Why Not Me?

The Quiet Things Illness Teaches You

A tiny yellow flower growing bravely out of a crack in the pavement

When I first heard the word cancer, my thought was terrifyingly simple:

I am going to die.

Shock and disbelief stripped away the illusion that life is predictable. It is strange how quickly the mind leaps to the worst possible conclusion.

There was a time when I believed life was reasonably predictable. You make plans, you work hard, and the years stretch ahead in a comfortable, orderly way.

Then illness arrives, and suddenly everything is replaced by the harsh reality that life is uncertain and fragile.

For a long time after my diagnosis, I found myself asking the same question over and over:

“Why is this happening to me?”

Only much later did another thought quietly replace it:

“Why not me?”

One of the first things illness taught me is how fragile life really is. The things I assumed would always be there — my health, my routines, my dreams, the quiet rhythm of ordinary days — can change in the blink of an eye.

But illness also taught me something else. It changed the way I look at people.

I began to realise that many of the people around me might be fighting battles I cannot see. The impatient driver behind me. The stranger who looks tired in the supermarket queue. The person sitting quietly at a café table.

We move through the world assuming everyone else’s lives are unfolding normally. But the truth is that many people are fighting battles in silence.

So be kind. Always.

Illness also changed the way I think about time.

We are all so busy — rushing from one thing to the next, planning ahead, worrying about things that may or may not ever happen.

Waiting for the “right time” is often just another way of postponing life.

The truth is that there will probably never be a perfect moment to do the things you have always dreamed about.

So perhaps the better idea is to start making a small list.

A simple list of things that matter to you.

Things that make you happy.

Places you would like to see.

Experiences you have always imagined.

Things that make you feel alive.

And then, slowly and quietly, begin doing them.

Later, I also started noticing the small things I had missed before.

The tiny yellow flower growing bravely out of a crack in the pavement. The shape of the clouds drifting across the sky. The roar of the ocean. The mountains that stand quietly around us every day.

Even the Cape southeaster — which people often complain about — feels like part of the rhythm of ordinary life.

Sometimes the smallest things are the ones that remind us most clearly that life is still quietly growing, even in unexpected places.

Illness left me with a quieter understanding of life.

Life is fleeting, and it is fragile.

Do not wait too long.

Start living the life you have always imagined — even in small ways — today.

Perhaps that is the quiet lesson illness leaves behind:

Life is fragile, but it is also still beautifully alive.

— Frannie ☕