I’m 25 Years Old. I Have Stage 4 Stomach Cancer. And Today Is My Birthday.

KimAnh
January 15, 2026

Birthdays are supposed to be loud. Full of plans, promises, and certainty about the future. At 25, you’re expected to be building dreams, chasing goals, and believing you have endless time ahead.

Today, my birthday is quieter.

I’m 25 years old. I have stage 4 stomach cancer. And waking up this morning felt like a small miracle.

I don’t know how many birthdays I have left. That truth sits with me every day — sometimes gently, sometimes heavily. But this morning, I opened my eyes. I took a breath. And that alone is worth celebrating.

Learning a New Meaning of Strength

I just finished my third round of chemotherapy. My body is tired in a way that sleep doesn’t fix. Fatigue settles deep into my bones. Some days, even lifting my arms feels like work.

Cancer has changed how I understand strength.

Strength is no longer pushing through at all costs. It’s learning to drink more water when my body asks for it. It’s resting without guilt. It’s allowing myself to stop when the world tells me to keep going.

I’m learning that strength doesn’t always look like endurance. Sometimes, it looks like listening.

The Physical Changes No One Prepares You For

Cancer is not just a diagnosis — it is a full-body experience.

There are visible changes that arrive quietly and stay longer than expected. Hair loss. Skin darkening. Hands that no longer look like they used to. A reflection in the mirror that feels unfamiliar.

Some days, these changes hurt more than the treatments themselves. They are constant reminders that my body is fighting a war inside itself.

But I am learning something important: my worth did not disappear with my hair. My identity is not defined by what cancer has taken. I am still me — just navigating life in a body that is healing and hurting at the same time.

Measuring Life Differently

Before cancer, life was measured in deadlines, productivity, and progress. Degrees to finish. Goals to reach. A future that felt guaranteed.

Now, life is measured differently.

It’s measured in mornings I wake up. In meals I can tolerate. In moments when nausea fades just enough to let me breathe. In days when hope quietly returns.

Every morning I wake up is a victory — not loud, not dramatic, but deeply meaningful.

Dreams That Haven’t Left

Cancer has paused many things, but it hasn’t erased my dreams.

I miss campus halls. I miss the rhythm of classes and the quiet focus of research. I miss feeling like my future is something I can map out neatly.

I dream of finishing my thesis. Of returning to school. Of sitting in a classroom again — not as a patient, but as a student with plans and purpose.

Hope still visits me. Sometimes softly. Sometimes unexpectedly. But it comes.

Living in Between Hard Days and Hopeful Ones

Not every day is the same.

Some days are heavy with exhaustion, fear, and frustration. On those days, everything feels harder — physically and emotionally. The weight of uncertainty presses down, and the future feels fragile.

Other days bring light.

A moment of energy. A laugh. A thought about spring approaching. A memory of who I was before cancer — and who I still am beneath it all.

Living with stage 4 cancer means learning to exist in between. Between pain and peace. Between grief and gratitude. Between letting go and holding on.

Spring Is Almost Here

Spring is coming.

That thought brings me comfort. The idea of stepping outside, feeling fresh air on my skin, and remembering what it means to be alive in my body — even if it’s changed.

My birthday wish this year is simple. I don’t wish for grand celebrations or big plans. I wish for presence. For moments of normalcy. For the ability to feel the sun and know that I am still here.

Sometimes, the simplest wishes are the bravest ones.

A Quiet Celebration

Today, I celebrate differently.

I celebrate the resilience of my body.
I celebrate the fact that my spirit is still here.
I celebrate the courage it takes to keep showing up — even on the days I feel broken.

This birthday is not about counting years. It’s about honoring life in the present moment.

To Everyone Fighting Quietly

This story isn’t just mine.

It belongs to everyone fighting illnesses no one sees. To those learning to rest instead of rush. To those grieving the lives they imagined while still hoping for what’s possible.

If you’re fighting quietly, you are not weak. You are brave beyond measure.

You are not alone.