THE IDENTITY CRISIS OF CANCER
By Cindy Finch, LCSW
Dear Cindy,
I feel stuck and lost after my cancer. Everything is messed up and I am different. I just feel off. What’s going on?
Dear Lost,
First off, thank you for writing. You are not alone in this.
You might have heard the term "chemo brain," which refers to the cognitive fog that can linger after chemotherapy—trouble with memory, focus, or finding words. But what you're describing goes deeper than foggy thinking. You're describing an identity fracture—a quiet, disorienting crisis that comes after the cancer fight, when everyone else thinks you should be "better."
Surviving cancer changes you. But no one tells you how lonely that change can be. During treatment, you had cheerleaders. You had structure. You had appointments and protocols. But when the treatments end, so does the rhythm—and so does a lot of the support. You’re left standing in the wreckage with a body you don’t recognize, relationships that feel strained, and a future that feels blurry.
This is what I call the identity crisis of cancer. It’s the disorientation that creeps in when the noise dies down. The crisis is technically over, but your insides didn’t get the memo. You walk into rooms and don’t feel like yourself. You show up to your life, but the coordinates have shifted. It's like your soul’s luggage got rerouted and hasn’t arrived yet. You look in the mirror and don't know if you're rebuilding or disappearing. This identity unraveling? It’s not weakness—it’s grief in disguise. And underneath that grief is the invitation to rebuild. Who are you now? Not just in your body, but in your work, your family, your friendships, your faith?
Many survivors have to grieve not just what they lost—hair, breasts, energy, fertility—but who they were before it all began. I remember one time walking into Walgreens and having the clerk at the front not even look at me, and worse, once she glanced at me, she looked away and didn't say anything. Another time someone called me 'sir' rather than 'ma'am' or by my name. In her defense, I was bald, swollen, and looked like a skeleton with a huge stomach from my treatments. That day, I didn’t just lose my hair—I lost my reflection. The shame was deep. I stopped looking in mirrors. I remember telling Darin, “I just want my regular girl back.” I didn’t even know who I was anymore. He held me and said, “I remember who you are.”
We didn’t have sex for a year. I hated my body—it had betrayed me. I was 31 and missing the height of my sexual self. At 37 I had to have massive surgeries and could not walk to my own mailbox. I went from sprint triathlons and 50-mile bike rides to using a walker and full-time oxygen. I remember wailing at night while Darin held our newborn son and cried too. “I hope you get to know your mom one day,” he whispered. He had just adopted my older kids while I was bald from chemo. We stood in the judge’s chambers as a family being stitched together while I felt like I was falling apart.
And still—we came back. Not quickly. Not neatly. But we did. Somewhere along the line, something in me shifted. I stopped obsessing over how I looked. My insecurities about my appearance? Gone. Every day that I wasn’t sick became a win. I had hair, lashes, pubic hair again—I felt feminine. Cancer had solved my “Am I pretty enough?” problem. I was alive. That was enough.
So where do we start?
We start by rebuilding identity with intention.
I want you to begin by making what I call a Strong Me list. This is a list of who you are now—not based on diagnosis or suffering, but based on your essence, your actions, your strengths.
Step 1: Call out the courage.
What did you do well during treatment? Did you help calm your family when they were afraid? Did you sit next to another patient in the infusion room and make them laugh? Did you learn how to choke down the Barium smoothie like a champ? These are strengths. Write them down.
I am brave.
I am steady.
I bring calm.
I am compassionate even when I’m scared.
Step 2: Ask others.
When you can’t see your own reflection clearly, borrow someone else's mirror. Ask two people you trust to tell you what they love most about who you are. Write it down. Even if it feels awkward or untrue.
Maybe they say:
You always make me laugh.
You’re the glue in our family.
You know how to show up when people are hurting.
Own those truths. Let them inform your new definition of self.
Step 3: Reclaim your value.
Write out the roles you play—parent, partner, nurse, artist, leader—and next to each one, list what it means in terms of impact. If that feels too hard right now, start with just one role and ask: When did I feel most proud in this role? What’s one small way I made a difference—even if no one noticed but me?
If you’re a teacher:
I teach.
I hold space for growth.
I adapt.
I nurture.
If you’re a parent:
I show up.
I love big.
I hold others even when I’m breaking.
If you’re a survivor:
I endure.
I transform.
I bring lived wisdom to others.
If you're stuck, start small: “I walked my dog today even though I was tired.” That’s called resilience. Put it on the list.
Step 4: Write your new identity declaration.
Here’s one way it might sound:
I am not my cancer. I’m the one who brought laughter into waiting rooms, who kept going after all the hair and softness were gone. Just last week, I stood next to a friend through her own diagnosis, even though the smell of antiseptic still makes my stomach flip. I am grace with grit. I am a mother who writes letters in the dark and a friend who remembers birthdays even while healing. I am not done—not by a long shot. I survived, yes. But more than that: I became. I became someone I never saw coming. And she is someone I respect.
What might your new declaration sound like?
This is what reinvention looks like.
The world will keep calling you a survivor. But that’s not your only name. You get to name yourself. Not based on what you went through, but based on what you choose now.
If you need help writing this next chapter, I’m here. What’s one sentence you can write today that reflects who you’re becoming? It doesn’t have to be polished. It just has to be yours.
Next Steps:
📘 Download the Make an Epic Comeback workbook here: [Insert Link]
📗 Check out my book When Grief is Good: [Insert Link]
🎓 Join an upcoming class or group: [Insert Link to Class Schedule]
With hope,
Cindy Finch, LCSW
www.cindyfinch.com
cinfinch@gmail.com
