I made a quick decision. And it wasn’t easy.

Last Wednesday, I had an appointment with my oncologist. It was another one of those appointments where I was trying to find out when I would stop chemotherapy. Unlike my first cancer treatment, this time there is no timeline. No clear finish line. It’s more of a “let’s see how things go” situation.

According to my doctor, there still isn’t enough data to prove whether stopping chemotherapy would cause the cancer to return or not. In other words, there isn’t a clear answer. If the body stops tolerating the treatment well, then we start thinking about stopping. And that’s what I decided to do.

The decision may have seemed quick, but in truth, it had been living inside me for a while.

I wanted one more confirmation that the cancer was truly gone — through the PET Scan and the liquid biopsy I take every three months. I had already had three negative results. At this last appointment, another one came back negative. Yay!

I’ll admit I walked into that appointment with a small hope of hearing the words: “You’re cleared.”But what I heard instead was something different.

My doctor reaffirmed that, in my case, the choice was mine to make. Simply because there isn’t enough information to decide for me. So I chose to stop.

Over the last three treatments, I started to feel some discomfort. Nothing dramatic enough to stop my life completely. But small accumulations that slowly drain your energy, your body… and your mind. My body wasn’t tolerating it the same way anymore. And my mind was tired too.

But I’m stopping knowing that I will continue to be monitored every three months. And that, in the end, the only way to know what happens next is exactly this: to stop and see how my body responds.

Could it come back? Could it show up somewhere else? Anything is possible.

But it’s also possible that it never comes back again.

And that I am — truly — cured.

Cancer is a strange thing. It’s different for every person. It doesn’t choose who it affects. Even people with healthy habits can find themselves here.

It places you in a constant state of alert.

But there comes a moment when you have to trust.

Trust your body. Trust life.

And move forward.

And I am moving forward.

Let’s Ride This F**** Horse

Stop here if you don’t like woo-woo stuff.

If you’re open to it, join me in this reflection on the year.

I had to create this image - the complete opposite of how I am feeling right now thou ;)

2025 was the Year of the Snake, which symbolizes intuition, transformation, and—most of all—rebirth and renewal. I don’t know about you, but for me, it absolutely was.

The shedding of skin was so powerful that I’m ending the year dealing with a very hard-to-handle flu—fever, pain, exhaustion—right during New Year’s Eve week. All the plans I had (and I have them every year) to clean my closet, organize my documents, get my life aligned and synced with my resolutions… all of that went out the window.

Well, c’est la vie.

Even though I crave the physical act of clearing space—and, by extension, clearing my mind—I’m choosing to accept and release the need to control everything and plan obsessively, as a good Capricorn tends to do.

I might be spending New Year’s Eve high on fever instead of prosecco, but I still welcome 2026—the Year of the Horse and, according to numerology, a number 1 year, full of energy, passion, and transformation.

More? Well… I guess.

2025 showed me how tired I am of suffering and constantly proving that I’m strong. Honestly, I’m good. I’m ending the year feeling awful, ugly, exhausted. Maybe this is the snake skin peeling.

I hope.

At least this next transformation isn’t starting from ground zero. It’s beginning from a fire already lit in 2025—inch by inch, layer by layer—transforming, rebirthing, and getting ready for what’s coming next.

Let’s ride this f**** horse. 🐎

But you look great!

Over the past few weeks, I’ve been hearing that from people I run into — at yoga class, during a theater rehearsal, in a work meeting, or at the fifth medical appointment of the month.

The “looking great,” in the eyes of those who know (or find out) that I’m getting chemo every three weeks, that I went through four surgeries in just two months, and that I’m still in the process of reconstructing the breast that was removed — and believe it or not, that process isn’t even over yet — seems to surprise them. Whatever “great” means, I honestly feel like crap.

During Breast Cancer Awareness Month, I always feel some responsibility to talk about it. But lately, I’ve been having mixed thoughts about speaking up. I’m a little tired of talking about cancer. First, because I’m tired — period. And second, because cancer doesn’t define me.

But going through cancer a second time — and this time in such a harsh, difficult way, with a unilateral mastectomy, countless reconstruction complications, and all the physical and mental adjustments to the implant — hasn’t been easy at all.

I’ve already received confirmation twice this year that I’m cancer-free, but I still do chemo as a precaution. The doctor visits, the parallel treatments, and all the things that come along with it still haunt me — every single day. It’s a daily act of living and surviving.

And recently, I found out I have skin cancer. Even though it has nothing to do with breast cancer, it’s always that feeling of, “Seriously?” The treatment and all its side missions have become a second job. Depending on the day, I spend three to four hours just dealing with treatment-related stuff. There’s no break. No rest. There’s home work, work work, and treatment work. And still, people say I look great.

This year, I really wanted to come here and share a message of strength for other friends and women who are in treatment — or about to begin. And even after all this venting, I want to say that despite everything — despite being fed up — I’m still positive. I still give thanks. I still have faith. But right now, it’s a daily mix of “get up, shake off the dust, and rise again,” and honestly, it gets exhausting. Fatigue knocks at my door almost every day. I try to ignore it, but sometimes I let it in. And people say I look great. Good for me, I guess.