TEREZUM

So… how do I start this? Perhaps there is no easy way other than direct: I have breast cancer. I found out last week. Even now, I feel as if I’m living inside a movie, cast in a role I never chose, walking lines I never rehearsed.

It all began in April this year. A small lump, no bigger than a pea, appeared beneath the skin at the top of my left breast. I dismissed it, told myself it was harmless — a cyst, perhaps, or a pocket of fat. My cheerful ignorance carried me forward, like a child humming while the storm clouds gather unseen.

And then life happened. This part of my story feels almost too cinematic, as though written by a hand larger than mine. To understand how miraculous it is that I discovered my breast cancer, you must follow me back a little into my past.

I have been painting since I was six years old. My brushes were my first language, my secret rebellion. Yet I buried that dream when my family declared it foolish — “Artists never make money.” Still, I painted quietly, as though hiding a flame in my chest.

In April, I was in a relationship. We dreamed of moving to another town, and my heart leapt when I saw that town held an art university. When I shared my joy, my partner’s harsh dismissal cut me open. Soon after, a family member echoed the same: “It is too late to study art at 35.” That day, I fell to my knees. Tears blurred my vision as I prayed to Holy Mary, begging the universe for a way — any way — to follow my dream.

The next day, I let go of my partner. His inability to see my soul became too heavy to carry. What followed next still feels like divine orchestry.

One night, scrolling idly, I stumbled upon an art contest in Romania. A strange urgency whispered: “Apply. There is no more time.” And so I did. On June 13th, I received news: I had won second prize. A miracle disguised as an email.

Fear still tugged at me — years of being told my dream was worthless clung like shadows — but I decided to go to the new town, trembling and hopeful. There, while chatting casually with a doctor friend, I mentioned the lump I had nearly forgotten. Her urgent tone pierced my denial. She insisted I book an ultrasound. The only available appointment? On the same day as my practical drawing exam. The timing was too exact to ignore.

July 16th was radiant. I recorded myself that morning, imagining showing my future children how I chased my dream past the age of 30. By afternoon, the light dimmed. In the sterile ultrasound room, gel cold on my skin, the doctor’s words shattered my hope: “This is not a cyst. You must see an oncologist. You need a biopsy.”

I left in tears, crumpled in the back of a metallic-blue Uber, apologizing to the driver as if grief required permission. My exam painting lay unfinished — colors abandoned like a prayer cut short.

Yet grace still moved. Out of desperation I texted the Airbnb guy asking for help. The Airbnb host connected me to a surgeon, who led me to an oncologist, who urged further tests. I clung stubbornly to hope — surely this was nothing. But when the MRI results came, the circle of doctors around me spoke the truth: not one, but two malignant tumors.

On August 1st, I had the biopsy. That same day, last year, my grandmother died. Life’s poetry is often sharp-edged.

Last week the words came in: infiltrative breast carcinoma G2. I had cried so much before the diagnosis that my tears were already spent. Me and my sister listened to my cancer diagnosis and just stood in silence.

The weight of it all — emotional, financial — presses hard. And yet, strangely, gratitude flickers. Gratitude that it was found, gratitude that it has not spread, gratitude even for the way art — the very dream dismissed by others — became the thread that led me here, to discovery.

Now I face the unknown. Perhaps I will sell my art, or create coloring books, or find other ways to sustain myself financially.

Would I ever have imagined this? No. My family tree carries no cancer. I live like a monk — no smoking, no drinking, no sugar. I thought myself immune. But life laughs back, teaching me that certainty is an illusion, and resilience is my inheritance.

So I ask myself: Will I rise again from these ashes? Will I keep my faith in God, trusting that all unfolds with purpose? Will I find courage to walk through this valley with my head lifted?

I do not yet know.

What I do know is that despite this diagnosis there is joy in my heart because I will start studying art this autumn, the very thing I wanted to do since I was 6 years old. Can you see how a dream never dies, even if you and everyone else around you tries to bury it?