That is partly why I am writing this article.

I have many goals, both athletic and personal, but I cannot pursue all of them with the same intensity at the same time. Trying to do so would turn everything I enjoy into another obligation.

I do not need a perfect plan for the next few years. I simply want to understand what matters now and accept that the rest can wait.

The Ironman on the Horizon

My biggest long-term sporting goal is to finish an Ironman around the age of thirty: a 3.8-kilometre swim, 180 kilometres on the bike, and then a marathon.

Right now, that still feels far beyond me. But I do not need to be ready today. I only need to keep building towards it.

Before then, I want to complete shorter triathlons, beginning with an Olympic-distance race and later a half Ironman. In running, my next concrete target is a 10K in November, followed eventually by a half marathon and a marathon.

These are not just boxes to tick on the way to an Ironman. Each one is a meaningful goal of its own. I do not know exactly when I will reach them, but the Ironman gives them a shared direction.

Building an Athletic Body

I also want to become a better swimmer, a stronger cyclist, and a more capable athlete overall.

In swimming, the goal is simple: become comfortable enough to cover longer distances while continuing to enjoy being in the water. On the bike, I would like to reach a 200-watt FTP one day, although I do not want every ride to feel like a test. My VO2 max has recently risen to 43, and I want to keep improving it without treating one number as the full measure of my fitness.

Strength matters to me too. My main goal is to reach four sets of seven unassisted pull-ups, then four sets of ten. I would also like to stay around 75 to 80 kilograms while gradually becoming leaner, stronger, and more athletic.

Yoga and calisthenics offer another kind of progress: balance, mobility, coordination, and control. I want to hold a crow pose for ten seconds, then learn the L-sit and eventually the handstand.

And somewhere in the background, I still want to return to boxing. Not starting now does not mean abandoning it. Some goals simply have to wait for the right season.

My new job is physically demanding, so recovery must now be part of the plan. Progress will not always mean doing more. Sometimes it will mean knowing when to stop.

Life Beyond Sport

Sport has recently given me structure, clear goals, and the satisfaction of visible progress. But I also want to leave room for more intellectual and creative ambitions.

I still want to improve my English and German, write a second book, and find ways to build greater financial independence outside my job. None of those projects needs to become an immediate obligation. A new idea, a quieter period, or a sudden burst of motivation may be enough to bring one of them back to the centre of my life.

For now, returning to Substack feels like the most natural place to begin.

Writing for the Right Reasons

For a while, I focused too much on views, subscribers, and how to make my articles more visible. I began thinking more about how my writing performed than about what I genuinely wanted to say.

I want to reverse that.

Visibility may come, or it may not. Either way, an article is not useless if it helps me clarify an idea, understand myself better, or preserve a trace of how I am changing.

Writing may never become a meaningful source of income, and I do not want to place that pressure on it. But it has already helped me publish a book, and it may lead to other ideas worth exploring. For now, writing is less a business strategy than a way of moving in a direction that feels like mine.

The Problem and the Gift of Wanting So Much

Having many goals can make me feel scattered. I can easily feel guilty for not progressing everywhere at once. But my time, energy, and ability to recover are limited.

I cannot train for a marathon, improve my swimming and cycling, build muscle, learn a handstand, return to boxing, study two languages, write another book, and create a new source of income all at the same time.

Yet wanting so much is also a gift. I have not been bored for years. There is always something to learn, attempt, build, or improve. Each goal gives me another reason to move forward.

Choosing does not have to mean giving up. It simply means deciding where my energy belongs today while leaving other possibilities open.

What Already Matters

In the middle of all these ambitions, I do not want to overlook what matters most: being happy in my daily life, especially with my girlfriend and the life we are building together.

It is easy to focus constantly on the next achievement or the next version of myself. But no sporting, professional, or financial goal can replace a life in which I already feel happy.

My goals give my life movement. They should not become its only measure.

