Two years ago, my life almost broke me. I was thirty, freshly diagnosed with cancer, and already deep into chemotherapy—the kind of experience that doesn’t just attack your body but quietly strips away who you think you are. My hair fell out in clumps. Food lost its taste. Time stopped making sense. Some days, even opening the fridge made my stomach roll.“How’s that for normal?” I whispered once, mostly to the quiet. Light felt too sharp. Water tasted like metal. My bones ached in ways I didn’t know bones could ache. And still, I believed the cancer would be the...
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