Receiving a major cancer diagnosis can feel like it shatters one’s world, changing everything that once seemed stable or certain. As a cancer survivor, I sometimes mentally divide my life into before and after ovarian cancer struck me 13 years ago. The brutal truth is that none of us escape cancer unscathed, it’s a life-changing and life-altering disease. 

There’s a quiet irony in the phrase “cancer survivor,” as if surviving were a single moment rather than a continual process. The reality is that cancer survivorship starts at diagnosis and encompasses the physical, social, and economic aspects from diagnosis to the end of life. From this perspective my survivorship began that moment in my gynecologist’s office when he told me the devastating details of my pathology report. 

Simply being diagnosed with cancer made me a survivor, I didn’t have to wait until after I had completed a full year of treatment or until I was officially in remission. Before the surgeons cut into my body, and before the first drop of chemotherapy solution ran ominously into my veins, I was already a survivor in the eyes of the cancer community. I appreciate now that I’ll always be part of this incredible, strong and resilient group.

Metaphorically, my journey through survivorship has granted me membership to an exclusive club with a hard-earned diploma. I’ve come to value this credential as strongly as I do my degrees in English literature and journalism. Unlike my academic degrees, this was a curriculum I never signed up for, but one that insisted on my attendance day after day. 

Looking back, the lessons were challenging and rarely straightforward. As I commenced treatment, there were semesters of anxiety, and endless days spent waiting for my test results. I ultimately underwent three surgeries and received chemotherapy, meanwhile there were pop quizzes in patience, and essays written in the currency of tears and sleepless nights. My education wasn’t theoretical but lived, and every stage demanded a new set of strengths I never thought I possessed.

At one point during my cancer treatment, I faced life-threatening complications—a situation that resulted in a hospital stay of over 40 consecutive days. Within those hospital walls, I found myself adapting, learning to anchor hope amid the tempest of uncertainty. The syllabus included chapters on vulnerability, sudden courage, and the unexpected generosity of others.

Unlike my previous diplomas that were earned in university lecture halls, my rigorous studies took place at the cancer centre, in hospital rooms and waiting areas. This time, the faculty included compassionate nurses, gifted oncologists, fellow survivors, and loved ones who refused to let me give up when the coursework became overwhelming. 

I remember fellow patients sharing their stories in waiting rooms, and those people who showed up with gentle words or silent companionship. For me, cancer transformed the ordinary into the profound: peaceful afternoons and cups of coffee became rituals of comfort, a sunrise outside my window became a daily affirmation that I had made it through another night.

There were semesters of loss—especially of certainty, of the illusion that I could control the future. But alongside grief grew an unexpected determination. Small acts—walking the hospital corridor, eating half a meal, managing a smile—became victories worth celebrating. I learned to accept help and to relinquish the stoic armour that once defined me. My education in survivorship was collaborative, communal, and deeply personal.

Along the way, I’ve discovered hidden qualities within myself. I’ve been forced to confront vulnerability, to sit with fear, and eventually to find a kind of peace within unpredictability. These lessons were written not in textbooks, but in the margins of my days and in the faces of those who walked alongside me—even if only for a brief stretch of the journey.

With every surgery and every hurdle, my concept of survivorship expanded beyond the physical, weaving itself into my identity in subtle, indelible ways. Over time, I’ve discovered that surviving cancer is not about returning to who I was before, but about learning to live fully—diploma or not—amid the aftershocks, with newfound courage as my credential.