Right now, my priorities are simple: keep progressing without exhausting my body, rediscover the pleasure of writing, and protect the balance of my life. Everything else can wait without being abandoned.

This article does not solve everything, but it has already helped me put my thoughts in order. More importantly, it reminds me why I want to return here: not to feed the statistics, but to write things that feel like me and enjoy creating them.

You can read the full article here :

https://equolproject.eu/material/dialogues-between-survivors-and-caregivers-looking-toward-the-future/

After childhood cancer, the way you look at the future can change profoundly.

For a long time, I did not really have a plan. Like many teenagers, I did not know what I wanted to do with my life. But there was also something else: fatigue, the consequences of the illness, and the absence of a clear dream or goal. When nothing truly drives you, it becomes difficult to move forward.

Over time, I realized that I needed something that would make me want to get up in the morning. For me, this developed gradually. Traveling played an important role. Discovering other places and cultures opened new perspectives for me. My partner also motivates me, more or less directly, to get up and live my life fully. Little by little, my relationship with the future has changed.

Today, I feel rather optimistic, but also realistic. I am aware that time is not infinite. After illness, you understand very early that it can be fragile. This does not make me live in fear, but rather encourages me to try not to waste it.

There is still one thought that sometimes comes back. I wonder what my body and my physical condition will be like when I am forty, fifty, or sixty years old. Sometimes I fear that I might age faster than average.

I would like to be that ninety-year-old man who still walks every day with his wife. But I am not sure I completely believe it.

Yet this uncertainty does not stop me from moving forward. On the contrary, it reminds me of the importance of living now, staying healthy for as long as possible, and enjoying what life has to offer.

Looking toward the future after childhood cancer is not always simple. But you have to learn to keep moving forward, while maintaining the desire to build something. The future may not be entirely predictable, but it remains open.

And the way I actually use my time.

Right now, I finally have time.

But I’m realizing that having time alone is not enough.

I recently put limits on YouTube, Twitter, and Facebook because I felt like I was spending a bit too much time on them.

And yet, I don’t think I have particularly bad attention anymore.

Actually, I think I’ve improved a lot compared to when I was a teenager.

Back then, my attention span was terrible.

Today, I’m much more capable of focusing deeply on certain things for a long time.

The problem is somewhere else.

First, I think human beings are naturally bad at using their time intelligently.

And in the modern world, entire companies make money by constantly pulling our attention toward all kinds of things.

But learning how to use our time intentionally is probably one of the most valuable skills in the world.

When I scroll, it’s not even because I’m truly passionate about what I’m watching.

Most of the time, I’m just looking for rest.

Or because I don’t have the mental energy to do something more difficult or more meaningful.

I don’t think watching videos, series, or YouTube is inherently bad.

In the evening, I often watch things with my girlfriend.

It’s a real couple moment.

It entertains me.

I enjoy it.

But despite that, when I look back at my entire day, I sometimes ask myself:

“Am I really happy with the amount of time I spent in front of a screen today?”

And most of the time, the answer is:

not really.

Not because it was terrible.

Not because I regret every minute.

But because I feel like part of that time could have become something more important to me.

The problem is that reducing screen time does not automatically create energy or motivation.

If I spend less time on YouTube, it doesn’t suddenly mean I’ll write for three hours instead.

We don’t have infinite energy.

But I still think part of that “lost” time could become chosen time.

And that’s probably what I’m searching for the most right now.

Not extreme productivity.

Not becoming a machine.

Just having good enough attention to spend more time doing the things I deeply want and need to do.

These past few months, the only area where I naturally feel this is sport.

I’ve reached a point where doing sport sometimes requires less mental effort than scrolling on my phone.

It has almost become an addiction.

Except this one brings me a lot of benefits.

And sometimes I wonder:

How do you make other important things become just as natural?

Because deep down, I think that with better attention, you can almost double the length of a day.

Not by sleeping less.

Not by constantly rushing everywhere.

But simply by reducing the amount of time your attention drifts toward things you never truly wanted to do in the first place.

