By: Sarah Grace, 31, AML

I’ve been living with cancer for almost 11 years. I was first diagnosed as a teenager with lymphoma, and after multiple relapses, my diagnosis eventually became Acute Myeloid Leukemia (AML). Since then, cancer hasn’t just been something I’ve had—it has shaped nearly every chapter of my adult life. Since the last time I shared my story, the fight has not stopped. It has only become more real, more raw, and more defining.

I am still fighting for a bone marrow transplant. After years in the registry without finding a matching donor, the waiting has stretched longer than I ever imagined. It is a quiet kind of pain holding on to hope while living in uncertainty, wondering when my chance will come. I’ve been waiting for a matching donor for several years. Because I’m of mixed heritage—Indian, Chinese, Japanese, and Indigenous Bornean—my doctors explained that finding a compatible donor is much more difficult. Every appointment brings hope that there might finally be a match, but each time I leave without that news, I have to find the strength to keep waiting. It’s a kind of uncertainty that’s difficult to put into words.

There are days when the weight of it all feels unbearable.

The treatments are not only physically exhausting, but financially overwhelming. A transplant is life-saving but it comes at a cost that is hard to carry. Sometimes, the burden makes the journey feel even heavier than it already is.

I’ve also had to grieve the life I once knew. In my early 20s, I was moving forward, building something meaningful, full of momentum. Now in my 30s, I find myself starting over in ways I never expected: I feel like cancer has asked me to start over again and again.

In my twenties, while many of my friends were building careers, getting married, buying homes, and planning families, I was spending countless days in hospital wards, receiving chemotherapy, recovering from infections, and wondering if I would live long enough to see another birthday.

Cancer took away my financial independence as well. I exhausted my savings, sold personal belongings, and eventually found myself relying on the generosity of others just to continue treatment. Asking for help was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do because I’ve always wanted to be independent. There were moments when I questioned my worth because I could no longer provide for myself the way I once had.

There are moments I feel like I’ve fallen behind… like I’ve failed. Those days when I had to publicly ask for support to pay for treatment. I remember feeling embarrassed and wondering if people would see me as a burden. Looking back now, I understand that surviving isn’t failure.

Sometimes courage means allowing others to help carry you when you’re no longer strong enough to carry everything yourself.

This journey has changed me. It also changed my relationships. Some people stayed beside me through the hardest days, while others quietly disappeared. Losing people I thought would always be there was heartbreaking, but it also taught me who truly walks with you when life becomes difficult.

Because survival is not failure.

Starting over is not weakness.

Choosing to keep going, even when everything feels uncertain, is strength. My faith has become my anchor. There have been nights where I cried because I didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, especially after complications like infections, sepsis, and watching my health decline. Yet every morning, I choose to get up and fight again. I remind myself that I only need enough strength for today, not for the entire journey.

And through it all, I have not been alone.

The support from friends and even strangers has carried me through my darkest days. Their kindness, their prayers, their presence remind me that even in the hardest moments, there is still light. People I’ve never met have donated toward my treatment, shared my fundraising posts, sent encouraging messages, and prayed for me. Their generosity has reminded me that compassion still exists, even during the darkest seasons of life. Those moments have restored my hope more times than I can count.

Most of all, I hold on to my faith in God. When I don’t understand the “why,” I trust in His plan. When I feel weak, I lean on Him for strength.

I am still here.

Still fighting.

Still believing.

Believing that this is not the end of my story.

If my journey reaches you, I hope it reminds you to hold on no matter how hard life gets. To have faith, to keep going, and to never lose hope. And if you can, please keep me in your prayers and continue to support this journey in any way you can.

Thank you for standing with me. Your support means more than words can ever express.