There is a quiet way life becomes divided after a cancer diagnosis.

Before.
And after.

Before, Mondays were just Mondays. Thursdays were ordinary too. Days that blended into work schedules, errands, meetings, and plans for the weekend.

Now, Mondays mean chemo.
Thursdays mean blood work. Every other Friday means an oncologist appointment.

My weeks are measured differently these days — not by deadlines or calendars, but by treatment cycles, lab results, energy levels, and recovery days in between.

There is now a rhythm to this life I never expected to learn.

The drive to the cancer centre, which coincidentally lasts almost exactly as long as my personalized novena.
The familiar hallways at the Arthur J.E. Child Comprehensive Cancer Centre.
The orange elevator for doctors’ appointments.
The blue elevator for chemo sessions.

At first, everything felt overwhelming and unfamiliar. I remember the fear of walking into those spaces for the first time — carrying questions no one ever wants to ask.

But over time, even these places have become strangely familiar.

The chemo rooms themselves are unexpectedly beautiful, with large paintings on the walls that soften the clinical reality of what happens there. Beauty in a place where people are fighting very hard battles every single day.

And then there are the nurses.

The faces that slowly become familiar week after week. The people who remember your reactions, your routines, your need for warm blankets. The ones who notice immediately if you look more tired than usual.

My chemo journey has not been straightforward.

During the first cycle, four treatments were delayed. Then I graduated to the second cycle with weekly treatments. This month, I had allergic reactions to Taxol during three of my sessions — scary episodes that shook me more than I expected. Moments where my body reacted suddenly and intensely, and where I had to place complete trust in the medical team surrounding me.

Those moments changed something in me.

They reminded me how quickly things can shift. How vulnerable this journey can feel. And also how deeply grateful I am for competent, calm professionals who know exactly what to do when fear enters the room.

And still, somehow, in between all of this — I walk.

That part surprises me too.

In between Monday chemo sessions and Thursday blood work appointments, I lace up my shoes and head outside. Some days it’s slow. Some days fatigue follows me closely. But other days, I find myself walking 5KM, 8KM, sometimes even farther, carried by fresh air, long phone calls with friends and family, or simply the quiet determination to keep moving.

There have also been group video calls that have carried me through this season — laughter with college friends, check-ins with former colleagues, conversations with friends and family across time zones. Small squares on a screen somehow becoming lifelines of comfort, normalcy, and connection.

These walks have become sacred in their own way.

They remind me that my life is still bigger than appointments and medications. That my body, even now, is capable of strength. That healing is not only happening inside hospital walls.

Even the laboratory staff now recognize me. Because I’m immunocompromised, they quietly lead me to a private waiting room without needing to ask. Small gestures that say: we know you now. We’re watching out for you.

There is comfort in that familiarity, even though I never wanted to belong to this world in the first place.

Before, I moved through life quickly, often without noticing the ordinary details.

After, I notice everything.

The paintings on chemo room walls.
The kindness in a nurse’s voice.
The silence of an elevator ride.
The way sunlight feels during a slow walk after treatment.

Life now exists in smaller moments. Softer moments.

And maybe that is one of the unexpected things this season is teaching me — that even here, in a life divided into before and after, there is still beauty. Still rhythm. Still life waiting for me in between appointments.