When I finished chemo and radiation, I imagined this huge moment of relief, like I’d finally be able to exhale and say, “I made it.” But instead of reaching the finish line, I found myself at the start of another chapter, one I hadn’t prepared for. Sitting in my oncologist’s office, nodding as he explained what came next, I felt like I was being pulled right back into the uncertainty I thought I’d left behind.
Because my cancer thrived on oestrogen, stopping it meant keeping my body in a medically induced menopause initially triggered by chemotherapy and then maintained with Zoladex. Unlike hormone replacement therapy, which wasn’t an option for me, Zoladex required an injection in my stomach every 28 days for the next three years to keep me in menopause.
The side effects hit fast and furious; aching bones that made me feel decades older and sleepless nights that left me drained before the day even began. The hot flashes were mostly at night. Sometimes, I’d get so unbearably warm that I had to kick my legs out from under the covers. Other times, I’d wake up drenched in sweat, peeling off soaked pyjamas in the middle of the night. As for weight gain, I’ve been lucky to avoid it so far, but only because I’ve made conscious choices about my diet by focusing on protein, reducing sugar and staying active. It’s not just a treatment; it’s another challenge layered on top of everything else.
Then came the daily medications; Tamoxifen for the next five years to block oestrogen and Abemaciclib, an oral chemo drug, for the next two years. I’d heard from my support group that Abemaciclib had a bad reputation, and sure enough, when they delivered my prescription, it came with anti-diarrhea and anti-sickness meds to help manage them...just in case. These pills weren’t just part of my routine, they were a daily reminder that this journey was far from over.
I wish more people talked about medically induced menopause. While some celebrities openly share their natural menopause journeys, the suddenness of treatment-induced menopause is a different beast entirely. One day, you're fine; the next, you’re thrust into full-blown menopause with no transition. The hot flashes, night sweats, brain fog, mood swings, and joint pain didn’t just creep in, they crashed in, taking over my life without warning or permission.
On top of everything else, I was also put on Zometa - six infusions over three years - to strengthen my bones and lower the risk of cancer spreading. Another step, another treatment to add to the list. But as overwhelming as it felt, I reminded myself how fortunate I was to have access to these medications; treatments that could make a real difference in my journey. not everyone gets these options, and for that, I'm deeply grateful.
At first, I was so focused on just getting through each day that I didn’t even notice how much I was changing. I had always been sharp and in control, but suddenly, I was forgetting things, struggling to focus or multitask, and battling exhaustion that no amount of sleep could fix. Even simple tasks like answering text messages felt overwhelming, like I was carrying a weight I couldn’t put down.
On the hardest days, when I felt like I had nothing left to give, I leaned on the people around me. My family, my friends, fellow survivors... they reminded me that progress isn’t always a linear line. That moving forward, even incrementally, is still moving.
Self-care stopped being a luxury and became a necessity, something I had to do just to get through the day. It wasn’t about bubble baths or spa days; it was about survival. Some days, that meant a short walk, eating a meal that actually felt nourishing, or just sitting in my garden, soaking in a quiet moment. I had to learn to listen to my body, to rest when I needed to without feeling guilty, and to move when I could without feeling lazy. The little things became big wins.
The check-ups, the scans, the side effects... it all gets exhausting. Some days, the frustration is overwhelming. But when I start to spiral, I remind myself why I’m doing this. Every pill, every injection, every tough moment... it’s all part of the fight to have more time. More time with the people I love. More time to live the life I’ve fought so hard to keep.
This isn’t the journey I would have chosen, and I’d be lying if I said I don’t grieve the person I was before cancer. But in all of this, I’ve found a strength I didn’t know I had. I’ve learned to advocate for myself, to find small ways to ease the symptoms (yes, even a little exercise helps!), and even to find humour in the midst of it all.
No, this isn’t the path I wanted. But it’s the one I’m on. And step by step, I’m figuring out how to walk it. I’m curious to hear about your experience with this part of the journey, how have you navigated life after active treatment?
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