There Is No Single Right Way

This article is part of the “Healing in Two Voices” series developed within the e-QuoL project, which brings together survivor voices and professional reflections on life after childhood and adolescent cancer.  In this series, professional contributions do not aim to add explanations or conclusions. They create spaces for reflection — ethical, psychological, and clinical — opened by the testimonies themselves.

1

Cancer stories are often told using words like courage, strength, resilience, or fighting spirit.

For some survivors, these words feel meaningful and empowering. For others, they may feel distant, uncomfortable, or even painful.

Healthcare teams themselves sometimes use these symbols to help children cope with treatment — through end-of-treatment bells, superhero capes, bravery rituals, or words of encouragement meant to bring hope and strength during difficult moments.

Childhood, adolescent and young adulthood cancer can be experienced in very different ways.

Some people move forward through hope, determination, or the idea of fighting. Others survive step by step, without feeling strong or courageous at all.

There is no single right way to experience illness, treatment, fear, anger, hope, or survivorship.

All these experiences are real and deserve to be heard.

Dr Charlotte Demoor-Goldschmidt. Survivorship Medical Doctor expert – Radiotherapy oncologist. CHU Angers, CHU Caen, Inserm U 1018, France

2

Hey, hi you! How are you feeling today?
My name is Wallim.

I want to share a bit of my story with you—something that might help you feel stronger and get through these ups and downs.

I was 9 years old when cancer knocked on my door.
‘Hi Wallim, I’m lymphoma.’
The disease is called Hodgkin lymphoma.

Less than 10% of the French population is affected.
Just like you, I was enjoying life, laughing, and spending time with my family and friends.

Then I went into the hospital—scans, MRIs, blood tests, lumbar punctures, catheters…
A daily life very different from other kids.

It’s true—we don’t have the same life as our friends.
But don’t worry, life can continue after this — sometimes differently, but still with joy, projects, and dreams.

From that moment on, I felt like a real little warrior—like it was me or the disease.
Facing everything head-on, like an athlete.

Chemotherapy, weight loss, losing hair, eyelashes, eyebrows, scars on the body…
All of that is part of the journey.

You know why I say that?
Because life isn’t always easy.

One piece of advice: when something difficult is coming—an operation, a test—
try to think about the next day, when it will already be behind you.
Think about the moments you’ll laugh about it later with your family and friends.

Think about your future.
What you dream of.

At that time, I just wanted to keep laughing, seeing my family, my friends, and being there for them.
What helped me was thinking about the next weekend, Christmas, birthdays, holidays…
and also about my dreams for later.

23 years later, I’ve achieved some of those dreams.

Today, I’m 32. I’m a construction worker.
My biggest achievement? Being alive.
And doing a job that I enjoy.

After everything I went through, I live like anyone else.

My body still carries marks from that journey—like a knight who has been through battles.
But these marks are not weaknesses—they are proof of what I’ve been through.

Today, I laugh, I enjoy life, my family, my friends.
I work, travel, go out, do sports…

And I owe a lot of this to my little sister.
She was only 5 years old and became a big part of my story.

She was my donor—my “angel.”
Without her, I wouldn’t be here today.

That’s why I can write to you today, to encourage you to keep going.

I wish you courage and happiness.
Don’t give up. Keep going.

Wallim, a French CAYACS

3

Going through cancer can be incredibly hard.
There can be moments where everything feels overwhelming, confusing, or even unfair.

Over time, some people find that this experience changes the way they see themselves or their life.
Sometimes it can bring a sense of strength or a different perspective—even if it doesn’t feel that way right now.

As Wallim shares, thinking about the future, your dreams, or the next moments to come can help you get through difficult times.
Some survivors describe cancer as a fight and see themselves as warriors or heroes. For them, these words can help give meaning, hope, or strength during treatment.

But when you’re facing fatigue, pain, uncertainty, or emotional exhaustion, moving forward can feel very different.

In those moments, the question is not how to be strong — but how to keep going in a way that feels possible.

This can mean asking for help.
Talking to your medical team, reaching out to associations, meeting others who have been through similar experiences, or speaking with a psychologist can really help.

You don’t have to face everything on your own.

Moving forward doesn’t always look like big steps.
Sometimes, it’s just getting through the day, little by little.

There is no single right way to go through cancer or life after it.
Each person finds their own way—and yours matters just as much.

Dr Charlotte Demoor-Goldschmidt. Survivorship Medical Doctor expert – Radiotherapy oncologist. CHU Angers, CHU Caen, Inserm U 1018, France

4

Very recently, we had a bit of a ‘controversy’ on our association’s forum about courage: someone spoke of the unease, almost a sense of rebellion, they felt upon reading these two simple words: ‘Good luck.’

