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.

I’ll Fit It Into My Life—Not the Other Way Around

When I first heard from my oncologist that the new treatment I’m undergoing for this recurrence didn’t have a set end date—even after a negative diagnosis—I told myself that even if it took a couple of years, I’d eventually be done with it.

But during my last infusion this week (I get them every three weeks), I asked him again because I’m planning a trip to Brazil and wanted to stay longer than three weeks. To my disappointment, he told me he still can’t predict an end date. There just isn’t enough data yet, and every case is different. The only thing he knows for sure is: if I stop, it could come back.

Not fun.

He told me that ultimately, I’ll have to be the one to decide if skipping an infusion for something important—like staying longer in Brazil—is worth it for me.

Hearing that hit me with a mix of emotions. It took me two days to even write about it. I never imagined I’d go through breast cancer once, let alone twice. No genetic markers, no family history, no unhealthy habits. And still—here I am. Again.

And now, knowing I’ll need to rely on this medication for an unpredictable amount of time is heavy.

You might think, “What’s the big deal? Some breast cancer survivors take daily pills for 5 or 10 years.” But for me, it’s the fact that I need to go to an oncology facility every three weeks. That I have to take pre-meds that mess with my mind—especially the steroids. That I lose an entire day because they make me tired. That I depend on someone to drive me. That I can’t just plan a trip to visit my family and friends for more than three weeks without considering treatment.

My whole life has to be planned around infusion days.

Thankfully, I had my port removed, because the thought of having it as a “forever friend” for who knows how long was too much. That thing bothered me so much.

Right now, the only thing I can do is reframe this. Maybe it’ll take some time—or maybe not—but I need to find a way to fit this treatment into my life, not the other way around. I don’t want to feel like a slave to it.

This whole cancer journey—both times—has brought so much to reflect on. And especially, to adapt to.

It’s a lot to process. But the only way I know how to move forward is to reframe each little challenge… and be grateful. Yes—grateful for the experiences, the possibilities, the strength we find within ourselves, and the support we’re lucky to receive. Give me a few days. I’m reframing it.