Isn’t Surviving ‘Enough’ Anymore?

Is it necessary to become the face of survivorship?

There she was, with clear skin, rosy cheeks, and short manicured pixie hair. Her soft brown hair caught the light perfectly. She spoke about battling with breast cancer while juggling work, motherhood, and the heavy load of her daily grind. And she did this, all while broadcasting it to the world with such finesse and effortless grace. Her struggle seemed almost cinematic.

I remember looking at her, thinking:

Was this the expectation now?

Is this what I was expected to do?

Were the days of lounging at home in pajamas, simply trying to breathe, gone?

Somewhere along the line, I felt an unspoken pressure, like I had to share my story to inspire others. When did performing begin to overshadow the monumental triumph of simply surviving?

We’ve all done it. Waiting in the reception of the clinic, people-watching.

I was doom scrolling on the phone with a paper cup of steaming coffee from the machine in the waiting area.

And there you find her. The survivor from stage 4 cancer—the inspiration story they based their campaign around. She looked fantastic after all she’s been through. I was genuinely happy for her, but I could never do that.

I sat waiting to have my next round of chemotherapy. I was white in the face, lost all color from my cheeks.

No eyebrows.

Grey, dry lips.

Blisters all over my hands and feet.

Feeling sick to my stomach.

All while knowing the symptoms would only get worse after this round.

“Kiren Sehmi, we’re ready for you now.” There was the call.

I made my way into the chemotherapy clinic and sank into the huge white leather chair. I looked around. There were SO many others, old, young, men, and women. I’d never noticed before. There were so many of us, all on this grueling conveyor belt of treatment. Who knows how many of us would reach the end?

If turning our pain into content gave others hope, was that such a bad thing? Was I romanticizing resilience? Did I need to do this, too?

The nurse plugged me into the IV machine, and I sat back, closed my eyes, and drifted off.

There’s always one person that you hear about:

“So and So made it through with something worse than yours. They put up their story on Instagram.”

“My friend at work had stage 4. She managed to continue working while being a single mother. She’s been talking to a charity about her experience. Why don’t you try that?”

“Have you listened to this podcast. There are so many talking about their journey. You could do that.”

They meant well. But every comment added to my guilt. There was an invisible pressure that I needed to share this grueling experience with more than just the medical team.

I had to be honest—this was the worst I’d felt and looked—why would I want to broadcast it to the world?

I was being nudged into a role I didn’t choose. I didn’t want to be compared. Because in that moment, I didn’t feel grateful for the deep, painful blisters that made it impossible for me to walk. Or for the relentless burning acid that rose through my nose.

I knew deep down they all meant well. They were saying these things from a place of love. But at that moment in time, I just wanted to collapse into a ball, let alone spread inspiration.

If I’m being honest, I felt like I wasn’t able to do enough. I was not going to be that woman on TV. The effortless poise and fresh-faced survivor who inspired others and shared my story.

There was a building sense of guilt that staying private, behind my phone under the covers, was seen as being ungrateful. I started feeling guilty that I didn’t want to spotlight my trauma.

All I wanted to do was hide. Disappear.

Is there some definition of what survival should look like or feel? Is there some social definition of what is expected of a survivor? While no one says it out loud, there is an unspoken pressure that seems to loom over. Is it a trap, or is it okay to just stay in the shadows to heal, to be a quiet survivor?

Survival is monumental.

Survival is extraordinary.

Survival is enough.

Healing from any trauma takes energy most never see. It is personal and happens when no one is looking. For me, it happened in bed when I suddenly realized the blisters were no longer eating through my skin.

It happened when I tasted the smoothness and velvety texture of chocolate on my taste buds again.

It happened when I felt the warm sun beaming down on my face as I went for that long walk.

And then it hit me—advocacy could be a form of healing, but it was optional. No one owes the world a public comeback.

I did not need permission to hide. I didn’t need to feel guilty while I was healing in the shadows.

Some people share publicly. Some stay private. Both are valid. There is no hierarchy in surviving. We all just stumble through if we are privileged enough to make it this far.

One thing I have come to realize: It is a private journey that has no time limit, or guidelines, or rules. We have the autonomy to write the next chapter as we see it. It is a private and sacred path that can quietly show gratitude.

If I have learned anything so far, it is this: we have to let go of the pressure we put on ourselves. We have to overlook the pressures between the lines of conversation we have with others.

Embracing a quiet life is actually quite refreshing. I have had time to heal, not just the trauma of cancer, but the stresses that seem to plague my mind from so early on, I had even forgotten.

I was grateful for the time to heal privately and become a new version of myself without the pressure to document every step.

Finding fulfillment privately was my way of self-acceptance and removing the external pressures.

Survival does not need a spotlight.

My peace and recovery were more important than any platform.

My worth wasn’t measured in posts or impressions.

A simple, quiet life is still meaningful. Peace after cancer can be found behind closed doors, in pajamas, at home.

If you’re reading this and feel the pressure to: Be gentle with yourself. You’ve been through so much already.

Surviving is enough!