August 11th, 2025
I was doom scrolling one day last month. Not a particularly special day, and not one I remember where I was, or what I was doing.
What I do remember about that day was landing on a post where Princess Catherine talked about her months post cancer treatment.
And I cried.
I'll share it here…
@theprimrosecentre
“The hardest part comes after.”
— Princess Kate of Wales
In her quiet yet powerful words, Princess Kate once opened up about something many don’t talk about:
“You put on a brave face during treatment, but the real struggle begins after.”
She was speaking about her experience with chemotherapy—a journey that doesn’t end when the last session does.
Because once the treatments stop…
The world expects you to bounce back.
To smile.
To “go back to normal.”
But the truth is, that “normal” no longer exists.
What follows is a deep emotional rollercoaster:
The medical team is no longer by your side every day.
The adrenaline of survival fades.
The exhaustion lingers.
And you’re left navigating a new version of yourself—physically, emotionally, mentally.
“It’s a much harder process than I ever imagined,” she said.
This isn’t just a story of resilience.
It’s a reminder: healing takes time.
Not just the body—but the soul.
So if you—or someone you love—is in that space after the storm, don’t rush the calm.
Let it come, slowly. Gently. With grace.
And above all, don’t expect to be who you were before.
You’re becoming someone even stronger.
— Princess Kate of Wales
In her quiet yet powerful words, Princess Kate once opened up about something many don’t talk about:
“You put on a brave face during treatment, but the real struggle begins after.”
She was speaking about her experience with chemotherapy—a journey that doesn’t end when the last session does.
Because once the treatments stop…
The world expects you to bounce back.
To smile.
To “go back to normal.”
But the truth is, that “normal” no longer exists.
What follows is a deep emotional rollercoaster:
The medical team is no longer by your side every day.
The adrenaline of survival fades.
The exhaustion lingers.
And you’re left navigating a new version of yourself—physically, emotionally, mentally.
“It’s a much harder process than I ever imagined,” she said.
This isn’t just a story of resilience.
It’s a reminder: healing takes time.
Not just the body—but the soul.
So if you—or someone you love—is in that space after the storm, don’t rush the calm.
Let it come, slowly. Gently. With grace.
And above all, don’t expect to be who you were before.
You’re becoming someone even stronger.
This hit home for me. I immediately shared it with Jess, and an online friend who is currently supporting her young son through his cancer journey.
She's right.
No one talks about the after.
No one really cares about the healing story, and how perhaps THAT requires equally as much strength as surviving treatment.
I remember the day Jess finally rang the bell.
Our family were the only ones left on the cancer floor (wish this room was always and forever this empty…) because we were waiting for Jess to have her pic line removed (it got stuck).
When she got to the doorway of that room with her angelic nurses following closely behind, I remember feeling almost numb.
Maybe too, a feeling of denial?
She rang the bell, we took the pictures.
But I remember thinking, how many people ring this bell only to have to come back to this wing of the hospital?
I remember swallowing this doubting feeling of ‘is it really over?’
Jess and I have talked about this moment since.
Ironically, she feels the same way about the bell. She also admitted that when she was in the middle of treatment, the bell made her sad.
She would be slumped over on my shoulder battling nausea and intense headaches knowing it would be weeks before she could also do the same and that the bell was a bit torturous for her.
It took weeks after that last treatment for Jess to feel even a little human.
She was still very ill.
I wasn't prepared for this part, naively.
I assumed once treatment was over, we got our Jess back.
Spoiler alert… we didn't.
By the time she started regaining some energy, an appetite and a glimpse of her spirit… she lost her eyebrows.
Ironically, when she lost her hair in the early stages of chemo, she said something I'll never forget.
“now, people can see on the outside how I feel on the inside”.
We chatted at length just last night about this stage of her ‘after’.
She confided that this was the part she dreaded most. When the doctor told her she would lose her hair.
Not that she would lose it, but that window of time when she would feel normal, but her appearance would remind her (and everyone around her) that she was previously sick.
