Being Positive Didn’t Save Me. Medicine Did.

“You just have to stay positive.”
If I had a dollar for every time I heard that during cancer treatment, I could probably fund my own clinical trial.

Let’s get something straight: positivity hasn’t saved me. Medicine has. Chemo. Surgery. Targeted therapy. Immunotherapy. The skill of my oncologist. The knowledge of my team. That’s what’s kept me alive this long. Not a sunny outlook. Not some inspirational quote printed on a mug.

Sure, I’m a reasonably positive person. Most people would probably describe me that way. And I’m fine with that. But I’m also tired of pretending that positivity is some kind of secret weapon against cancer. It’s not a treatment plan. It’s a coping mechanism. And sometimes, it’s a luxury.

Let’s Talk About Toxic Positivity

Toxic positivity is when people insist on good vibes only, even when your world is falling apart. It sounds like:

• “Everything happens for a reason.”
• “At least it’s not worse.”
• “Just keep smiling!”
• “You’ve got this!” (Even when you very clearly do not.)

It’s not stoic. It’s just exhausting. You’re allowed to feel it. You’re allowed to say it sucks.

It’s usually meant with kindness, but it shuts down real conversations. It makes people feel like they’re failing if they’re scared, angry, or just bone-deep tired. And in the cancer world, it creates this bullshit idea that your attitude controls your outcome.

Newsflash: it doesn’t.

You can be the most positive, grateful, mentally strong person alive and still have aggressive cancer. Still get bad scan results. Still die.

Positivity doesn’t shrink tumours. Science does.

Positivity Is a Luxury

Look, I get it. Positivity can help sometimes. It might make treatment feel a bit less heavy. It might help you stay sane. I’m not saying ditch all hope and cry in a dark room forever (although… some days, that’s valid too).

I’m saying this: positivity is optional. You don’t owe it to anyone. And if you can’t find it today, that doesn’t mean you’re doing something wrong.

When people used to ask me how I stayed so positive, I’d say: “I’m not trying to be positive all the time. I’m just doing my best to avoid being negative when I can.” That was it. Not positivity. Just trying to hold on.

The Pressure to Perform

There’s this weird expectation that cancer patients should be brave, inspiring, endlessly resilient. That we should smile through chemo, post #grateful updates, and always be some kind of symbol of strength.

Fuck that.

Some days, the strongest thing you do is get out of bed. Or reply to a text. Or just sit quietly with your fear and let it exist without pretending it’s not real.

You don’t have to be anyone’s motivational story. You don’t have to be “the strong one.” You don’t have to turn your pain into a life lesson.

Just be. Angry. Tired. Numb. Hopeful. Whatever today is, that’s enough.

Why It’s Okay to Drop the Act

Pretending everything’s fine doesn’t make it fine. And forcing yourself to smile when you’re breaking inside? That’s just more pressure you don’t need.

If you’re reading this and you feel like you’re failing because you’re not bouncing through scans and blood draws, you’re not. You’re surviving. And it’s not your job to inspire everyone else while you’re just trying to keep going.

So let go of the pressure. Cry. Swear. Say “this is fucked” out loud.

Because it is. And no amount of “good vibes only” is going to change that.

What Actually Helps

Instead of telling someone to “stay positive,” try something real:

• “I’m here for you, no matter what.”
• “This sounds really hard. How can I support you?”
• “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
• “I won’t tell you to be positive. I’ll just be here with you.”

Support doesn’t need glitter. It needs truth.

Final Thought

If positivity helps you, great. Grab onto it. If it doesn’t, that’s okay too.
You are not less brave, less hopeful, or less worthy just because you’re having a shit day.

Cancer is hard enough without turning it into a performance. So if you need someone to say it out loud, here it is:

Being positive didn’t save me. Medicine did.

And I’m done pretending otherwise.