And honestly,

I don’t think I’ve found the answer yet.

My girlfriend was the one who told me about it. Which is funny because she barely uses Substack but somehow she knew about it before me…

I honestly felt a bit dumb when I learned that.

But I still want to make my own audio versions anyway.

I’ve been thinking a lot about making audio versions of my articles lately.

The main reason is that my biggest weakness in English has always been speaking and listening.

Most of my English comes from school, reading English subtitles while watching series, and more recently from writing articles here on Substack.

But I still have very little real experience speaking and listening in English.

To be honest, even in French I’m not that good at speaking sometimes.

Speaking feels much more vulnerable than writing.

When I write, I still have time.

I can think.

Translate.

Correct mistakes.

Use tools.

Rewrite sentences.

But when you speak, there’s nowhere to hide.

Your real level appears immediately.

And I think that’s exactly why I want to do it.

I already tested it on one of my first articles.

It was really difficult.

I could hear my accent.

My hesitation.

My lack of fluidity.

But I also enjoyed it a lot.

I think recording audio versions of my articles could become one of the best ways for me to improve my English.

Not just my pronunciation.

But also my confidence.

My ability to express myself naturally.

And maybe one day, my ability to speak English much more naturally.

Right now, I can already make myself understood.

But my goal is to feel comfortable speaking English naturally.

I want to watch series without subtitles and understand everything.

I want to have conversations without constantly searching for words.

And I know the only real way to reach that level is to practice.

There’s also another reason why this project excites me so much.

I genuinely love the idea of narration and voice acting.

One day, I would love to create full audio versions of my book, both in French and in English.

And even if my first recordings sound awkward or empty…

I hope that one day they’ll sound alive.

I also think this could make my Substack more authentic.

Maybe I’ve been trying a bit too hard to look “clean” online.

Writing already feels personal.

But speaking with your real voice feels completely different.

At first, I’ll probably record audio versions of my older articles just to practice.

And maybe later, I’ll publish new articles directly with an audio version included.

Not because I’m already good at it.

But because I want to become good at it.

I had calf pain that stopped me from running more than five minutes in a row during almost my entire preparation.

Honestly, before the race, I was mostly wondering if I would even be able to run the full 10 kilometers without stopping.

Running felt terrible.

But despite that, I still had one big advantage: for several months, I had been doing a lot of other sports alongside running.

Cycling. Swimming. Strength training. And less than a month before the race, I started doing yoga.

I honestly think that’s what allowed me to beat my personal record.

Because even if my running felt worse than ever, my body overall was in better shape than ever.

Yoga also helped my calves a lot.

And two weeks before the race, I finally felt a bit of hope again after completing a training session without pain.

Then, one week before the race, I made a simple decision: slow down.

Less sport. More recovery. And no running at all so I could arrive fresh.

It was the best decision possible.

On race day, I started with very low expectations.

I mainly just wanted to finish.

Without pain. Without completely collapsing after a few kilometers.

So I deliberately started slowly.

I knew that if I went out too fast, it could end very badly.

And surprisingly…

The first five kilometers felt much better than expected.

That’s when I started to realize that I was actually going to finish the race.

Then another thought slowly appeared in my mind:

What if I still tried to beat my personal record?

At the 5k mark, I was still far behind my previous time. The one I had done around six months earlier.

But I felt good. Better than expected.

So I started accelerating.

Little by little.

During the entire second half of the race, I really gave everything I had.

At the finish line, I was completely exhausted.

My brother was waiting for me there. He had finished before me.

I couldn’t even stay standing. I sat on the ground for several minutes right after crossing the line.

But honestly, more than anything, I felt extremely proud.

Because I truly didn’t think I was capable of beating my record in my current condition.

I finished in 58 minutes and 4 seconds.

It’s not an extraordinary time.

But I surpassed myself.

And most importantly, my body showed me that it was capable of much more than I believed just a few weeks earlier.

