Author: Emily Burtwistle
Diagnosis: Ganglioglioma (at age 7)
My name is Emily Burtwistle, and I am a recent graduate of the Child Studies program at the University of Guelph, and I will be starting at Western University to pursue my Bachelor of Education. While I am not a poet, I felt passionate about sharing this poem I wrote to shed light on some post-treatment struggles that may resonate with others.
I was diagnosed with my tumour at the age of seven, and I’ve been in “remission” since 2012. I cannot stress enough how grateful I am to be in remission, and how sad I am that some friends are no longer here to celebrate that milestone themselves. That said, “survivorship” has brought many unforeseen challenges that I have had to adapt to—from insecurity and anxiety to depression over not feeling like a “normal” teen. Each MRI and follow-up appointment, and each academic or accessibility issue (for example, I have a special waiver from the Ministry of Transportation that allows me to drive with reduced vision), reminds me that I am still on this journey.
The world expects I now should fly—
But most days, I’m just getting by.
The reason that I decided to share this vulnerable poem is to spread awareness that the journeys of childhood cancer patients are not over when treatment ends. Each with our own battles, we continue on our post-treatment paths, working through various challenges. Finally, I would like to dedicate this poem to my parents, who stood painstakingly beside me through every step of this journey, and try to understand how I am feeling as I navigate life after cancer treatment.
Post-Treatment Path
They supported me through and cheered me loud,
Called me a fighter, brave and proud.
The war was won, or so they say,
But battles still wake me every day.
I walk through new doors with shadowed feet,
Despite happier times, the echoes meet.
Yes, joy now blooms in daily things—
A nature hike, the way hope sings.
Yet underneath each golden hue,
Are silent fears I can’t undo.
A body “healed” is not a whole,
When scars still tremble in the soul.
I chase each new horizon with eager wings,
Bound by unseen, aching strings.
The world expects I now should fly—
But most days, I’m just getting by.
This shell that looks like “doing well”
Still houses storms I cannot tell.
My limbs may move, my smile may stay,
But pain and panic cloud the way.
A “simple” task can feel like war,
A crowded road, a locking door.
Anxiety—a ghost I knew—
Now paints the present in its hue.
It whispers, “Don’t. You might break again.”
And leaves me frozen, trapped within.
And when the fear is much too loud,
It pulls me under towards the ground.
From trembling nerves to aching chest,
Depression drapes me into rest.
The ones I love—they often miss
The cracks behind the hopeful kiss.
They see my light, not how it fades
Behind a smile that masquerades.
My family dreams I’ll soar so high—
But never ask just how hard I try.
They mean it well, but don’t quite see
The weight of their hopes crushing me.
Anxiety from work, relationships, or school,
Somehow, I always seem to fool—
All those around me who could help,
This grieving soul to find herself.
Each “You can do it” stings my skin
When they don’t know the state I’m in.
I want to live, to leap, to dare—
But I still limp despite my prayers.
Yet in this ache, a truth remains:
That growth still blooms in hidden pains.
The joy I feel is real and bright,
But coexists with quiet fright.
So hear me not as weak or small,
I’ve risen, yes—but still I crawl.
The post-treatment path is feeling long,
A melody of grief and song.
But every step, no matter how slow,
Is proof I strive, is proof I grow.