Let’s Talk About the Language We Use: “Battling” Cancer and the Fight to Live
There’s a phrase I’ve never quite been able to settle with: “battling cancer.”
I understand why we use it. It sounds brave and bold. It paints a picture of someone standing tall with grit in their eyes, fists up, ready to fight back. It gives us something to say in moments where words fail us—and sometimes, it gives those in treatment a sense of purpose or identity in an otherwise disorienting time.
But still… something about it doesn’t sit right with me.
Because if cancer is a battle, then what does that say about those who don’t “win”? That they didn’t fight hard enough? That they gave up? That they somehow lost? That doesn’t feel fair. That doesn’t feel human.
This language has been on my mind even more lately with the recent passing of the beautiful poet Andrea Gibson. Andrea spoke openly about their experience with cancer and refused to frame it as a war to be won or lost. In their final reflections, they claimed they didn’t lose—that in fact, they won. And I believe them. Still, their words invited me to sit with the deeper meaning of what it means to frame illness as a fight. What does it mean to declare war on our own bodies? What does it mean to be seen as brave only if you keep swinging?
The truth is—we're all fighting to live, every day. Whether or not we’re facing illness, there are no guarantees. Life is incredibly fragile. You can eat well, exercise, meditate, and still be hit by something unexpected. A diagnosis. A loss. A moment that changes everything.
Even when you enter treatment, no outcome is promised. There’s hope, yes. Science, absolutely. But certainty? Not really. And yet we keep going. That quiet, consistent going—that, to me, is the deeper kind of bravery.
It reminds me so much of what Brené Brown calls braving the wilderness—the idea of walking alone through the uncertainty of life, with integrity and vulnerability as your compass. Not everything is a fight. Sometimes the real courage is in showing up to the unknown, to the discomfort, to the fear, and still choosing connection and compassion over control and conquest. We’re not always meant to be at war with ourselves. Sometimes, we’re meant to walk hand-in-hand with the unknown, and trust that showing up—heart open—is enough.
Maybe it’s less of a fight and more of a walk through something wild and unknown. Maybe it’s not about winning or losing, but about how we care for ourselves and each other in the face of uncertainty. About showing up in all our vulnerability, fear, resilience, and softness.
When we stop calling it a battle, we give people permission to just be—tired or strong, angry or hopeful, accepting or unsure. We allow space for rest. For compassion. For honesty.
Honestly? If it weren’t for antibiotics and access to care, many of us wouldn’t still be here. The miracle isn’t in the strength of our fists. It’s in the strength of our systems, our communities, our medicine, and our moments of grace.
So maybe instead of asking who’s “winning the fight,” we ask: How can I walk with you through this? What does support look like today? What do you need in this moment?
That feels more human. And in the end, that’s what we all are—beautifully human, doing our best in bodies that are doing their best too.
Be well. x Laura