Cancer is often spoken about in metaphors—battles fought, wars won, strength measured. We drape those diagnosed in words like fighter and survivor, as if their existence must be defined by resilience. But what if cancer isn’t a war? What if it’s just life, interrupted—messy, painful, uncertain, and deeply human?
Our understanding of cancer is shaped by the world around us—stories, media, and well-intentioned whispers. We absorb the idea that those who face cancer are somehow different, extraordinary in their strength, resilience, and spirit.
We hear the kind of phrases stitched onto pink ribbons, pinned to shirts with quiet hope.
Gold ribbons for children who never got to grow up, white ribbons for the ones still searching for answers, blue for the men who often go unheard, lavender for those touched by all cancers. Each colour carries a name, a story, a life. They flutter at fundraisers, wrap around wrists in silent solidarity, and fill speeches meant to inspire. But behind every ribbon, beyond every symbol, there is a person—just a person—trying to make it through another day.
Perhaps we have learned this through the way society frames illness—how suffering is romanticized, how we attach metaphors of battle to something that is, at its core, deeply human.
When we sit and talk to people who have cancer or those who have survived it, we begin to understand their perspective in ways we never could before.
When we truly listen, our understanding shifts—we start seeing things differently. And so did I. What I learned was that cancer does not grant a person superhuman strength. It does not make them braver or wiser or turn them into something beyond human. The people I met were not warriors. They were just people—people who woke up one day to find their lives turned upside down. People with jobs and dreams, morning routines and favourite songs. People who worried about grocery lists and unfinished books. And then, suddenly, they were expected to be symbols of courage, to carry the weight of a narrative that was never theirs to begin with.
And yet, we shroud them in metaphor. We drape their suffering in poetry.
But what if we let them just be? What if we stopped demanding they be brave and simply allowed them to exist?
Illness is lonely. Not in the dramatic way we see in movies—with slow piano music and hospital corridors—but in quiet, everyday moments. In the way people hesitate before asking how you are. In the well-meaning but misplaced pity. In the friendships that fade, not out of cruelty, but out of discomfort. The distance grows, not because they have changed, but because we see them differently.
A diagnosis does not erase a person, yet society often rewrites them with a single word: cancer.
It is a word that carries weight, that rearranges rooms, that makes people fumble for the right words and often say the wrong ones. The moment a diagnosis enters the conversation, it is as if their entire existence is reframed through it. They are no longer a chef, a writer, an artist, a parent, a spouse, or a friend. They become a patient, a fighter, a survivor. Always someone in relation to the disease.
But what if we stripped away the labels? What if we allowed people to exist beyond their illness? Maybe, instead of demanding courage, we should offer understanding. Instead of telling them to fight, we should ask them what they need. Maybe the greatest act of love is not to remind them to be strong, but to remind them that they are allowed to be fragile, to be afraid, to be human.
Cancer is not a test of resilience, not a battle to be won. It is a reality that some must live through.
And maybe, just maybe, we should let people exist without expectation, without burdening them with narratives of strength. We should let them tell their own stories, in their own words. Because sometimes, living is not about fighting. Sometimes, it is about being here, in whatever way you can, for as long as you can.
The world moves on, but for someone living with cancer, time warps. They must learn to navigate a new normal, one filled with uncertainty, doctor visits, and the strange loneliness of being understood in fragments. They are often forced to manage the discomfort of others, to reassure friends and family when they themselves are looking for reassurance. We have built a culture where people with illnesses feel the need to perform positivity, to appear strong, to comfort those who do not know how to comfort them.
And yet, they do not owe us resilience. They do not owe us the story of a battle won or a lesson learned. Some days are just about getting through the day. Some days are about anger, grief, exhaustion. And that should be okay. That should be enough.
What I have learned from these conversations is that true support is quiet. It is not loud declarations of strength or empty reassurances.
It is showing up and listening without trying to fix. It is allowing people to be scared without demanding they be brave. It is letting go of our need to frame everything in triumph and accepting that some things just are.
And maybe, just maybe, we should let people exist without expectation, without metaphor. We should let them tell their own stories, in their own words. Because sometimes, living is not about fighting. Sometimes, it is about being here, in whatever way you can, for as long as you can.
The kindest thing we can do is to let people be human. To sit with them in their pain without trying to turn it into something poetic. To remind them that they are seen, not as symbols or warriors, but simply as people. People who deserve love, not because of what they endure, but because of who they are.
Vaishnavi Roy is an award-winning author and columnist shaping conversations at the intersection of mind, culture, and society. Her work blends scientific insight with narrative depth, crafting stories that challenge norms and reframe mental health as a collective responsibility.
