Amalie: Resilience Required

I have lived in Whistler and Squamish, BC since I was 19. I snowboard every winter, and in the summer I ride bikes in the forest and spend afternoons on the lake. My friendships and career all revolve around the outdoors — it’s part of my identity.

I was a new mom trying to do it all when I got my diagnosis. I was thrown into an unbelievably strict schedule of blood work appointments, checkups, scans, and a cycle of weekly treatments that lasted for months. All of a sudden, my life stopped being about the outdoors and became focused on places I didn’t want to be. During treatment I didn’t have the same stamina or energy as before, but my soul craved nature. Small walks into dense forest or big hikes to the alpine felt like an escape from my schedule and the overwhelming complexity of it all. The world stopped and I could be me again, not just a cancer patient.

Sitting on the other side of treatment, I’m a different person now. I went through my breast cancer journey through most of the pandemic, and there were times I was completely isolated from everyone I loved. To know that I was able to go on this journey without as much support as I would have liked has shown me my own strength — how I can hold myself up with a good pep talk and a fresh dose of the outdoors. Knowing that has given me the courage to continue on, as a stronger, more resilient version of myself.

Cherrie: Alive and Living 

I was 27 when I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I was a single mother of a 4-year-old and working full time as a paramedic. I lost count of how many times both well-meaning nursing staff and older patients told me I was way too young. I already knew that. So in I went and had my left sided mastectomy and started a rigorous trial treatment. I fought for my life through painful, debilitating, and sometimes embarrassing side effects. But I think the worst of all was how I subconsciously pushed my daughter away — only so she wouldn’t miss me as much once I was gone. I made it through with my mother’s weekly visits and my friends that treated my house and hospital like a revolving door — they made sure there was always something to eat, a hand to hold, or an ear to listen.

Only when the trial finished could the healing begin. I navigated a possible reconstruction, finding the right prosthetic, taking in every precious moment with my daughter that I could, and returning to work. That was tough. Not just because of the exhaustion of a full-time shift and my treatment-acquired brain fog, but because we were constantly transporting patients who were in their end stages of cancer — the drawn-out, gut-wrenching, body and soul destroying parts. The projection of those scenarios on myself and my loved ones was horrifying. So I did the only things I knew to do: act with empathy and share my experience.

Just before my 50th birthday, I had my routine mammogram. There was a lump. Knowing how last time went, I postponed my hospital appointment and spent Friday night dancing, Saturday at a winery, and Sunday on a motorcycle in the hills above the city. Come Monday morning, my cup was full enough to face the music that was a second mastectomy and many more rounds of chemo. This time, I was stronger, smarter, fought just as hard, and survived again.

Around 2018, I joined the Australian band of Casting for Recovery and since then, we have developed a committee of volunteers and are organizing and raising funds for retreats for fellow cancer survivors. I haven’t gone out and changed the world or climbed Kilimanjaro, but I have made some cancer patients’ journeys a little more comfortable. My journey has been tough — and I definitely have survivor’s guilt — but I am so grateful for what I’ve come out with. I have an amazing daughter, the best dog in the world, wonderful friends, a dad that watches me like a hawk, and a grandson who shines like the sun and thinks I’m the bee’s knees. Despite it all, my life is good.

Rebecca: The Next Big Adventure

Cancer treatment is hard on the body. My route was surgery, chemotherapy, radiation, and hormone therapy for five to ten years after. It’s hard on the soul as well, leaving you to wonder if you made the right treatment decisions, to worry about recurrence, and to be devastated at how much time was lost while sick. Framing my cancer recovery as a big adventure has helped with those anxieties.

Before cancer I was a hiking guide, a professional cross-country ski instructor and coach, and owned a ski shop. During chemotherapy, that all came to a screeching halt and, as a result, my body longed for sunshine and fresh air. I remember laying on my living room floor and crawling from spot to spot so I could lay in the afternoon rays as they moved around my house. On other days, I’d simply sit in a lawn chair on my patio. At the time, that’s all I had the strength to do.

The healing power of nature was nothing new to me. I’m an Army Veteran and after each deployment to Iraq, I’d come home and find myself on trails processing those experiences. As a new Mom I found myself on the mountain with my baby figuring out my new identity. After cancer, it was the same thing. I found myself moving slowly through the forest, often solo, stopping to think about how grateful I was to be there in that moment. I had no agenda and nothing to prove — I was just there to feel better. Time and time again, that little bit of sun, glimpse of greenery, or hike into the hills was my medicine.