People said I was strong, but during chemotherapy, being strong was the only choice I had.

Two years ago, I joined a few breast cancer groups. Since then, I have seen many photos of women with bald heads, smiling at the camera.

Some were wearing scarves. Some had bright lipstick. Some were sitting in hospital chairs, celebrating another round of chemotherapy finished. Beside those photos, there were also frightened posts from women who had just been diagnosed, asking what would happen next.

In those groups, courage and fear often sit side by side.

When I looked back at my own photos from chemotherapy, I could also find a few smiles. But I know those smiles were not happiness. They were more like a quiet message: I am still here.

During chemotherapy, I often felt like an egg without its shell. From the outside, I may have looked smooth, calm, even strong. But inside, I was soft, frightened, and easy to break.

Before treatment began, I had watched many videos about chemotherapy. I knew my hair would probably fall out, so I decided to cut it very short before it happened — almost like a boy’s brush cut.

When I came home from the hairdresser, I sat at the table with my son for dinner. He was only seven years old then. He looked at me carefully and said he did not like my new hairstyle.

Then he added, very seriously, that I was starting to look more and more like Daddy.

I laughed. But I also knew he was trying to understand what was happening. I had told him my hair might change, but knowing something and seeing it happen are not the same thing, especially for a child.

Later, when a nurse asked whether I wanted to try a cold cap to protect my hair, I asked, “Will my hair still fall out?”

She said yes, only more slowly.

So I said no. If it was going to happen anyway, I wanted to face it directly.

But later, I realized hair loss was visible, but it was not the hardest part.

The hardest parts were the ones happening quietly inside my body.

After each chemotherapy session, my appetite disappeared. My face looked grey. My body felt weak in a way I had never known before. Even the simplest things my body used to do without thinking became difficult and painful.

After my first chemotherapy session, my periods stopped, and I entered menopause at only thirty-eight. It was another quiet change inside my body — one that people could not see.

For about two weeks, I would slowly begin to feel a little better. Then, just as my body started to recover, the next round would come again.

In the chemotherapy room, the nurses were incredibly careful and kind. They confirmed my name and date of birth again and again. Sometimes they placed a warm pad on my hand before treatment, making the process a little easier.

Those small acts of care mattered.

In the hospital, they offered snacks and sandwiches during treatment. I was grateful, but sometimes what I really wanted was something warm and gentle — maybe a bowl of vegetable soup.

My husband stayed beside me through it. I completed eight rounds in total.

At first, I tried to keep working from home. My company kindly allowed me to change from full-time to part-time, working four hours a day. But by the fourth round, I could no longer manage it. I had to leave my job as an HR assistant.

That was another kind of loss.

When I see women online who have gone through many more rounds, some for months or even a year, I feel deep respect. Their smiles are not simple smiles.

They are survival.

If you are going through treatment now, please hold on.

You do not have to smile every day. You do not have to look brave for other people. You do not have to prove your strength.

Sometimes, strength is not about looking strong.

Sometimes, strength is simply staying here, one day at a time.

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