When PTSD Pulls Up a Chair: Living with My New Normal

Content note: This post discusses cancer, trauma, and PTSD.

Since my cancer diagnosis over four years ago, I’ve heard (and used) the phrase “new normal” more times than I can count. I use it with clients. I say it to friends. I whisper it to myself on hard days.

But recently, I paused and asked: What does that even mean?

Before Cancer: Was That “Normal”?

To be honest, I didn’t really like some my “normal” before cancer. I worked too much, felt undervalued, often disrespected, and was made to feel small. That’s a whole other blog post (and a few therapy sessions), but the truth is, I’ve moved on from that version of myself. Mostly.

Still, the idea of “normal” — and especially “new normal” — has taken on a completely different meaning for me now.

Defining the New Normal (Spoiler: You Can’t)

Let me just say it: the new normal isn’t a fixed destination. It’s not a place you arrive at and unpack your emotional suitcase. It’s messy. Uncomfortable. Scary. And — just to make things more complicated — it’s always evolving.

The version of my new normal from two years ago looks different than it does today. And I’m sure it’ll look different next year.

Why? Because deep inside me, there's still a voice. A small, persistent one. Over the last four and a half years, that voice has gotten quieter… but it hasn’t disappeared. It lurks in dark moments and whispers reminders: You’re not out of the woods. Something bad could still happen. (You know what I’m talking about — it starts with C.)

Sometimes that whisper spirals me into light-headedness and panic. Thankfully, these episodes have become fewer, but they still come — triggered by unexpected moments.

The IV Incident: A Flashback I Didn’t Expect

Not long ago, I had a routine screening for pancreatic cancer due to my BRCA2 mutation. It required general anesthesia — nothing new for me.

Or so I thought.

As the nurse struggled to find a vein and insert the IV into my hand, I felt it coming: the panic. I couldn’t look. I bit my lip. I said it hurt. She said it was fine and taped it down.

And then I started to cry.

I wasn’t crying because of the pain. I was crying because I was terrified. That quiet voice inside said, “Be brave,” and I tried. After all, I’ve been through way worse than an IV. But suddenly, I was back in a hospital bed 4.5 years ago — waking up after my double mastectomy, fidgeting with an IV, desperate to rip it out.

The tears didn’t stop, even as they wheeled me in. Even as they put me under. Thankfully, it was a kind nurse with warm eyes — and probably the propofol — that helped me finally let go.

PTSD at the Table

Was it PTSD? Absolutely.

And it shook me. Because I consider myself strong — inside and out. I’ve endured a lot. So to feel that vulnerable, that triggered, by something as “routine” as an IV? It frightened me.

Even writing about it now fills me with anxiety.

I don’t want my new normal to include PTSD, fear, anxiety, and brain fog. But the truth is: sometimes, it does.

The Table Is Big Enough

Here’s the thing I’ve learned: all of it sits at the table now. The trauma. The fear. The memories. But also — and just as importantly — the joy. The deep appreciation for tiny moments. The laughter. The love. The sarcastic humor that has gotten me through some truly dark days.

And with time, something beautiful is happening. That persistent little voice? It's quieter. Those heavy emotions? They're still here, but they’re slowly being moved to the kids' table.

Because I’ve made more space for healing. And the table is big enough for all of it.

💬 Thanks for being here and reading my words. Writing helps me process. If my story resonates with you — even just a little — I’m honored to share this space with you.