This race gave me confidence again.

And it makes me even more excited to see how much I can still improve in the coming years.

Not because I’m doing nothing.

But because I feel like I should be doing more.

I’m currently unemployed.

So of course, I have time.

And when you have time,

there’s always that little voice telling you that you should be doing something useful.

The problem is, I don’t always know what to do.

Sometimes I spend time scrolling, and I hate it.

90% of what I see feels like a trap, not something I actually enjoy watching.

That feeling of wasting my time.

At the same time, I’m doing a lot of sport.

More than 10 hours a week.

And that’s something I handle well.

I feel good, I’m improving and I really enjoy it.

But in my head, it’s not enough.

Like doing a lot of sport in my situation is just the bare minimum, and doesn’t really count.

The real struggle is in other activities.

I’d like to make progress on my second book.

But it’s much harder than the first one.

The first one came out almost naturally.

I didn’t have to think much.

Now, I feel lost.

I’m afraid of repeating myself.

So I move forward more slowly.

Same thing with Substack.

At the beginning, I was fully into it.

Now, I have less energy for it.

And I can feel it.

And then there are all the other things I’d like to do.

Improve my English.

Work on my German.

Learn Creole.

But I don’t really know where to start.

I don’t have a routine,

and I don’t really know how to improve on my own.

So it blocks me.

In the end, I’m not inactive.

I train more than ever,

I write a bit,

I learn a bit of languages,

I go out and enjoy life.

But I still have that feeling that I’m not doing enough

compared to what I’d like.

And you, what would you do in my position?

Since I was a kid, I’ve mostly reread the same ones over and over.

But they’ve had a big impact on me.

And one of the first that comes to mind is Naruto.

Naruto is the story of a boy who is rejected.

Misunderstood. Seen as useless.

But he has a very clear dream from the start.

To become Hokage.

(The strongest ninja, for those who don’t know.)

And no matter what people say, no matter what he goes through…

he never gives up.

I was around 8 when I first discovered Naruto.

I was in elementary school.

I remember watching it on TV after class.

At the time, I didn’t think much of it.

But that universe…

it grabbed me in a way I didn’t understand yet.

I can’t say I saw myself as Naruto.

But I always saw him as a role model.

His energy.

His need to exist.

His refusal to give up.

Without even realizing it, those values stayed with me.

I still see it today.

In sports, for example.

I love it.

But I didn’t practice much during my teenage years.

So now, even though I train a lot,

I still feel pretty average.

Sometimes even bad,

compared to the effort I put in.

But I keep going.

Because somewhere along the way, I kept that mindset.

The idea of improving.

Little by little.

Even when it’s hard.

Even when you don’t see results yet.

Naruto didn’t teach me anything concrete.

I don’t see myself as a ninja.

(Even though I did try when I was a kid.)

But it gave me something more important.

A mindset.

To never give up.

No matter the difficulty.

To believe that effort pays off.

Even when you start from far behind.

And even today,

it’s still a part of me.

You can read the full article here:

https://equolproject.eu/news/dialogue-survivors-caregivers-learning-to-live-fatigue-different-body/

When treatment ends, people often talk about being cured. But living in your body after childhood cancer is often more complex than the idea of a simple “return to normal.”

First, because even after I was considered cured, I continued to go regularly to the hospital between the ages of thirteen and eighteen for check-ups and X-rays. During that period, when I was officially cancer-free, I also underwent two small operations indirectly related to the cancer.

Over time, I also realized that my body was no longer quite the same. Some things are visible: a scar, slight asymmetries, a toe that does not bend properly. Others are much more subtle: fatigue, digestive problems. None of this prevents me from living my life, but it does require constant attention.

At only twenty-six, I sometimes find myself recognizing a phrase that is often heard from people over thirty: “I’m not twenty anymore.” After a night out, I know my body will quickly remind me the next day. If I drink alcohol, the following day will be harder. If I sleep too little or keep irregular hours, my body does not forgive it.

