Let’s Talk About Cancerversaries (and Why They’re Not One-Size-Fits-All)
From the Sunday Self-Care Chronicles | 11/23/25
This week’s issue looks at cancerversaries — the cancer-related dates that stay sharp, fade out, or show up unexpectedly. We’re exploring why these moments land differently for each of us, especially during a holiday season that can easily overshadow what matters most.
This week’s issue touches on:
✨ What a cancerversary really is (and isn’t)
✨ Why certain dates stick even when you’re not tracking them
✨ How holidays and family events can crowd out meaningful moments
✨ Ways you can acknowledge these dates — or choose not to
Read the full email below - and if something speaks to you please feel free to comment, share, or reach out!
Hi there, friend.
I realized today that I forgot my dad's birthday. It was last Friday, November 14th, and he would have been 77 years old.
He left us on January 22, 2005. What feels a little sad—and a little ironic—is that this January 22, I could recall every moment of that day with sharp, painful clarity. Twenty years without him. Yet somehow I remembered that more vividly than celebrating the day he arrived in this world.
For so many years after he died, my family marked November 14th with intention.
We’d call or text each other to check in. We’d play The Beatles’ “Hey, It’s Your Birthday”—a family tradition that started on my 16th birthday. We’d watch the old home movie of his 44th, where teenage me called him “older than dirt” while he opened his cards. We'd pour a little Miller High Life out in his memory.
Basically we’d honor him in ways that felt familiar and comforting.
But lately? That date has gotten fuzzy around the edges.
Not forgotten entirely—just softer. More of a… “oh, it’s next week!” or “oh, that just passed.” It comes and goes without the big emotional fanfare of years past.
And yet, here’s what I realized: even if I don’t actively acknowledge his birthday every November 14th, I will neverforget him. Or the day he was born.
Maybe now I just prefer to remember him in small, everyday ways, rather than feeling the sharpness of an “anniversary” once or twice a year.
And even with this truth, in the times where I don’t consciously remember his birthday at all, my body does. I’ll feel a little off, a little tender, a little unsettled—and only later realize, “Oh… it’s that day again.”
Maybe that’s just the passing of time.
And maybe it’s also a reminder that some dates stay raw and loud, while others slowly fade into something quieter.
I still remember the birthdays of my maternal grandparents and their death days. I remember my anniversary with my first husband and my paternal grandmother’s birthday (they were the same day).
But I couldn’t tell you:
the day I graduated from high school or college
the day I started my first job
the day I quit my last one
the day I signed my divorce papers
—things that were “important,” but didn’t embed themselves into my bones.
And then there are the ones I can’t forget even if I tried:
April 24th – the day I heard “you have cancer”
May 22nd – the day surgeons removed my breasts and ovaries
November 1st – the last day of chemotherapy
These dates live in me differently. They always will.
Now, I don’t actually do anything about these dates. I’m not one to throw parties or memorialize them. Sometimes they pass by and I don’t remember them until the next day or the next week.
But even without intentional acknowledgment, they’re woven into my history.
And I can feel—almost temporally—an internal agitation or awareness as they draw closer, even when they never hit my calendar.
I also know people who don’t remember these dates at all.
People who couldn’t tell you their surgeon’s name or the type of chemo they had or how many rounds of radiation they endured.
For many, those aren’t the details they’ve chosen to carry.
And that’s the thing: like everything in life, cancerversaries are not one-size-fits-all.
Over the years, I’ve worked with so many people who’ve asked me, “What’s my cancerversary supposed to be? Which date is the right one?”
And my answer is always the same: Whatever moment feels most true for you.
A cancerversary is any date that marks something significant in your cancer experience:
a diagnosis
a surgery
a final chemo
a bell-ringing
a biopsy that changed everything
a moment that split life into “before” and “after”
You can choose one.
You can choose several.
You can choose none.
There is no right or wrong way to carry these days.
And with the holidays approaching—when the calendar is stuffed with other people’s priorities, celebrations, and traditions—it’s easy for the dates that do matter to you to get lost in the shuffle.
I’ve worked with so many people who’ve had a deeply significant cancerversary overshadowed by a birthday, a wedding, a family gathering—times when they could have used a moment to themselves to honor the day… but instead had to tuck their feelings away for the sake of everything happening around them.
So if you have a date approaching—one you acknowledge regularly or one that simply lives quietly inside you—you might give yourself permission to check in with yourself as it nears.
Because It's not about what you plan or don't. And It's not about if you make a big deal of it or not. It's about taking the time first to simply notice:
How do I feel as this day approaches?
What wants attention?
What wants softness?
And if you feel drawn to honoring it in some way, you absolutely can.
It can be anything from:
✨ a quiet moment alone
✨ lighting a candle
✨ a deep breath and a hand on your heart
✨ saying “that was a hard day, and I’m still here”
✨ all the way to a celebration, a cake, balloons, or a “hell yes, I made it” party!
Or you can choose to let the day pass without acknowledgement.
Sometimes ignoring the date is the ritual.
That’s valid too.
However you mark your cancerversaries—loudly, softly, or not at all—you’re not alone.
I’ll be thinking of you as we move through this season of remembrance, celebration, complexity, and everything in between.
And if you feel like sharing, I’d truly love to know:
Do you mark a cancerversary or another meaningful date in your own way? What feels true for you?
No pressure—just an invitation if naming it feels supportive—because I’m always in this with you…
ps. If Thanksgiving is part of your world, I hope it brings a moment of peace or joy (or at least a really good piece of pie).
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