Cancer

Living with chronic pain is like having a shadow that never leaves — some days it looms larger than others. Over the years, I’ve tried everything from physical therapy and medications to heat pads and meditation. But one tool that caught me by surprise? Red light therapy. I was skeptical at first, but here’s what I’ve learned — and how you can make it work for you.

🔴 What Is Red Light Therapy?

Red light therapy (RLT), sometimes called low-level laser therapy (LLLT), uses wavelengths of red and near-infrared light to stimulate healing, reduce inflammation, and improve circulation. It doesn’t burn or hurt — in fact, it feels like a gentle warmth. The magic happens beneath the skin, where the light penetrates into cells and boosts mitochondrial function (think: better cellular energy).

💡 How I Use It for Pain Relief

Consistency is key: I use it for about 15–20 minutes per session, 3–5 times a week. It’s not a quick fix, but over time I noticed my pain levels drop — especially in my lower back and knees.

Clean, dry skin: I make sure the area is clean with no lotions, and I place the device directly on my skin or very close to it.

Right device matters: I started with a small handheld unit and later upgraded to a larger pad that wraps around joints or back muscles — super convenient and hands-free.

Time it right: I often use it after a hot shower or stretching session to help relax muscles even more.

✨ Real-Life Results

For me, red light therapy has become part of my self-care toolbox — not a miracle cure, but a solid support. On flare days, it helps me soften the edge of the pain. On better days, it helps me stay mobile and reduce stiffness.

⚠️ A Few Notes

It’s not for everyone — but it's non-invasive and low-risk.

Always check with your doctor if you’re managing conditions like cancer, epilepsy, or are pregnant.

Look for FDA-cleared devices and avoid cheap knockoffs.

If you’ve ever felt like your body’s in a constant battle with itself, red light therapy might be a gentle ally in your healing journey. It’s okay to try new things. It’s okay to need help. And it’s absolutely okay to hope for better days ahead. 💛

Have you tried red light therapy? I’d love to hear what worked (or didn’t) for you in the comments below. 👇

My right hip is still really bad. But my lumbar feels like I'm being ripped apart. I have tried to contact the surgeon who did my surgery but I have gotten nowhere. I'm considering messaging him on Facebook cuz he posts quite often.
My tummy hurts kinda bad. It's been finicky all day. My eyes are really bothering me. They're really hurting and they keep going into double vision. It's something I'm trying to get used to but it still sucks and it's very uncomfortable.
I think I might be hungry. I ate 2 buttered cheesy English muffins for lunch today at around 3pm and I haven't had any food since then. But I'm sipping on my coffee from this morning.
I talked to my mom today. She had surgery on Friday and I hadn't heard from her so I called to find out how she's doing. We talked for a few minutes and then my uncle called and she said she would call me back after she spoke to him. His wife is terminally ill and she is currently in the hospital. Apparently she has to go to a rehabilitation center cuz she is really not doing well. My uncle has been taking care of her for over a year since she got diagnosed with cancer.
I waited for an hour and I texted her asking if everything was ok and she replied with that info. My mom is very close to my uncle and his wife. I never had any closeness with her. But my uncle is the one guy who I wanted to grow up to be like him. He's kinda awesome.
When I messaged him over the weekend he said my grandpa would be proud of his grandson. I kinda cried when he said that. My mom refuses to accept me as male but he didn't even think twice about accepting me as his nephew. He's a really good guy.
My vision is really glazed over. It's like trying to see through frosted glass. And they're really dry. I have some eye drops somewhere. Pauley just found them! My hero 😻

Hi, my name is LolaMaViola77. I'm here because I have been living with a rare sarcoma for over a decade.

#MightyTogether #Cancer

#Cancer #athanasiadou #linda Athanasiadou

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.