Joie, Hodgkin Lymphoma

On May 15, 2023, my life changed forever. Up until that point, I had spent months feeling unlike myself. I had zero energy, constant fevers, a cough that made me feel like I couldn’t breathe, and the itchiness of my skin was something I hope to never feel again.

I would tell myself that maybe it’s just a bad virus or eczema. I was only 15, and when you are 15, the last thing on your mind is having cancer. Your biggest concern is school, friends, and upcoming plans, not tumors and chemotherapy.

But eventually, I couldn’t ignore my body any longer. Eventually, I found a lump, something that didn’t feel right. When I sat across from the doctor that day, I was told what too many young patients have to hear: “You’re too young for it to be anything serious.” I wanted to believe that. I clung to those words of reassurance. Yet deep down, I knew something was wrong.

What they found later was not something small or harmless. It was an 18-centimeter tumor in my chest—so large it felt impossible that it had been inside me without anyone realizing sooner.

The words “You have cancer” are ones that freeze time. Everything around me blurred, like the world had gone quiet. I was left staring at my own mortality in a way I never imagined I would at my age. My entire life flashed before my eyes sitting in that quiet room with those doctors and nurses.

The months that followed were grueling. My days quickly went from being at school with my friends to doctors’ appointments, constantly getting poked for blood draws, and rounds of chemotherapy that felt endless.

Each session chipped away at me physically, and I was forced to watch as I saw myself become a completely different person. I began not to recognize the individual that I was looking at in the mirror, even though she was me. Every time I looked in the mirror and saw my hair falling out more and more every day, the situation became more real.

But I gave myself a reason to continue my fight. Every milestone mattered, from finding out that my tumor had shrunk tremendously to the smiles of my oncology nurses, to the days when I could actually get out of bed and feel almost normal again. I felt myself coming back.

And then came September 18, 2023. The day I officially beat cancer for the first time. That date became a symbol of survival, of reclaiming my life, of proof that the fight was worth it. I celebrated with so many tears, and an overwhelming gratitude for just surviving.

I thought the nightmare was over. But cancer is ruthless, and on March 20, 2024, I heard the words no survivor wants to hear: relapse.

Hearing you have cancer once is devastating. Hearing it a second time is almost unbearable. I felt that I had failed and that the hard work that I did for those six months meant nothing anymore. I had fought so hard, given so much of myself, and I wasn’t able to understand why I had to go through it again.

The second diagnosis wasn’t just about cancer returning. It was about facing the possibility that maybe this time, I wouldn’t win. What if I’m not strong enough this time? What if I’m just the one who will never be cancer free? The thoughts of not surviving this time were devastating.

Once again, I entered the world of hospitals, IV bags, and the silent hallways of the pediatric floor, where all you could hear was the beeping of the machine. The chemo resumed, but this time the complications came harder and faster. My body had already suffered so much from the first battle – what else can it take?

The lowest point came when I was admitted to the ICU. I had eight pounds of fluid in my lungs, and one of them collapsed. Breathing, something so simple, became a fight of its own. Lying in that ICU bed, surrounded by machines and the feeling of the chest tube in my side, I realized just how fragile life really is.

But the idea of a fragile life is not the same as being weak. Even in that darkest moments, I chose to give myself a reason to keep on keeping on.

The second journey against cancer demanded more than I ever thought I could give. Over the course of all of my treatments, I endured more than 70 chemotherapy sessions and 17 rounds of radiation. Each one ripped away at my strength and my entire body, but I reminded myself that I am doing this because each one is bringing me closer to another chance at life.

A stem cell transplant became the most dreaded moment of my journey, but it was also my saving grace. The chance not just to fight back but to rebuild myself. The process was brutal, requiring my body to be beaten down to the most horrible state and then given the chance to build itself back up. It felt like being taken apart completely and put back together again, piece by piece.

Recovery was not easy. There were the days I wondered if I was ever going to get better, and days where I questioned if my body could keep going with all the pain I was enduring. But every morning I opened my eyes was another victory and one more step closer to peace.

No matter how many times life knocks me down, I have the strength to overcome any obstacles that come my way.

On June 30, 2025, I officially beat cancer for the second time. That date, even more than the first, represents my resilience. It is the living proof that I am stronger than the ugly disease that tried to take me twice. It is a reminder that no matter how many times life knocks me down, I have the strength to overcome any obstacles that come my way.

Cancer ruined my life in so many ways, but it also gave me the biggest lesson on how important it is to live every single day to the fullest, because cancer does not discriminate. I always reminded myself of the quote from Grey’s Anatomy “No matter how dark it gets, the sun’s gonna rise again”.