Before getting diagnosed with cancer, I never really focused much on the topic of confidence. I was able to make friends, talk to people with relative ease and speaking in front of a crowd was fine so I felt like I was pretty alright, confidence wise. Like anyone, I would have nerves about meeting new people or starting something new alone but I somehow always managed to just push through the worries and carry on with my day. I’d even say that by my second year of university, I could be described as a confident person. I could say it’s all down to years of doing drama and performing, but I think it’s mainly due to the fact that I do genuinely enjoy meeting and talking to people. So, for me, confidence wasn’t something I really thought too much about. From the ages of 18 to 20, I was pretty sure of who I was, what clothes I liked, what music I liked, how I liked spending my time, the things that I felt made me me. The thing I didn’t expect with my diagnosis was how all of that self-confidence could change so quickly.
Everyone knows that cancer changes your appearance.In the more dramatic films. they show cancer patients looking sad, thin and pale with a bald head and hooked to an IV. That’s how it is for some cancer patients, but not all. I gained weight with my treatment after being on steroids for about 4 months, making my face look very round (I looked a little bit like the moon at one point). My favourite clothes didn’t fit comfortably anymore and I couldn’t wear what made me feel happiest. On the one hand, this was a chance to buy some new clothes but I knew that once I was off my steroids, my weight would change again so it felt a bit pointless. Then once I started chemo my weight began to change again. Clothes that were too tight a month before were too big. Once again, nothing felt comfortable and I felt as though I had a part of my self-expression and identity taken away.
Then there was my hair. As I mentioned in my first post, losing my hair was horrible. My hair had always been a huge part of my identity and it made me feel confident. Weirdly though, I felt more at ease going out bald than I did with a wig. When I wore my real hair wig (a lovely soft brown), I felt like a liar. People would compliment me, thinking it was my own natural hair, and I always felt like I had to tell the truth. My blue wig was so obviously fake so I felt like I was being more honest when I was wearing it, but it was so itchy that I could only wear it for a couple of hours at a time. And so I chose to go bald. This didn’t bother me too much apart from the fact that I wasn’t entirely bald. I had a large patch on top of my head that had avoided all radiotherapy and continued growing quite happily and so was very noticeable. I was absolutely convinced that everyone could see that I wasn’t completely bald and that I looked really weird. I was also convinced that once my hair started growing back, everything would be fine. And at first it was. When I first noticed my hair was growing back, I cried. I ran round the house basically forcing my family to stare at my scalp and the little baby hairs that had appeared.
Before getting diagnosed with cancer, I never really focused much on the topic of confidence. I was able to make friends, talk to people with relative ease and speaking in front of a crowd was fine so I felt like I was pretty alright, confidence wise. Like anyone, I would have nerves about meeting new people or starting something new alone but I somehow always managed to just push through the worries and carry on with my day. I’d even say that by my second year of uni, I could be described as a confident person. I could say it’s all down to years of doing drama and performing, but I think it’s mainly due to the fact that I do genuinely enjoy meeting and talking to people. So, for me, confidence wasn’t something I really thought too much about. From the ages of 18 to 20, I was pretty sure of who I was, what clothes I liked, what music I liked, how I liked spending my time, the things that I felt made me me. The thing I didn’t expect with my diagnosis was how all of that self-confidence could change so quickly.
Everyone knows that cancer changes your appearance.In the more dramatic films. they show cancer patients looking sad, thin and pale with a bald head and hooked to an IV. That’s how it is for some cancer patients, but not all. I gained weight with my treatment after being on steroids for about 4 months, making my face look very round (I looked a little bit like the moon at one point). My favourite clothes didn’t fit comfortably anymore and I couldn’t wear what made me feel happiest. On the one hand, this was a chance to buy some new clothes but I knew that once I was off my steroids, my weight would change again so it felt a bit pointless. Then once I started chemo my weight began to change again. Clothes that were too tight a month before were too big. Once again, nothing felt comfortable and I felt as though I had a part of my self-expression and identity taken away.
Then there was my hair. As I mentioned in my first post, losing my hair was horrible. My hair had always been a huge part of my identity and it made me feel confident. Weirdly though, I felt more at ease going out bald than I did with a wig. When I wore my real hair wig (a lovely soft brown), I felt like a liar. People would compliment me, thinking it was my own natural hair, and I always felt like I had to tell the truth. My blue wig was so obviously fake so I felt like I was being more honest when I was wearing it, but it was so itchy that I could only wear it for a couple of hours at a time. And so I chose to go bald. This didn’t bother me too much apart from the fact that I wasn’t entirely bald. I had a large patch on top of my head that had avoided all radiotherapy and continued growing quite happily and so was very noticeable. I was absolutely convinced that everyone could see that I wasn’t completely bald and that I looked really weird. I was also convinced that once my hair started growing back, everything would be fine. And at first it was. When I first noticed my hair was growing back, I cried. I ran round the house basically forcing my family to stare at my scalp and the little baby hairs that had appeared.
But my body and hair didn’t really feel like mine anymore. It had betrayed me and now I looked completely different. And it’s hard to be confident when you feel so different. For a little while this lack of confidence wasn’t too much of an issue. I either spent my time with family, close friends who had been there every step of the way, or or young cancer patients who knew what I was going through. But after Christmas I decided that I should ‘get back out there’, so to speak. I needed to meet more people, do things again. I knew my confidence had taken a bit of a knock but I didn’t know just how much until I met a new group of people. I was suddenly painfully aware of how different I looked to the rest of the group, and also how different I felt myself. It’s difficult to really explain how I felt back at the start when I first met everyone but the best way to describe it was as though I was being reintroduced to society after a long break. I was insecure about everything – my music, my clothes, my interests. It felt like I’d existed in a bubble where I was free from judgement and that suddenly my bubble popped, leaving me exposed.
It taken a good 4 or 5 months to feel confident again. It’s that frustrating phrase: “the new normal”. I have had to adapt to my new appearance and learn how to navigate a world that is focused on body image while my body is not my friend. The only way I found to gain back some of the confidence I lost was by doing pretty much anything that was offered to me. Volunteering, becoming an ambassador for a charity, meeting as many new people as I can, doing random workshops for different things, experimenting with clothes and make up. And it’s been hard, I won’t lie. Not everyone is nice or understanding. Some people have been cold or didn’t take the time to understand why I was having a difficult time socialising. But then some people have been incredible, thoughtful and kind without having to ask questions. These are the people that made it all worth it. Trying to get your confidence back when you have cancer is hard, there is no denying, but it is possible. Just like anything else, it takes time and effort.
Digging Deep is honored to work with guest bloggers. This post is graciously contributed by Emiline, who chronicles her treatment and recovery from a brain tumor at asenseofbraintumour.blogspot.com/
Digging Deep accepts guest posts on many topics from a wide range of experts, patients, health care practitioners, and others who work with sick children and teens. We welcome your perspectives and stories to share regarding ways to support the emotional needs of children with health challenges and the families and professionals who support them. Please email: info@diggingdeep.com if you would like to be a guest blogger.
