What ‘Stronger Than Chemo’ Means

During a safety huddle, one of my colleagues, an oncology nurse and breast cancer survivor, spoke honestly about what cancer felt like to her. “Every day you’re scared. Is the treatment or the cancer going to kill me?” she said. “You think about it all the time.” Her words struck me because of how open and exposed they felt. There was nothing polished or inspirational about them. Just honesty.

For oncology nurses, a day at work may feel like another clinic day, another infusion, another patient assignment. But patients walk into the same space carrying entirely different realities. Fear. Grief. Uncertainty. Hope. Devastating news. Relief. Sometimes all at once. Her words reminded me how important it is to respect that difference and remain mindful of it.

I remember entering a patient’s room smiling ear to ear. She asked me why I was so happy. Without thinking, I answered, “It’s a good day.” Looking back, that response feels insensitive. I later learned that earlier that day she had been told her cancer was metastatic. Shortly after I left the room, I heard her sobbing behind the curtain. That moment stayed with me because what felt like an ordinary good day to me was one of the worst days of her life.

Other moments in oncology unfold differently. A patient’s infusion pump was alarming while her nurse was busy, so I stepped in to help. Before I took her blood pressure, she told me I could not use one of her arms because she had undergone a mastectomy. Then she smiled and said, “When I go for a mammogram, I tell them I should only be charged half price.” Together we laughed.

I do not often know what “space” I am walking into. That uncertainty is part of oncology. As nurses, we walk into rooms where people may be processing fear, anger, hope, exhaustion, denial, gratitude, humor, grief, or devastating news. Some patients want to talk. Others want silence. Some want to laugh. Others are barely holding themselves together.

As an oncology nurse, I can sympathize with patients facing cancer, but I cannot truly empathize. I have never had cancer. I have not lived with the constant awareness that the disease or the treatment itself could take my life. I think that distinction matters.

But over time, oncology has changed the way I understand strength. People sometimes assume “Stronger Than Chemo” means toughness. Fighting harder. Staying positive. Pushing through treatment without fear. That has never been what the phrase means to me.

To me, “chemo” represents the larger cancer experience: fear, mortality, uncertainty, treatment, caregiving, exhaustion, grief, survivorship, and all the ways life changes after a diagnosis. And “stronger” does not mean fearless.

In oncology, strength often looks much quieter than people expect. It looks like a patient arriving for treatment exhausted and nauseated, but still asking how another patient is doing. It looks like caregivers carrying enormous emotional burdens while trying to create some sense of normalcy at home. It looks like patients showing kindness to nurses and staff on days when they themselves are frightened. It looks like people continuing to love and care for others while living with profound uncertainty themselves.

Cancer exposes how uncomfortable it is to live once mortality no longer feels abstract. Most people are able to move through daily life without constantly thinking about death. Cancer often removes that distance.

Some people emerge from that experience with a deeper appreciation for life, relationships, or ordinary moments. Others are doing everything they can to survive physically and emotionally. I do not think suffering needs to produce transformation in order for it to deserve compassion. I also do not think there is a correct way to experience cancer.

Over time, working in oncology has changed me too. I have met people in some of the hardest moments of their lives who still continue showing generosity, humor, patience, compassion, and concern for others. Those moments stay with you. They remind you what human beings are capable of.

“Stronger Than Chemo” is not about being untouched by cancer. It is not about pretending fear does not exist. To me, it means that even in the middle of fear, uncertainty, exhaustion, grief, and change, people still continue loving, caring, connecting, hoping, and showing up for one another.

That is the strength I see in oncology every day.

Courtney Desy, BSN, RN, OCN, is an oncology infusion nurse. She cares for adults receiving chemotherapy and immunotherapy and is the founder of the Stronger Than Chemo Foundation, a nonprofit focused on improving patient education and support during cancer care. Her last post on AJN Off the Charts was “Helping Patients Live Inside Changing Realities.”