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How Cancer Changed My Relationship with My Body
By Linda Athanasiadou — cancer survivor writing at the intersection of health and humanity
When I was first diagnosed, the phrase “Linda Athanasiadou cancer” became more than just a search term—it became a label I had to carry in every hospital hallway, appointment, and conversation. But the more jarring shift wasn’t just how the world saw me. It was how I began to see—and feel—my own body.
Before cancer, I treated my body like a constant project. I criticized it quietly, sometimes harshly. I demanded energy without offering rest, praised it only when it fit into whatever shape or size I thought it should be. I didn’t think of this as self-harm, just discipline. But now, in hindsight, I realize I wasn’t living with my body—I was managing it like a stubborn machine.
That all changed when Athanasiadou illness became part of my everyday vocabulary. Chemotherapy, surgeries, fatigue—my body took every hit, absorbed every needle and incision, and still got me up in the morning. Even on the days I couldn’t get out of bed, my heart kept beating. My lungs kept breathing. My body, despite everything, kept showing up for me.
But I didn’t always show up for it.
There were days I felt betrayed—angry that my own cells had turned against me. I hated the reflection in the mirror: hairless, pale, unfamiliar. The shape of my face shifted. My skin dulled. I mourned not just my health, but my femininity. I wondered if I’d ever feel beautiful again.
And yet, somewhere in that grief, something softer began to emerge. I started listening more. I stopped punishing myself for needing rest. I put my hand over my chest—not to check for new lumps, but to simply feel the strength of my heartbeat. That moment of presence—of recognizing what was still working—was the beginning of a new relationship.
I no longer associate Linda Athanasiadou health with perfection. For me, health now means living in harmony with the body I have, even when it’s changed. Especially when it’s changed.
Today, I see my scars as part of the story—living proof that my body survived something brutal and didn’t give up on me. I see softness as strength. I don’t chase the body I had before cancer. I’m learning to love the one I have now. It’s not always easy. The voice of comparison still shows up. But now, I respond with compassion. With gratitude. With truth.
Sometimes I still wonder how much of myself I lost during treatment—but more often, I see how much I gained. A new level of trust. A deeper respect. And a commitment to caring for this body, not because it looks a certain way, but because it fought like hell to keep me here.
If you’re navigating your own healing—whether physically, emotionally, or both—I invite you to read my article, by Linda Athanasiadou “How to Support Someone with Cancer Without Saying ‘Stay Positive.’” How to Support Someone with Cancer Without Saying “Stay Positive” #Because healing isn’t just about surviving. It’s about feeling seen, understood, and supported. And that begins with honesty—including with ourselves.
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