Welcome To 'Attempts at Optimism'

Weekly dispatches to keep you from the perils of pessimism. Positivity optional, honesty guaranteed.

Nov 27, 2024

My relationship with optimism began in 2018, when at age 29, I found a lump in my breast.

Lying in the bath, my fingers prodding the unexplained mass, I tried not to panic. Though my odds of having cancer were low, I knew I needed to get it checked.

Less than a year earlier, my childhood best friend, Emily, had been diagnosed with breast cancer. I wouldn’t have even found the lump if not for her, the shock of her illness prompting me to Google how to perform a self-exam.

For both of us to have breast cancer in our twenties seemed impossible. Yet, within weeks, my lump had doubled in size.

I went for an ultrasound. Then, a painful biopsy. Then, a rushed mammogram. Finally, the world-shattering news from my doctor: I had a highly aggressive invasive ductal carcinoma.

My treatment plan was gruelling. I went from being a seemingly healthy twenty-nine-year-old to a frail, exhausted cancer patient in a matter of months. I lost my hair, my breasts, my period, my concept of womanhood and my independence.

Having always been a glass-half-empty kind of person, my fear of recurrence became all-consuming. Panic attacks and nightmares debilitated me.

But nothing could have prepared me for the loss that came next.

Emily’s cancer returned—and this time, it couldn’t be cured. Tragically, she passed away, leaving behind a devoted husband, two young children, and countless family and friends who adored her.

In the wake of Emily’s death, grief and survivor’s guilt overwhelmed me.

I hated myself for being alive in a world where she wasn’t, and I couldn’t imagine ever feeling happy again.

But, I also knew that to live the rest of my life in depression would be an affront to the memory of my best friend—and a slap in the face of my own recovery.

I knew I needed to find a way to forgive myself, but the problem was I was too afraid to even try.

Incapacitated by shame, fear and low self-esteem—and convinced that any route I took would lead to failure—I wouldn’t even allow myself to take the first step.

With the encouragement of friends and family, I turned to writing.

Writing became something I could count on when everything else felt out of control. And each time I wrote, I felt like I was leaving a little bit of my pain on the page.

Despite my ingrained lack of self-belief, I began to wonder if I could write a book. I typed up a few scenes. They were terrible. I'd read them back and cringe. As a lifelong fan of memoir, I knew good writing when I saw it—and this wasn’t it.

But a funny thing happened. I kept going—not because I thought I was any good, but because the very act of trying made me start to like myself. As this shift began to take place, I realised a brutal truth:

Never in my life had I truly liked myself.

How could I ever forgive myself for ‘staying alive’ if I couldn’t find a way to like—or even love—myself?

The truth was, there was nothing inherently wrong with me. I was a good, kind person who’d spent a lifetime believing the wrong story—that I was somehow broken, less worthy than others.

Unlearning that story was a journey—one that I traversed through writing and revising my life on the page. The more I showed up to write, the more my self-belief grew, and I began to realise I was creating something that mattered.

Eventually, I had a book. A memoir. And those initial terrible sentences had been key to getting here.

It made me wonder, what else might I achieve by just trying?

Yes, maybe my cancer will return one day. Maybe I will lose my life in the same way as my friend. But if I let my fear stand in the way of taking chances, what’s the point in even surviving at all?

Cancer forced me to confront a painful truth: I was holding myself back from trying anything, because I was so scared of not being good enough. I’ve learned that the only way to write a book is by writing the first sentence. Now, I want to know:

What else is possible if I only attempt it?

Can I cultivate courage and happiness?

Can I learn to love myself?

Can I show up enough that I finally believe in myself?