Growth Isn’t Scary, But It’s Okay If You Think It Is

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This is a guest post by Sid Sadler. Sid was diagnosed with stage 2 kidney cancer in February 2024. He is married to his wife of eight years, Rachel, they have two loving pups Ollie and Penny, and a daughter named Parker. Sid is a member of the Kidney Cancer Association’s Patient & Caregiver Advisory Council. Follow him at @theunremarkablekidney on Instagram.

As I’m writing this, we are inching closer to my 6 month scans that help monitor me since I was treated for kidney cancer. We all know the feelings, right? Racing thoughts. The what ifs. The constant reminder for some of us that our bodies chose to betray the foundation of trust we laid many years ago. This will be two years since my diagnosis. A milestone for some, but a reminder for me that life keeps moving whether we want it to or not. For me, life has moved at a seemingly faster pace than I knew possible. It causes me pause and at times concern for the other shoe to drop.

And that is the strange tension so many of us live in. On one hand, we are building again. We are laughing again. We are making plans again. On the other hand, there is a part of us that still listens for the alarm, still scans the horizon, still waits for the moment something takes the ground out from under us. Why does growth in the positive sense scare so many of us cancer survivors and caregivers? Why can joy feel like something we have to earn, or something we should not get too comfortable with?

My daughter now turning one year old, with her favorite words being “dada” and “dog,” have in a weird way made my mind forget the nightly pondering thoughts I have. She is small and loud and joyful and completely unaware of the dates that sit heavy on my calendar. She does not know what scan week is. She does not know what it means to count time in three- or six-month intervals. She just knows that I am there, that I pick her up, that I come back when I leave, that our dog is hilarious, and that “dada” is worth repeating until I look her way. In her world, trust is still simple.

And yet, even with a one-year-old in the house, the mind still finds its way back to the semi-yearly ritual reminder that I had a cancer that kills thousands a year – 15,160 people are expected to die of kidney cancer in 2026 alone, according to the American Cancer Society.

A new job appeared this past winter, and one that I couldn’t be more thankful for. You would think with a one-year-old and a new full-time job, my mind would be too busy to ponder. But the fear still finds time, like that one annoying friend or relative that texts you too much within an hour. It shows up in the quiet moments. It shows up when the house goes to sleep. It shows up when a calendar notification pops up and the week suddenly has weight again.

I move forward though, and I throw myself to the mercy of the revolving wheel that is life. Sometimes sinking, sometimes swimming, and sometimes just floating, thankful for all three as weird as it sounds. Because floating still means you are here. Floating still means you made it through today. Floating still means you did not let fear steal every ounce of you.

I think a lot of survivors and caregivers understand this part deeply. That fear is not always loud. Sometimes it is subtle, a background noise. Sometimes it is a tightness in your chest when you feel fine, but you remember you once felt fine then too. Sometimes it is guilt for being happy. Sometimes it is hesitation to celebrate. Sometimes it is wondering if you are allowed to call this a good season, because you have learned that seasons can change without warning.

I don’t have the answers to your racing mind, but I do have remedies that have helped me. Maybe you are about to visit your cancer center for your scans. Maybe you are about to be scheduled for surgery. You could be awaiting an appointment after a failed treatment option. You could be ten years out from your diagnosis and find yourself still struggling through the months that lead up to your scan. Wherever you are on the timeline, I hope these tips below allow some comfort in your life.

Life moves at the pace you set, not what others set.

It is easy to look around and feel like everyone else has bounced back faster. Like you should be over it. Like you should be more grateful. Like you should be stronger by now. But your healing is not a performance. Your timeline is not a competition. Some days you will be productive, motivated, and hopeful. Some days you will be quiet, tired, and on edge. Both are human. Both are allowed. You are not falling behind because your mind takes a detour into fear.

Don’t bury the feelings.

When you bury them, they do not disappear. They just wait for a different moment to rise, usually when you are already worn down. Let it be real. Name it. Say it out loud if you need to. I am anxious. I am scared. I do not feel in control. I hate that I have to do this again. There is something powerful about giving fear a name instead of letting it become everything. Sometimes the most courageous thing you can do is admit you are not okay for a moment, so you can find your way back to okay.

A busy body is a restful soul.

This one has surprised me. Movement does not fix cancer fear, but it can soften the grip. A walk. Cleaning the house. A workout. A project. Time outside. Something that reminds your brain and your body that you are alive and capable and present right now. Even when your thoughts try to drag you into the future, your body can anchor you in the day you are actually living.

Trust in your body doesn’t happen overnight.

After a diagnosis, it can feel like your body became a place you do not fully recognize. It is hard to rebuild trust in something that scared you. And it does not come back all at once. It comes back in small moments. In the day you realize you laughed and did not feel guilty. In the week you sleep a little better. In the quiet confidence that grows when scan after scan comes back clear, even if the fear still shows up. Trust is rebuilt through repetition, and repetition takes time.

A tragedy can change your story without defining your life.

I used to think survival meant the fear would stop. But maybe survival also means learning to carry it differently. Learning that cancer can be a chapter without becoming the whole book. It can shape you without owning you. It can make you more cautious and more grateful at the same time. It can deepen your empathy. It can shift your priorities. And it can still leave room for joy that is not fragile, joy that is real.

I have never thought of myself as an expert in much, but I do count myself fairly knowledgeable in the journey after. After the news you never want to hear. After the adrenaline wears off. After the appointments become routine, even when you hate that they are routine. Growth can take many shapes and forms, and for me it has been scary at times, and that’s okay. It’s okay to hesitate at the goodness of growth and grace. It’s okay to feel both thankful and afraid. It’s okay to move forward while still looking back sometimes.

If you are reading this and you are nearing scans, I see you. If you are caring for someone you love and you feel helpless, I see you too. If you feel strong one minute and undone the next, you are not broken. You are human. And you are not alone.

I hope this message finds you where it needs you.