After my fifth round of chemotherapy, I went to a party.
A “princess party.”

I had no hair. No eyelashes. No eyebrows. No nails. No breast.
Pain pulsed through my bones. My face was grey, puffy. My soul was tired.
Still, I glued on false lashes, painted on eyebrows, powdered my wig, and tried to sparkle.

And I smiled.

Dressed like a princess. Felt like a worm.

They said I looked beautiful.
I smiled. Pretended to believe them.
But inside, I felt like a worm.

A sick, shapeless creature who had once been a woman with a career, self-worth, and a reflection she recognized. I didn’t know where she had gone, or if she was ever coming back.

But still, I dressed up. Because pretending to be alive sometimes keeps the soul from dying entirely.

That year didn’t just take my breast.
It took my job - my company went bankrupt.
It took my savings - my bank collapsed.
My father fell into a coma. My best friend died of a brain tumor.
I was a single mom in a foreign country, wearing a wig and faking being strong.

But I wasn’t. I cried. I fell apart. I felt ugly, angry, impatient and tired of hearing how strong I was.

I didn’t want to be reborn. I wanted my old life back.

At the beginning, when I wasn’t sure I would survive, I found the way to be happy.
Not in the polite, social media way.
In the raw, animal way.
Because when you think you’re dying, every second matters.

I remember touching the sunlight. Drinking coffee. Laughing too hard with my children.
I wasn’t waiting for anything. Not love. Not beauty. Not life to start.

I was in it.

But then the doctors told me: You’ll live.

And suddenly, I wanted everything again.
To be beautiful. To be desired. To be safe. To matter.
And with that came longing. Frustration. Restlessness.

And I cried again. Isn’t that strange? The promise of life made me unhappy. The proximity of death made me free.

Maybe that’s just what it means to be human.

When I couldn’t take the pain anymore I went to India.

To an Ayurvedic resort in Kerala. Alone. I was terrified to go. Too weak. Too empty.
But I couldn’t find anyone to come with me, so I flew alone.
And honestly, I didn’t care how I looked. I didn’t care about much. I didn’t care if I came back.

I just wanted to breathe without pain.

But slowly, the rhythm of that place worked on me. The warm oils. The rituals. The quiet.
And the people.

From Russia. Canada. Belgium. Norway. England.
I was met with love, compassion, and silence.

They spoke to me as if I were whole, not broken.

I was no longer a patient. I was just… human.

There, I met an old man from Austria. I told him my story, expecting the usual: “Oh poor you, you’re so strong.”

But he said:
“I envy you.”

“Envy?” I repeated, confused.

“You learned in one year what took me a lifetime. I was lucky to be born a billionaire. I traveled the world trying to escape the stupidity of others - people, systems, laws. But eventually, I realized the problem was inside me. And you… you made that journey inward. You did the hard work. You found something real.”

His words stayed with me.

When I came home, I was still wearing the wig.

But something had shifted. I wasn’t finished. I was beginning again.

I wanted a good job. A real one. One that would see me not as broken, but as brilliant.

My brain was still foggy from chemo.

So I trained it.
Every day I solved GMAT logic puzzles, timed and strict.
I treated it like rehab for my mind.

Eventually, I got an interview at a recruitment firm that specialized in C-level hires.
Three intelligence tests. Timed. One hour each.
I was exhausted, trembling by the end.

Then the secretary appeared:
“The CEO wants to see you.

He drew a bell curve on a piece of paper.

“This is the population of Denmark,” he said.
“We only work with the top 25%.”
He circled the right edge.
“Now imagine this group alone forms a new bell curve. You belong to the top 25% of that group.”

I got the job.

And slowly, I returned.

I pierced my ears. Bought earrings. Used lipstick again. Showed my colleagues my jewelry and asked, “Aren’t they lovely?”

It was my way of coming back. To the world. To myself. To find connection in every stupid, glorious little thing. And admire it.

And no—I’m not “strong.” I’m deeply flawed. I cry too much. I want too much.
But I am alive. And there’s richness in that. There’s beauty in being unfinished.

And then came the letter.
From my 13-year-old son.

He wrote:

Your cancer time was hard and exhausting for the whole family,
but also the most life-affirming and educational period.
You showed us how fragile life is and how deeply we must care for it.
In hard times, I remember that year, and I remember how much life,
you, and our family mean and how meaningless everything else is.

Your proud son.

I cried when I read it. I still do.

Because it reminds me: I didn’t fight for strength. I fought for connection. For presence. For love.

I’m not the same woman I was before cancer.
I’m not even trying to be.

I’m imperfect. Emotional. Sometimes bitter.
But I’m also alive. Curious. Deep. Real.

So if you’re reading this with a shaved head or a broken heart, please know:
You can come back.

Not as you were.
But as someone new. Someone rich within.

This is not a fairytale. But maybe that’s exactly what makes it magical.