There is a moment so many of us wait for during chemotherapy. The final infusion. The last drip. The walk to the bell.
People gather. Phones come out. Tears fall. Cheers erupt. Applause fills the room. And then it happens. You ring the bell.
The bell is meant to symbolize victory. Completion. Strength. Survival.
But once the sound fades and the room quiets, a question settles in the chest of many of us.
Are we really survivors?
By definition, survival means you have beaten something. It is over. It is behind you. The threat is gone.
Yet cancer does not always work that way.
Many of us live with the knowledge that it can return. Some of us live with scans every few months. Some with lingering side effects that never fully leave. Some with permanent changes to our bodies, our hormones, our nervous systems, our minds. Some live with recurrence. Some live with metastatic disease. Some live with survivor’s guilt. Some live with fear that never truly sleeps.
So why do we use the word survivor?
That question is not meant to diminish the victory of finishing treatment. Completing chemotherapy is monumental. It is brutal, exhausting, and life-altering. Ringing the bell matters. It deserves celebration. It deserves joy.
But the word survivor carries weight. It suggests finality. It suggests closure. It suggests certainty.
And cancer rarely offers certainty.
For many of us, survivorship is not a finish line. It is a border we cross into a new kind of living. A life of watching. A life of follow-ups. A life of managing late effects. A life of learning how to breathe again in a body that feels unfamiliar.
Some days, survivorship feels empowering. Other days, it feels fragile. Some days, it feels like victory. Other days, it feels like vigilance.
Maybe that is why the word survivor feels both true and incomplete at the same time.
We survived this chapter. We survived this round. We survived this moment in time.
But many of us are also learning how to live with uncertainty, and that takes a different kind of courage.
I often think the bell is not announcing the end of cancer. It is announcing the beginning of a new season. A season where the fight looks different. Where the appointments change. Where the hair grows back. Where the scars remain. Where the fear must be faced without weekly infusions as a reminder of why we are fighting.
Maybe survivorship is not about defeating cancer forever. Maybe survivorship is about choosing to live fully in the presence of uncertainty. Maybe survivorship is about waking up and saying, “I am here today,” even when tomorrow is not guaranteed.
Some people prefer the word warrior. Some prefer thriver. Some prefer patient. Some prefer simply their name.
There is no single word strong enough to hold all that this journey carries.
But I do know this.
You endured. You showed up when your body was tired. You faced needles, nausea, weakness, hair loss, fear, and uncertainty. You kept going when stopping would have been easier.
And that matters.
“The bell did not promise me forever. It honored that cancer did not take me today.” ~Shanise Pearce
The bell is not a promise that cancer will never return. The bell is a declaration that cancer did not take your life today.
And today is worth honoring.
Now I want to hear from you, not just as readers, but as people who have lived this.
- When you rang the bell, did the word “survivor” feel empowering, complicated, or something else entirely?
- Do you claim the word survivor, or have you found another word that feels more honest for your journey?
- What did survivorship really look like for you once treatment ended?
Your story matters here. Drop your thoughts in the comments or message me directly. This space was created for real voices and real truth.
If this reflection stirred something in you, I invite you to stay connected beyond this moment.
Through The Advocate’s Table, I am building a space rooted in truth, education, early detection, and community for those impacted by cancer, genetic risk, and health inequities. This work is personal, and it is deeply intentional. It was born from my own journey with Triple Negative Breast Cancer and from the countless stories I continue to hold with care.
The Advocate’s Table exists to make sure no one walks this journey unseen, uninformed, or unsupported. Through storytelling, education, advocacy, and creative healing, the mission is simple and bold:
To empower people to advocate for their health and their lives.
Your voice belongs at this table.
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