I do not always know to what extent these fragilities are related to the cancer or simply to my metabolism. Perhaps they were always there and I notice them more now as I rediscover my body as an adult. But they are now part of my everyday life.

Around the age of twenty, I started boxing. It was a sport I had loved since childhood thanks to Rocky and the manga Hajime no Ippo. At first I was really not good at it. But little by little, I stopped feeling ridiculous. Sport became a way to regain control and rebuild trust with my body.

At the same time, I learned that I cannot push my body in just any way. If I overdo things or train badly, my body quickly reminds me of my limits.

Today, running, cycling, or training is not only about performance. I know that I sometimes have to make more effort than others to stay in shape, but those efforts are worth it. They make me happier in the short, medium, and long term.

After childhood cancer, the body is not always a body “like any other.” It can be more fragile, more demanding. But today I feel rather comfortable in my body, and I try to remember that health is a balance that must be built every day.

If you’ve experienced cancer, or know someone who has, I really recommend taking a look at the full project.

They’re doing meaningful work around life after cancer.

And if this resonates with you, feel free to share it.

But in reality, it’s hard.

To me, discipline means making short-term sacrifices for something you want in the long term.

And I believe in that.

But believing in it and actually doing it every day are two very different things.

Lately, I’ve been struggling with writing.

My second book.

My Substack articles.

I still do it, at least a little.

Because I know I care about it.

The hardest part is starting.

It feels heavy.

Like it takes too much mental energy.

But once I begin, something shifts.

I get into it.

And when I finish, I feel good.

And more than that, I know I added one small piece to something bigger.

I think I’m more disciplined than average.

But not as much as I’d like to be.

One of my biggest struggles is simple:

Scrolling.

Watching things that don’t really matter.

Wasting time, even when I know I’m doing it.

I try to avoid it.

Sometimes I succeed.

But honestly, I still do it more than I should.

At the same time, I’ve learned something important.

Discipline isn’t about forcing everything.

For example, with sports lately I don’t really need discipline.

Because every day, I enjoy doing something.

Running, cycling, swimming, climbing, or going to the gym.

So instead of forcing myself into a rigid plan,

I adapt.

If I don’t feel like running in the rain,

I’ll train at home or go to the gym.

But there are areas where I really need discipline.

Writing.

Daily tasks.

Keeping a clean and healthy environment.

Because without it, I know I wouldn’t feel good at the end of the day.

I need that structure.

Not to become perfect.

Just to feel aligned with myself.

I don’t think discipline should be extreme.

For some people, it becomes something rigid.

Something almost blind.

Forcing things no matter what.

Even when it doesn’t make sense anymore.

I don’t want that.

I think it’s more about balance.

I didn’t really plan to lower the price of the book but Amazon gives the option to make it free for a few days.

So I decided to try it, and then I had a small realization.

This book was never meant to make money.

At first, I wrote it for myself, and then for my close ones.

Now that this part is done, and the main goal of the book is achieved, I want it to reach as many people as possible.

To help people who went through cancer early in life.

But also the people around them.

And honestly, anyone who has been through something difficult.

Because in the end, it’s not really about cancer.

It’s about what comes after.

Right now, the book is free until April 18.

And the response has been really good so far.

So if you downloaded it, thank you.

It really means a lot to me.

I hope it will resonate with you.

The truth is, this book is not going to change my life financially.

But it might change something for someone.

And that matters more.

So it just makes sense to make it as accessible as possible.

After April 18, I’ll lower the price.

I don’t know exactly how much yet.

But I want it to stay affordable.

Because if the goal is to help people,

then the book has to be reachable.

I also see this as something bigger.

I want to keep writing.

I’ve already started a second book.

And I’m building something step by step.

Something honest.

Something that lasts.

If there’s one thing I hope people take from this book, it’s this:

Even after something like cancer,

or any difficult moment in life,

things can get better.

Slowly.