I tried my best to be supportive at this stage, but when the words come from mom, they always seem less effective somehow.
Her body went through war.
Now her body is fighting it's way back to it's new normal.
She fought with hormonal issues for months due to the intensive surgeries done even before chemo.
Her body morphed and evolved through stages she didn't recognize.
What many may not know is Jess is a quiet sufferer.
But, we are both empaths.
So although she never complained or lashed out (which she had every right to) I knew in my bones she was struggling in her ‘after’.
As an impatient control freak, I wanted to help. But looking back, I unknowingly gave her the space to heal in her own way.
She clung on to ‘the next season’ which in our case was fall.
I let her drive her own healing bus, and said yes to whatever she needed to do.
We embraced both fall, then winter by going to bookstores, starting a book club, decorating our new bookshelf with seasonal knick-knacks.
All things I've NEVER done in my life.
We slowed down and enjoyed the next year of seasons.
It distracted all of us from the immense need to have Jess healed.
Instead, we started taking the little things less for granted. Watching the joy on her face as each season brought a new source of hope was healing for all of us.
So here we are.
It's August 11th, 2025… exactly 2 years from her last treatment.
Our daughter is back.
Actually, our daughter is back but not as she once was.
She's stronger.
She heads to her three month check ups solo (even when I beg to go with her).
She writes notes about any changes to her health she thinks the doctor should know.
She has reconnected with old friends who she adores, while remaining a steadfast friend with her new ones.
As she rounds into her last semester of school, I see that cancer took a lot of time and life experiences away from our daughter.
But, cancer didn't extinguish her fight.
It didn't take away her hope.
It ignited a stronger, more independent woman who will regain that lost time and experiences and never take for granted things that maybe we do.
She's emerging through her ‘after’ like the champion she is.
Me, however…
I find myself still a bit numb.
Like did this even happen? Was it just a fevered dream(nightmare)?
I remember a few times over these last couple years feeling anger.
Comments, and situations that reminded me most people we know who were once invested in this journey have moved on. Forgotten, maybe. And I was left in these moments feeling a bit raw.
My ‘after’ apparently needs more work.
But, watching our daughter bravely navigate through hers, I'm committed to finally facing mine.
Happy 2nd Cancer Free Anniversary Jess.
We love you.
mom❤️
8 comments
Dear Sandi,
I started watching your first sheep vlogs. I loved you and your family, for you taught ms how a farming family works together to achieve success. Then I was online when you wrote about Jess and I was in tears for you all. My only daughter and mother of three has been battling cancer for over 3 years. Her youngest is 15, oldest, 25. It has been rough, as one kidney has been removed and the second one is compromised. My husband and I cry sometimes, she is 48 and lives 330 miles away. She keeps it all compartmentalized and handles most of the grief on her own and with the two oldest children, her son 23, and daughter 25. The youngest is very intuitive and is a comfort to her also. We go down as often as we can. We have them up whenever they can take time off from their jobs. Yeas, she still works full time for NIKE, yeas the “sneaker” company.
Anyway, she continues with whatever treatment they come up with and we pray.
I feel your pain. I am so happy to hear that Jess has rung that bell! I will continue to pray for you all.
Keep up the good work with your sheep, as a former music teacher I can tell the babies, from the moms to the daddies by the timbre of the baas!
Blessings,
Judith Maurer
As I read this post, I’m trying not to sob uncontrollably. I was just talking to my husband tonight that I don’t feel like a survivor and I’m struggling.
I’m an eight-time cancer survivor over a 20-year time span (my entire adult life). Thyroid cancer with 2 recurrences, then breast cancer with a recurrence, and then ovarian cancer with 2 recurrences. They are not the same cancer but 3 altogether different ones. I have a genetic disorder that causes cancer. Of them, the ovarian cancer has been the hardest, most traumatic experience of my life. The longest I’ve ever gone without cancer is 3 years. Average that out and you’ll see that every 18-24 months I was in treatment or having surgery of some kind. I’ve now approached 3 years cancer free from Ovarian cancer. My 6-month scan is in 11 days. We’ll see if I’m clear for another 6 months.