We’re all familiar with that situation where, faced with something tedious or frustrating, we offer each other encouragement with a “good luck”, backed up by a knowing glance.

It’s the work meeting you know is pointless, the afternoon’s lessons with a bunch of troublemakers (been there, done that), the stressful exam, the family gathering that’s shaping up to be a bit of a drag because that uncle who can only talk about politics will be there… “Come on! Good luck, eh?”

I remember the days of my chemo.

Not the first ones, but the ones towards the end. The ones where I was just skin and bones; the ones where it took several attempts to find THE right vein; the ones where I cried so much that they had to drag me in (yes, really!)… And all the while, I’d hear: “Come on, you’ve got to do this, be brave…”

I didn’t care about being brave. I just wanted them to stop giving me those chemo sessions that made me so ill.

Then there was the time of my third cancer (thyroid cancer in 2013). There, too, I heard, “Come on! Be brave!” And worse still: “It’ll be fine: you’re brave.” Well, of course: after two cancers and two major thoracic operations, you’re bound to be a world champion, aren’t you?

I admit I had a furious urge to lash out. Even at my friends.

It wasn’t a ‘serious’ cancer, as it was detected very early on, but it was the third one, and the only thing on my mind at the time was, ‘What’s the point?’.

What’s the point of getting treatment? Just so there’ll be more to come afterwards?

What’s the point of living, really?

I’m not brave and I don’t want to be.

Since I’m going to get treatment – deep down, I’ve got no other choice: a ‘minor’ cancer would be such a waste – at least let me do it on my own terms, with the desire to leave it at that. Where is courage when you’ve got no choice?

And anyway, what is courage, anyway?

My therapist helped me to fully express this despondency, my sadness, my anger, my fears. And to come to terms with them, too.

Above all, she enabled me to contemplate the courage of that eleven-year-old girl in the hell of her first cancer and to be proud of it.

In the end, I did it: I looked after myself, dragging my feet and wanting to die.

Step by step.

With the strange feeling that you have courage even when you don’t want it. And little by little, the light came back on.

Allowing yourself not to have courage. Getting through things as best you can, even if it doesn’t look very glorious. Being proud of it.

Perhaps that’s what courage is…

Sabine Heinrich, France, Patient advocate, Association Les Aguerris

5

We’re told that illness teaches us resilience, courage, strength.

What we’re not told is what it takes from us first.

In my case:
Part of my face.
The possibility of giving life.
A linear education, a “normal” path.
The carefree nature of adolescence.
Being in sync with my peers.

While others were living their adolescence, I was learning to survive.
And without knowing it, I was forging tools I still use today.

Being alone.
In high school, I went to the cinema alone. Then to restaurants, concerts, traveling alone.
Because when I was sick, I spent an enormous amount of time in a hospital room, alone. So once I returned to “the normal world,” when my friends weren’t always available, I decided not to wait for them to live and do the things I wanted.

Not being afraid of people’s gaze.
About what I wear, about my appearance.
Because my body had already been exposed, scrutinized, commented on. So I learned early to choose my clothes for myself, not to reassure others.

Sticking to my goals.
Believing it was the only possible path, but taking multiple routes if necessary.
Because Plan A regularly fell apart. So I learned to pivot without losing direction.

Dealing with information asymmetry.
Knowing more or less than others about my own condition. About my own story.
Because I had to manage situations where I knew my body better than some doctors, and others where I understood nothing about what was happening to me.
So I learned to navigate this imbalance without losing myself.

All of this, I learned during treatment.
These aren’t superpowers.
They’re survival tools that became life tools.

The after exists. And it’s built with what remains.
It deserves to be talked about.

Laura

6

In pediatric oncology, healthcare teams often try to support children and adolescents through symbols of hope, courage, strength, or resilience.

In some hospitals, children ring a bell at the end of treatment. In others, radiotherapy masks are transformed into superhero masks or capes, and words like “fighter,” “warrior,” or “hero” are used to encourage children during difficult moments.

For some patients and families, these symbols become deeply meaningful memories. They can help give hope, strength, motivation, or a sense of pride during treatment.

For others, however, these words may feel more distant, uncomfortable, or difficult to identify with — especially when treatment feels overwhelming, exhausting, frightening, or when there is little sense of choice.

Survivorship teaches us that there is no single right way to experience illness, courage, vulnerability, resilience, or recovery.

Some people feel strong. Others feel fragile. Some fight. Others simply try to get through the day.

All these experiences are legitimate.

As healthcare professionals, survivors, and families, we continue learning from one another that listening to this diversity of experiences may be one of the most important parts of survivorship care.

Dr Charlotte Demoor-Goldschmidt. Survivorship Medical Doctor expert – Radiotherapy oncologist. CHU Angers, CHU Caen, Inserm U 1018, France