Written by: Caroline Motycka, Fight CRC Community Engagement Manager and stage IV survivor
Ten years of surviving the unsurvivable.
Ten years of chemo chairs, IV poles, side effects, and waiting rooms. Ten years of procedures and surgeries. Ten years of scans that have never quite gotten easier. Ten years of holding my breath before the results. Ten years of learning the language of labs and lesions, statistics, data, and likelihoods. Ten years of fighting for more time with my children and my family. Ten years of losing pieces of my old life — and learning how to live inside a new one.
Ten years of managing fear in the quiet spaces no one else sees. Ten years of smiling through events and watching life move forward while carrying the weight of uncertainty. Ten years of redefining strength — not as invincibility, but as showing up anyway. Ten years of asking hard questions, making impossible decisions, and trusting a physician-driven team with my life. Ten years of scars — visible and invisible. Ten years of fatigue that lingers and resilience that refuses to leave. Ten years of discovering that survival is not just physical — it is emotional, relational, and spiritual. Ten years of becoming someone I never planned to be, but someone I am fiercely proud of becoming.
Ten years of surviving while others didn’t.
Surviving when others didn’t is not simple. It does not sit neatly; there is no clean relief. It is a complicated joy. It is grief woven into gratitude. It is remembering hospital rooms and unfinished conversations. It is thinking about birthdays that should have been celebrated and ordinary weekends that should have kept coming. It is carrying names in my heart so tightly that sometimes it feels like they are stitched there.
It is remembering the sound of their laughter. The lines in their smile. The way they texted. The way they showed up for other people even when they were tired. It is remembering the last hug, not knowing it would be the last. The hope in their voice when they talked about “next year.” The plans that were made in faith. The courage they carried into life. The strength they showed in moments that should have broken them.
It is remembering the small, sacred details — their favorite song, the way they joked, the look they gave when they were being stubborn or brave, the ideals they lived by – love your people well, show up even when it’s hard, fight for more time, leave things better than you found them. It is remembering sitting beside them and promising we would keep fighting. It is remembering what they taught me about love, about resilience, about what really matters.
And sometimes, in the quiet, when the house is still and the world has gone to sleep, I still ask the question no one can truly answer: Why am I still here?
Survivorship is layered. It is tender. It is sacred. And it is complicated in ways only those of us who walk it can truly understand.
Grief does not end when treatment ends. It settles in. It grows roots. Each milestone I reach feels both of triumph and a reminder of who is missing beside me. I celebrate — and I remember. I move forward — and I carry it backward with me. I laugh — and later I cry. Both are true. Both belong.
Surviving is hard. Grief is profound.
There is a temptation to push grief away — to silence it, to tuck it behind resilience, to wear strength like armor. But when I allow grief in — instead of pushing it away — it becomes something powerful. It fuels courage. It gives my advocacy depth. It reminds me why the work is urgent. It sharpens my voice and clarifies my purpose, transforming pain into something that moves mountains.
For me, surviving means taking a seat at the table, the very table they once sat— in advocacy meetings, research discussions, policy conversations — and it is not about recognition. It is about representation. I sit there for the love of my life who didn’t make it. I speak up for the parent who ran out of time and for children growing up without a parent. I push for better options because a friend I deeply cared for needed more than what existed. I carry them into rooms they should have been in themselves. I carry their stories, their laughter, their fight, their hope. I don’t have to be loud to take a seat at the table. I don’t have to be polished. I don’t have to have all the answers. I just have to show up. I show up with the names I carry. I show up with the stories that shaped me. I show up with the love that still aches in my chest.
Taking a seat at the table in their honor does not erase my grief — it transforms it. It says their story still matters. Their life still counts. Their fight was not in vain. It says, I am here — and because I am here, I will do something with it.
Surviving then becomes more than a chance; it becomes an opportunity. An opportunity to advocate for earlier screening. To demand equitable access. To ensure the next person hears, “We have more options.” To create a world where fewer families say goodbye too soon.
Surviving when others didn’t will always be complicated. The ache may never fully leave. But when I choose to use my voice, when I choose to step into rooms that once felt intimidating, when I choose to turn grief into action — I am not only surviving.
I am honoring.
I am remembering.
I am building.
And maybe that is the answer to the question I have asked for ten years.
Why am I still here?
I am still here because I have become someone I never planned to be — someone shaped by the storm, softened by grief, strengthened by love. I am still here to carry their names forward. I am still here because there is work to be done.
And I am still here in the quiet ways, too — in the soft, ordinary moments that once felt uncertain. In the morning sunlight that warms the room. In the sound of laughter that fills a room and makes me pause, just to take it in. In deep breaths after hard anniversaries and milestones that carry both pride and ache. In the tender space where joy and grief sit side by side, neither canceling the other, both reminding me how deeply I have loved and been loved.
Grief still visits. It shows up in small waves and unexpected tears, in memories that catch in my throat. But it no longer only breaks me — it softens me. It keeps me connected to the people I carry. It reminds me that the ache exists because the love was real.
Surviving has not made me fearless; it has made me tender. It has taught me that strength and softness can live in the same space. It has shown me that surviving is not about being untouched by pain — it is about choosing, again and again, to stay open to love anyway. It has taught me to choose a connection over fear. To lean into the people at my table instead of pulling away. To say the words. To hold hands. To show up fully, even knowing how fragile it all can be.
Surviving has made me braver in the ways that matter most — braver in loving deeply, braver in building community, braver in believing that relationships are worth the risk of heartbreak. I no longer measure life by certainty; I measure it by presence. By sharing meals. By laughter that echoes. By conversations that stretch long into the night.
Fear still whispers; grief will always linger, but love speaks louder. Love is not naive. It is not blind to grief. It simply refuses to let fear have the final word. And every day, I choose love. I choose the people in front of me. I choose the long hugs and the unhurried conversations. I choose to say “I love you” out loud and often. I choose to build memories instead of guarding my heart. I choose the community that has carried me. I choose to invest in relationships that outlast fear.
Because surviving isn’t just about staying alive — it’s about staying open. It’s about living in a way that honors the love we’ve shared and continue to share, even after loss. It is how I make sure their lives ripple forward instead of fading quietly. It is how I turn memory into movement and heartbreak into purpose. Staying open means allowing joy to return, even when grief still sits beside it. It means trusting that love is stronger than fear and that connection is stronger than loss. And that choice — to love fully, to connect deeply, to remain hopeful — is the bravest thing I can do for all of us.
Ten years of surviving the unsurvivable — and I am still here. And I will continue to show up and fight for everyone who deserves more time.