But they do.

And I also want to show that through my writing.

So if you’re curious, this is the best time to read it.

Here is a note you can like or restack, as well as this post if you want to support me and the book:

https://substack.com/@arthurkayseren/note/c-243385933?r=7jewb3

I just want this book to reach the right people.

I published my book in February.

Since then, I’ve sold 37 copies.

And honestly… I don’t really know how to feel about it.

At the beginning, I expected less.

But over time, I thought it would grow more.

The book worked well with people close to me.

Friends, family… people who already knew me.

And I think it makes sense.

The book talks about life.

About what I went through.

So for them, it was easier to connect with it.

Outside of that circle…

it’s different.

Reaching people who don’t know you is something else entirely.

After the first month, I had already sold around 25 copies.

And I think that’s where something shifted.

Without really saying it out loud,

I started expecting more.

I thought it was just the beginning.

That the curve would go up.

Maybe 50 after two months.

75 after three.

But it didn’t happen like that.

It slowed down.

And even if it’s logical…

it’s still frustrating.

Now it feels like I have to fight for every new reader.

What’s strange is that if someone had told me at the beginning:

“You’ll have 37 sales after 3 months”

I would have been really happy.

But expectations change things.

There was also a moment that stayed with me.

I did an interview to promote the book.

I thought it would create a small spike.

A bit of momentum.

But nothing really happened.

Even though I was expecting something bigger.

I don’t forget something important.

My main goal with this book was never sales.

It was to send a message.

To my girlfriend.

To my parents.

To the people close to me.

To show them that I’m doing better.

And that message went through.

Completely.

So in a way,

the book is already a success.

No one can take that away from me.

37 sales means that 37 people decided to read it.

And that’s not nothing.

Even if it’s not what I imagined.

And I’m not stopping here.

I’ve already started writing a second book.

I keep posting here.

I still have a lot to try.

Maybe this is what it really looks like.

Not big numbers.

Not fast success.

Just… Keep Going.

This piece about my trip to Budapest is also mentioned in my book Keep Going.

While tightening the final version, I chose to leave some moments out of the book, not because they mattered less, but because they needed a different format.

I didn’t really know why I chose Budapest.

The tickets were cheap. The city too.

And more than anything, I just wanted to go somewhere.

Anywhere. But alone.

It was the first time I made that decision: to travel for myself, with myself, at my own pace.

On the day of departure, I felt a strange mix of determination, stress, and simple joy.

A light head. A slightly too fast heartbeat.

And that quiet intuition that something important was beginning.

When I stepped out of the airport, the heat hit me immediately.

It was summer, and you could feel it.

A heavy, overwhelming heat that barely left me during the ten days I spent there.

Budapest appeared all at once: wide, alive, filled with an architecture that blends eras without ever really choosing one.

And in the middle of it all, there was me.

Alone. Anonymous. Independent.

For the first time, I had no one to wait for.

No one to follow.

No one to reassure.

Just walking.

Finding a currency exchange, reaching my accommodation, moving through an unknown city guided only by my own desires…

Simple gestures. Almost ordinary.

And yet, each of them felt like I was getting closer to a version of myself I didn’t know yet.

The hostel was anything but comfortable.

Ten bunk beds in the same room.

Open suitcases. Clothes drying on chairs.

Noise. A lot of noise.

Languages I didn’t even recognize.

It wasn’t intimate, practical, or restful.

But when I put my bag down, I felt something very clear:

I was free.

Free with my time.

Free with my choices.

Free to change plans without telling anyone.

I hadn’t even seen the city yet.

But that first walk in the heat, that first night surrounded by strangers…

it already felt like an opening.

I didn’t know yet that the Rudas Baths would become an anchor point.

At first, I just thought I was visiting a well-known place.

As soon as I walked in, I understood it was something else.

The air was warm, dense, almost silent.

A particular kind of silence. Not empty. Grounded.

The central room was perfectly symmetrical.