Even though I’ve been told no cancer cells were found when they did a peritoneal wash during a surgery 2 years ago, I still have a hard time believing the cancer is really gone. I wait and constantly hold my breath for a past cancer diagnosis to return or for a completely new cancer to arrive. Every scan, every symptom like constipation, bloating, and early satiety sends my thoughts spiraling down the rabbit hole. Life’s distractions are my saving grace.
I have lost so much. My dream job, a home on a lake in the northern woods of Wisconsin, my body and how it functions, my sense of health and safety… The list goes on. I’ve gained wonderful things, too. Sometimes the grief over what my life was like before cancer clouds the blessings I’ve gained. I struggle with PTSD from the horrible complications I’ve suffered along the way. Sometimes, I get stuck in my head. Today happens to be one of those days.
Jess’s anniversary is ironically close to my own for ovarian cancer. My initial diagnosis was Aug 20th, 2014 (my mother’s 60th birthday). I carry guilt for having called her while sobbing after getting the pathology report. What a horrible way to say, “Happy Birthday” but, all I wanted was my mom. Her 60th birthday will always be spoiled in my eyes. I can’t change that. The thought of it saddens me still. It was a terrible day that is still a very vivid memory.
This past weekend I celebrated 11 years of “survivorship” since my initial ovarian cancer diagnosis. We had a huge party at our home with over 60 guests. It was the first time in all these years I felt like I actually accomplished something or felt like a survivor. Now that the party is past, it feels as though it was only a fleeting moment. I have to constantly remind myself that I am the phoenix that has risen from the ashes even if it feels as though I’ve never taken flight or found my feathers.
The hardest part of survivorship is that you look normal to other people. They move on. The survivor is left to deal with the remnants. If they knew how to look below the surface, they would find something very different. Because the last 20 years has been nothing but dealing with cancer, I have many invisible wounds in different stages of healing. Some of them are crusted over while others still bleed when they are “bumped” (emotionally or physically). I am NOT the same as I was 20 years ago before cancer. I am resilient. I know this to be true even on days I don’t feel resilient. I am quieter, more introverted than before. I have adjusted to a new way of living and a different idea of a career. I’ve learned that God has our paths chosen and the experiences we have with the people we meet are our opportunities and blessings he has designed for a purpose we don’t always understand. I’ve also learned that all we really have on this earth is time. How it’s spent is what’s important. I am more patient, less judgmental, even more empathetic than before, and developed a different relationship with God since this started. I work every day to remember the blessings I’ve been granted along the way hoping that someday (if I can stay cancer free), the blessings will outweigh the grief and terror I’ve experience in this journey leading me to more peace, and only a few emotional and physical scars to prove it really happened. I know it eventually will.
Sandy, thank you for posting this. I had gone onto this website to see how your fall launch was going, and it led me to this. Apparently, God wanted me to see this.
Please tell Jess (from one survivor to another), happy cancer free anniversary and I wish her many more. I also wish her well as she continues to navigate survivorship. I hope she and/or your family did something to celebrate it. It’s something not everyone with a history of cancer gets to do.
I wish you and your family well and continued healing with your own experience.
Sincerely,
Mandy Blume (USA)
8-time cancer survivor
From Ashes… I RISE
Sandi, thank you for posting this. The words you shared from Princess Catherine can also apply when a loved one is lost, especially when it comes to our children. I have lost 2 daughters: my youngest, September 14, 1999, from an accident, and my oldest, August 11, 2024, to liver disease after several months in the hospital. Whether it is an illness that was beaten, or a loved one is lost, back to normal doesn’t exist for anyone anymore. You can only pray for peace and grace for a new normal to develop. I Thank God for Sandi and the hundreds and hundreds of videos that have been the distraction I have needed while I work on dealing with the changes the last year has brought to my life.