The Quiet Fight: My Radiation Therapy Story

I cried on the drive to my first radiation appointment.

Not because I’d heard horror stories (yes, I had). Not because I was bracing for pain or burns or anything specific (my Dr. had warned me that those were common side effects). I think I mostly cried because I was afraid - I was entering another unknown realm - I didn’t know what to expect or if this next thing on the treatment checklist would work and secure me that long and healthy life I was chasing and so desperately praying for.

After chemo, I had assumed the worst was behind me. But as I pulled into the cancer center that morning — December 22, 2021 — I was hit with the reality that my journey wasn’t over yet. There was still more to do. Still more healing ahead. My friend Sarah had made me a paper chain to count down the treatments, each one with a word of encouragement or scripture to keep me going when it felt hard to show up. I would unhook a link in the chain each morning with excitement to have one more day behind me and what I hoped was a whole lifetime ahead.

Radiation, I quickly learned, was a different kind of battle.

It wasn’t loud like chemo. There were no infusion chairs or IV bags, no "Red Devil" to face. It was quiet. Rhythmic. Methodical. I would arrive each weekday, check-in, wait my turn in the semi-cozy women's waiting room, and then lie perfectly still as invisible beams of energy passed through my body. Sixteen rounds of external beam radiation therapy (EBRT) across my entire right breast. Then five rounds of accelerated partial breast irradiation (APTI), focused on the place where my tumor had been removed.

My view entering the radiation therapy room.

Each session only lasted a few minutes, but the process was exhausting. The effects of radiation crept in slowly. I didn’t feel much in the beginning. My skin held up well, something my doctor pointed out with surprise and encouragement every time I saw her. No burns. No peeling. Just a bit of itchiness and discomfort near the end. I was told I was one of the "lucky ones" - which is a completely relative term when it comes to cancer because let's be honest - there ain't nothing lucky about this sh*tty situation.

But the fatigue? That was real.

By week two, I couldn’t make it through a full day without crashing for a nap in the afternoon. My body was drained. My mind, foggy. The brain fog I had carried out of chemo carried on with a vengeance. I had to fight to stay focused, to stay present, to function. The radiation may have been gentle on my skin, but it was not gentle on my energy.

Still, I did my best to keep showing up. I drank more water than I thought humanly possible. I lathered on Miaderm lotion religiously. I listened to my body. I let myself rest. I trusted the process.

Originally posted to my Instagram - cataloging my "radiation routine" from the first 5 rounds of therapy.

In the waiting room one morning, I sat next to a woman in her 50s who was also going through treatment for triple-negative breast cancer. We struck up a conversation, and as we talked, I learned that she hadn’t needed chemo. Her hair was still intact. Her energy seemed steadier. She spoke with warmth and strength, and I couldn’t help noticing how different her experience looked from mine.

And for a moment, I felt a twinge of jealousy. Why did I have to go through chemo, lose my hair, relinquish any sense of normalcy? Why couldn’t my story have looked a little more like hers?

But as I sat with that feeling, something in me softened. Her journey wasn’t easier. It was just different. The absence of chemo didn’t mean the absence of struggle. She had her own fears to carry, her own version of uncertainty and grief. I didn’t know the weight she held, just as she didn’t know mine.

That moment reminded me that comparison is a thief - especially in the world of healing. It tempts us to measure pain and worth, when the truth is, every story is valid. Every path is shaped by its own kind of hard. God was writing both of our stories, uniquely and with care. And one day, we’d both have our own testimonies to share; not because our experiences looked the same, but because we made it through them.

Some days I would pass the time reading the message board posted up in the waiting room. It was filled with scribbles from past and current patients.“Halfway through treatments! Celebrate life!” // “God is good!” // “I’m done! Thank you, God!”

Each message reminded me: I wasn’t alone. So many women had walked these hallway before me Sat in these same chairs. Carried the same mix of fear and hope and exhaustion. And sadly, so many would come through this waiting room long after I've completed my treatments. But even knowing that, there was still something holy and beautiful in our shared experiences, something comforting in the quiet sisterhood of survivorship.

And then, at last, came January 21, 2022.

I walked into the cancer center for my final round of radiation therapy, heart pounding. I completed my treatment, put my clothes back on and headed out into the main entrance. With my mom watching on proudly, my husband standing beside me and as I held my daughter in my arms - all of them a powerful reminder of everything I had been fighting for, I stepped forward and rang the bell.

Three times, strong and clear.

"Ring this bell three times well, Its toll to clearly say: My treatment’s done, this course is run, And I am on my way!"

As we walked out of the cancer center's main entrance I was met with cheers and hot tears rolled down my cheeks in the cold January air. My family and friends were there, smiling and cheering as the sound of bells rang out all around me. They had made a giant banner that simply read: OVERCOMER.

And in that moment, I believed it.

Not just because I had completed that phase of treatment. Not just because the appointments were over - for now. But because I had endured the slow, quiet work of healing. The emotional weight of the unknown. The fatigue that flattened me. The mental fog that clouded my days. The tedious, invisible labor of recovery.

We went out for brunch afterward, surrounded by love, comfort food, and so much gratitude. And over the weeks that followed, my strength began to return. Slowly, my body remembered how to feel like mine again.

Radiation may not have been the most dramatic chapter of my cancer story, but it was no less significant. It is the quiet fight. The final stretch. The daily showing up when you’re tired and tender and just so ready to be done.

If you’re there now - walking those same hallways, wondering how you’ll make it to the end -please hear me: You are not alone. You are stronger than you feel. You are healing, even on the days when it doesn’t look or feel like it. You are becoming something braver and more beautiful with every step.

And when your day comes, when it’s your turn to ring the bell - ring it loud my friend.

You are an overcomer.

"Ring this bell three times well, Its toll to clearly say: My treatment’s done, this course is run, And I am on my way!"