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Linda Athanasiadou — cancer survivor writing at the intersection of health and humanity

When my oncologist finally said the words “no evidence of disease,” I smiled, nodded, and thanked him. Then I went home, sat on the edge of my bed, and cried—not from joy, but from something closer to confusion. Relief, yes. But also fear. Because no one prepares you for how hard it is to live after treatment, when the outside world thinks you’re fine—but inside, the fear lingers like a shadow.

For months, maybe years, your life revolves around fighting. Schedules are built around chemo cycles, scan dates, blood draws. There’s a structure to survival. And then suddenly, it stops. You ring the bell. You go home. And you’re left alone with your body—changed, fatigued, and no longer monitored with the same urgency. That silence can be terrifying.

Every ache becomes a question. Every headache, a whisper of dread. I found myself scanning for signs of recurrence constantly—body-checking, Googling symptoms at midnight, second-guessing every sensation. And worse, I didn’t feel I could talk about it. People wanted celebrations. They wanted me to “move on.” But emotionally, I was still in the thick of it.

Research backs this up. Studies published in 2024 and early 2025 confirm that post-treatment anxiety is incredibly common among survivors. According to the National Cancer Institute, fear of recurrence is one of the most persistent and distressing issues for cancer survivors—even years after treatment ends. And yet, it’s rarely addressed with the same seriousness as physical care.

What helped me most was naming it. Saying out loud: “I’m afraid.” Talking to a therapist who understood survivorship. Joining peer groups where I didn’t have to pretend. Creating routines that grounded me when uncertainty loomed—daily walks, journaling, mindfulness. I also gave myself permission to not feel grateful every second of the day. Gratitude and fear can coexist.

I still live with that shadow. Maybe I always will. But it doesn’t define me anymore. It walks beside me instead of ahead of me. And on most days, I can look it in the eye and say: Not today.

If this resonates with your journey, I invite you to read my article, “The Silent Anxiety After Remission: When the World Thinks You’re Fine,” The Silent Anxiety After Remission: When the World Thinks You’re Fine where I explore the emotional aftermath of surviving—and how to keep moving forward even when fear whispers in the background.

You’re not broken for being afraid. You’re human. And in that honesty, healing begins.

By Linda Athanasiadou

People often assume they know what being bisexual means. That it’s about liking men and women “equally.” That it’s indecisive, confusing, or temporary. That it’s a stepping stone to something else—or nothing serious at all. But the truth is, being bisexual doesn’t fit neatly into anyone’s assumptions. It’s not a phase. It’s not a performance. And it’s definitely not what most people think.

Being bisexual feels like freedom and friction at the same time. It’s the freedom to be attracted to more than one gender, to connect with people beyond binaries. But it’s also the friction of constantly navigating a world that struggles to recognize that truth. A world where people often ask, “But which do you prefer?” or assume that your current partner defines your orientation.

For me, being bisexual means living in the space between—and sometimes feeling like you don’t fully belong anywhere. Straight people often treat you like you’re gay. Queer spaces sometimes treat you like you’re straight. Dating can feel like a test: Will this person understand? Will I have to defend myself again?

It also means constantly coming out. Every new person, every new relationship, every time someone assumes. There’s no one-and-done moment. It’s ongoing. And while sometimes that feels empowering, other times it’s exhausting. Because each time, you’re weighing whether it’s safe, whether it’s worth the explanation, whether your truth will be accepted or minimized.

Being bisexual means sitting with contradictions that don’t feel contradictory to you—but do to others. It’s knowing that you can love a man and still be queer. That being in a same-gender relationship doesn’t make you any “more” gay than you were before. That identity isn’t measured by who you’re currently dating.

But it’s not all struggle. There’s beauty in the nuance. There’s clarity in understanding attraction as something fluid and not forced into a mold. There’s joy in finding others who feel the same, who share your language, who don’t raise an eyebrow when you say you’re bi. There’s power in rejecting the idea that your love has to look a certain way to be valid.

Being bisexual, for me, feels like reclaiming space. Space to define myself without apology. Space to unlearn shame. Space to feel fully seen.

So no—it’s not what most people think. It’s deeper, messier, and more real. And it’s not something that needs to be justified or simplified.

#lindaathanasiadou #athanasiadou #LGBTQ #Bisexual