Learning How to Live Again at 24

If I were Jonathan in SORE, my mom would be Sore. If I told you I live through different phases in just one year, would you believe me?

At the beginning of 2025, I had just finished radiotherapy at an age when most people are still learning how to waste time. I was 24. After a year of chemotherapy, my cancer seemed to whisper back, “You’ll have to kill me again.”

I try not to bring my illness into conversation. I’m tired of the soft voices, the careful pauses, the unspoken questions hovering in the air. Survival earns praise, but those words don’t belong to me alone. They belong to my family especially my mom.

Because yes, I was the one in the chair, but she was everywhere else. At every appointment. Through every treatment. Carrying the weight of a system that fights you even when it’s supposed to save you.

When treatment ended, the world did not pause to congratulate me. Nearly dying does not pay the bills. Saw people go abroad. People get married (yeah). I just can’t stand on the sidelines.

I don’t know whether living in Indonesia is a blessing in disguise or simply a force that demands more of me than I ever planned to give. It feels like I’ve finished a half marathon lungs burning, legs shaking but all I can think is: why is everyone else doing a triathlon?

To get back to my daily routine in just a matter of months, I act like nothing big ever happened. But deep down, there’s a hole that can never be replaced. Maybe living your life is just playing pretend and staying cool, method acting your way through it until it breaks you on some random Tuesday.