I was 23 when I was diagnosed with the same cancer as Terry Fox.

After months of mystery knee pain, injury assumptions, and appointments, I finally got my answer in February 2022: an osteosarcoma of the left tibia, high grade, and localized.

Luckily, the disease hadn’t spread despite being left untreated for an extended period. The tumour was obviously concerning, but my team was confident the initial treatment would be curative. Of course, they couldn’t speak to the longevity of the cure, since we know that sarcomas are aggressive, but they knew we could handle the single occurrence in the upper half of my tibia.

I started chemotherapy soon after my diagnosis. I had my treatments inpatient, which kept me in the hospital overnight for roughly a week at a time. To try to kill the cancer once and for all, the chemotherapy drugs were some of the harshest available, at the highest possible doses.

After the first five rounds of chemo, my surgeon performed a limb salvaging surgery called a proximal tibia replacement with a gastrocnemius flap. After the surgery, I had a life-threatening intestinal infection. Thankfully, after a month in the hospital on intravenous nutrition, I made it through and finished my last three rounds in October 2022.

I wish I could say that my cancer journey ended there, but unfortunately, it isn’t always that simple.

In June 2024, I was out for a walk with my partner when the prosthetic rod in my left tibia broke off. It effectively snapped my shin in half, leaving my leg attached by only soft tissue from the knee down. I spent a few weeks waiting for an available operating room, stuck in bed in Vancouver General Hospital. Eventually, the repair went well and I was on my way to recovery once more.

Then, just as I was learning to walk for the second time, I was hit with another surprise from cancer: a recurrence in both of my lungs. Before I had time to catch my breath from the last unfortunate event, I was onto the next. Two lung surgeries later, I was declared cancer free again, but I’m still monitored closely for another recurrence.

I’ve been kept very busy since my diagnosis with a seemingly-endless stream of long-term health problems from harsh chemotherapy drugs, prosthetic failures, recurrences, and everything in between.

I’m often asked what the worst part of my cancer journey has been, and my answer often surprises those who ask. The worst past wasn’t the near-death experiences, the nights spent vomiting for hours on end, or the fatigue that made me feel like I was trying to think through Jello. It wasn’t spending more than 100 nights inpatient within the span of eight

months, or the endless scans and needle pokes.

The worst part of my cancer journey was the isolation that came with a rare cancer diagnosis as a young adult.

I remember the day I was diagnosed, I spent the evening searching desperately for stories like mine that had a happy ending. I found endless pediatric osteosarcoma patient stories, written by heartbroken parents about watching their children go through grueling treatments. I read plenty of stories written in memory of sarcoma patients who had passed, but I couldn’t find any other young adults who had their own story to tell.

Eventually, a trickle of sarcoma connections began to find their way into my life through support groups and oncologist connections. When I finally connected with others who had been through what I’d been through, my world opened up again. I felt understood on a level none of my loved ones could reach.

The feelings of isolation hit me again when I was diagnosed with my recurrence and became a stage four patient. The words “stage four” are scary, and I admit they’re difficult to say even to this day. I found myself searching for community again, but this time, it was much easier with the connections I already had. Although some of them have since passed, their stories stick with me and keep me steady as I traverse the rocky terrain that is the surveillance stage of surviving cancer.

While I am grateful to have survived as long as I have with such a difficult diagnosis, there are days just getting out of bed is difficult. I’m still too sick from the side effects of long-term treatment – and recovery from my many surgeries – to jump into a full-time job. Finding a purpose beyond just staying alive has been difficult.

I was just beginning my career when cancer forced me to pause my life. It was incredibly hard to understand that my job was no longer what I had grown to know and love. As I took leave from work, I transitioned to a new department: the department of survival. I spent countless hours filling out paperwork, returning doctors’ calls, and managing my illness. My job became staying alive.

In survivorship, it’s been equally difficult to grapple with being a 26-year-old whose “job” right now is to rest and recover. I’ve become restless, and still feel like I have more to contribute to this life than simply existing. I crave connection, purpose, and meaning just like any other human being. I’ve had to be more creative about how I find those things without a typical job and while not being in the same health as other people my age.

The good news is, taking part in research and advocacy efforts have given my life purpose again. Joining the Marathon of Hope Cancer Center Network’s Patient Working Group and working on assorted research projects as a patient partner have been more fulfilling than I could have imagined. Attending virtual meetings, giving a presentation or two, and writing a few pieces a month is very doable for me between my follow up appointments and mandated rest.

On the days I’m upset my life isn’t going the way I planned, I roll out of bed, make a coffee,

and start reviewing papers, preparing a talk, or writing something about my experience. I find meaning in the connections I make with other patients who are looking for connection or guidance. I spend my time battling the isolation and loneliness that have come with my cancer diagnosis and its recurrences.

I’m healing out loud through advocacy, I’m sharing my story, and I’m happy to do so for as long as I possibly can. I’m proud to be loud enough in my survivorship that those feeling isolated in the early stages of their cancer journeys can hear me and know they’re not alone.