This chapter wasn’t supposed to include cancer—yet here I am, navigating both the weight of the diagnosis and the perspective that only time and life experience can bring.
So before I hit the big 4-0, I want to share a few things I’ve learned along the way.
1. Aging Is a Gift
I used to worry about getting older—about turning 40, about the lines on my face, the years flying by. But now? I see it differently. Every year, every wrinkle, every birthday is a reminder that I’m still here. That I get another year. And that’s not something I’ll ever take for granted again. Growing older is a privilege—one I now hold with both hands.
2. You Don’t Have to Be Strong All the Time
People call you strong when you’re fighting cancer. But strength doesn’t mean you don’t cry, or break down, or have days when you just can’t. Real strength is in showing up anyway, even if it’s messy and imperfect. Let yourself feel. You don’t have to be the hero in every moment.
3. Joy Matters
Not just the big “bucket list” joy—but the everyday kind. Watching your kids laugh. Dancing in the kitchen. Drinking your coffee while it’s still hot. These small things? They matter more than I ever realized. They are the threads that keep us stitched together.
4. Your Body Isn’t the Enemy
It’s easy to feel betrayed by your body when it’s sick. But I’ve started to shift that thinking. My body is still here, still trying. It carries me through scans, surgeries, side effects. It holds my children when I can. It deserves love, not resentment.
5. Say What You Mean, While You Can
Don’t wait to tell people how much they mean to you. Don’t assume tomorrow is guaranteed. Speak love, give grace, and be kind—especially to yourself. Words hold power, and regret weighs more than vulnerability.
6. Rest Is Productive
In this hustle culture, rest feels lazy. But when your body is healing or breaking, rest becomes survival. It’s not weak—it’s wise. If you’re tired, rest. If your soul is tired, rest deeper.
7. You Can Be Both Grateful and Grieving
Some days I’m furious. Some days I’m so grateful it hurts. And many days I feel both. Cancer doesn’t erase the good in my life, but the good doesn’t erase the pain either. Both can live here.
8. Grief Doesn’t Need to Be Polished
There’s no “right way” to grieve your old life, your health, your energy, your plans. Some days I feel guilty for not being more positive. But here’s the truth: grief isn’t meant to be filtered. It’s meant to be felt. In all its messy, raw, and sacred forms.
9. You Are More Than What You Produce
I used to tie my worth to what I accomplished—checked-off to-do lists, clean homes, thriving careers. Cancer strips that down. I’ve had to redefine success. Sometimes, getting out of bed is the win. Sometimes, taking a deep breath is the breakthrough.
10. You Don’t Owe Anyone a Performance
You don’t have to be inspiring all the time. You don’t owe the world a smile when you’re breaking. You don’t need to make others comfortable with your diagnosis. This is your story. Your body. Your life. Tell it honestly, or don’t tell it at all.
11. Community is Everything
When you’re walking through something hard, you start to really see who stands beside you. I’ve learned that I don’t need a massive circle—I need a steady one. The people who show up. Check in. Drop off soup. Make me laugh. Sit with me in the quiet. They’re everything.
12. Hope Looks Different Now
Hope isn’t always big and loud. It’s not always “beating cancer” or “thinking positive.” Sometimes hope is soft—it’s choosing to believe in the next hour, the next scan, the next moment with your kids. Hope is still here. It just wears different clothes now.
13. Let Go of the Timeline
I used to have this timeline in my head—when I’d accomplish things, what milestones I’d hit, how I’d arrive into my 40s. That timeline is gone now. And I’ve realized that letting go of expectations opens the door to deeper peace. Life doesn’t have to go according to plan to still be meaningful.
As I celebrate this last lap in my 30s, I don’t know what the future holds. But I do know this: I’m still becoming. Still learning. Still here.
And that, in itself, is something to celebrate.
So cheers to 39. To the unknown. To the messy, meaningful, and miraculous in-between. May we keep choosing life, one day at a time.
