The Words That Get Stuck

You know that feeling when you sit down to write, and your heart well… gets in the way, It’s all right there, a jumble of everything you’ve felt for months, ready to spill out. But then you think, “Who am I to pour all this out?” So you take a breath. You hold it in. You let the moment pass.

People talk about getting a grip on your emotions. The philosopher Seneca said we suffer more in our imagination than in reality. I read that and I wanted to believe it. I really did.

But our reality got pretty heavy.

A little over a year ago, my partner, Akin, found out his cancer was back. We’d just made it through the weird, lonely chaos of lockdowns. We were starting to dream again, making plans. Then, this. The wind was just knocked out of us.

And the weirdest part? To everyone else, we probably looked fine. Life had supposedly gone back to normal. But our normal had been completely upended.

I need to be honest about what that “upended” really looked like.

The image that will forever break my heart is one I didn’t even see. It’s the picture in my mind of Akin, sitting alone in a hospital waiting room before his first radiation treatment. He had to face one of the scariest days of his life by himself. And I wasn’t there. I still carry the guilt of that. It’s a sharp, quiet pain that never really goes away. It’s not just about love; it’s about basic human kindness. No one should have to feel that alone.

In times like that, you learn fast who’s really in your corner. The number of people who truly, consistently checked in? I could count them on one hand. And I am so fiercely grateful for them.

All I could think was, “How do I fix this? How do I help?” The answer was a cruel joke. Right at that moment, we both lost our jobs. Different reasons, same devastating result. The one thing I wanted the most was to be just there for Akin. The one thing I couldn’t manage.

It was a special kind of hell, him, dealing with the physical and mental drain of treatment, me, stuck on the sidelines, feeling useless. The treatment that was saving him was also stealing his energy, making even a quick text conversation feel like too much. We were in the same storm, but different, isolated boats.

We are standing now on the other side, thanks to the incredible medical team and the few loved ones who showed up with groceries, with rides, with just… presence. The people who did the practical stuff when my brain was too full of fear to function.

This whole experience changes you. It sharpens your focus.

I’ve realized that Akin is the kind of person who will never, ever ask for help. He’s the strong one, the quiet one. He’ll just keep going until he can’t.

And I’ve realised we all get so wrapped up in our own worlds that I know I did before this, that we forget to really see the people right in front of us. You don’t need to move mountains. You just have to send a text. Ask, “How did you sleep last night?” or “Did you remember to eat today?” It’s that simple. It’s that profound.

Some people couldn't be there because life gets in the way, and that's real. But others… others just didn't think to.

I started this by holding back the words. But some stories need to be told. This is ours.