For years, my life was peaceful.

A “simple” life, yet full: sports, healthy eating, the job I loved, and passions that filled my days—and my soul.

I felt good. I took care of myself, my body, my mind.

I believed I had built a solid, resilient balance.

And then one day, without any warning, everything changed.

It arrived. The illness.

Silent, insidious, unexpected.

A cold, clinical word that hits you like a boulder: rectal adenocarcinoma.

I still remember the words of the diagnosis as if they were suspended in time.

They didn’t seem meant for me. It was like watching a scene from the outside, unable to truly grasp that it was happening to me.

But it was. It was all real. Too real.

In an instant, my mind filled with thoughts, questions, fears.

“Why me?”

“What’s going to happen now?”

“Who can help me?”

“Will I make it through?”

“How will my life change?”

It’s hard to explain what happens inside you when you receive news like that.

It’s like being thrown into a washing machine: you feel confused, disoriented, lost. Everything spins, everything is terrifying.

But then, little by little—partly out of necessity, partly out of survival instinct—you begin to put your thoughts in order.

You try to take one step at a time, to understand where to begin.

And so, you place your trust.

You trust those who treat you, those who know more than you do, those who hold your chance of recovery in their hands.

You search the eyes of doctors and nurses for something reassuring. A kind word, a smile, even just a gentle tone of voice to make you feel less alone.

You begin to fight.

And to do that, you dig deep and find all the strength you can.

All the DETERMINATION, all the WILL TO LIVE, all the ENERGY you have—and even the energy you thought you didn’t.

Every day is a challenge.

Every test, every surgery, every side effect is a hurdle to overcome.

And then comes this: the ileostomy.

A difficult word—one you only truly understand when you experience it.

A change that frightens you at first, that makes you uncomfortable, that shatters the image you had of your body.

You look in the mirror and see something foreign: a bag on your belly. A different body.

But then, even there, you learn to live with it.

You learn that this bag—no matter how uncomfortable or hard to accept—is an ally.

It’s life, it’s hope, it’s a necessary step.

And eventually, you even find a way to see something positive in it.

Because every extra day, every breath, every small step forward… is life.

Today, I’m here to share my story.

Not to seek pity, but to offer support.

Because I know what it means to live through those moments, and I know how essential it is to feel that you’re not alone.

I want to say to anyone going through the same journey: yes, it’s hard. Yes, it’s scary.

But you can’t stop. Not even for a moment.

You have to look the illness in the face—no matter how much it hurts—

and start fighting right away.

With all the courage that comes from the very fear that grips your chest,

from the pain you thought would break you… but that can become your greatest strength.

Because life—even when it changes, even when it tests you—is still a wonderful gift.

And it’s always worth fighting to reclaim it.

With all my heart,

Romina