A large pool in the middle.

Smaller pools around it, each at a different temperature.

The light came down from a dome pierced with small holes, like tiny points of light resting on the water.

The first contact with the hot water was immediate.

Not spectacular.

Just deeply calming.

I moved from one pool to another.

Like a ritual building itself, without thought.

And then there was the rooftop.

A jacuzzi suspended above the city.

The dark Danube. The lit bridges. The still buildings.

Sitting there, surrounded by people but deeply alone, I felt something rare:

I was living a moment that belonged only to me.

The nights in Budapest had the same imperfect texture as the hostel.

Absurd wake-ups.

Exhausted people.

Slightly ridiculous situations.

And yet, I loved it.

Because nothing was smooth.

Nothing was optimized.

Everything was real.

Most evenings, I would go out walking when the temperature dropped and night settled in.

I just let myself drift, music in my ears, without any real destination.

One evening, in a park where I had gotten a bit lost, I ordered a glass of white wine.

The waitress poured me the end of the bottle.

The glass was filled to the brim.

I sat down.

Around me, groups, couples, quiet travelers.

And me, alone.

Alone, but proud.

Proud to have come.

Proud to have dared.

Proud to live exactly what I wanted to live.

One of the most striking moments happened at St. Stephen’s Basilica.

I had visited it earlier that day and saw that an organ concert was scheduled for the evening.

I decided to come back.

I didn’t regret it.

An orchestra.

A singer.

A pianist.

Then, without warning, a massive note filled the space.

Not from the stage.

From the heights of the basilica.

The sound was physical.

It moved through the body.

The breath.

The bones.

I trembled. Literally.

I took out my phone to record, even though I never do that.

Because I was alone.

Because it was too strong to stay only inside me.

For a few seconds, there was no role, no question, no projection.

Just a human being overwhelmed by something beautiful.

When I left Budapest, I didn’t yet know exactly what had changed.

But I felt that something had shifted.

A thread.

A direction.

A possibility.

This trip didn’t give me a clear answer.

It didn’t transform me overnight.

But it showed me something essential:

being alone doesn’t always mean being empty.

These past few days,

I’ve been a bit off.

It’s only been 5 days.

But it feels like more.

It’s physical, but not only.

It’s also mental.

A lack of rhythm.

A bit less desire.

I’m still training.

Still moving.

But something feels different.

When I run,

my legs hurt a bit.

And suddenly,

my goal changed.

From running a 10k in under 55 minutes,

to just… finishing it.

Even though I already did it in 58.

That part is frustrating.

Writing feels the same.

I want to write,

but I can’t get into it.

It’s hard to start.

Hard to continue.

And when I do,

I’m not even satisfied.

My last post was just a chapter from my book.

Strategically, it made sense.

But I didn’t do it right.

I didn’t promote it.

Didn’t think about the title.

Wasn’t really present.

I just posted it… and moved on.

A few weeks ago,

I had a rhythm.

A real one.

I was staying with my girlfriend,

and everything felt aligned.

Then things changed.

She went to Japan for holidays.

And now she’s living with me.

A lot of small changes.

But enough to break something.

I think I need a new routine.

Without it,

everything feels harder.

I’m in a bad phase.

But I don’t think I should ignore it.

These moments matter.

They show you what’s missing.

I don’t want to accept losing motivation.

Not like that.

Sometimes you need to slow down.

But not always.

And right now,

I know I need to show up.

Not perfectly.

Not with the best ideas.

Just… show up.

Because I like writing and I like sharing.

But it’s not going to happen on its own.

So here I am, even though I’m not at 100%.

It’s about what comes after.

But to understand the “after”,

you have to go through this part.

So today, I’m sharing the second chapter of my book.

I did not know yet that my life was about to take a turning point.

It started with something simple.

I was limping.

A strange, persistent pain.

A lump near my ankle.

At first, I thought it was just something stupid from playing.

Soccer.

Playing around childishly.

The kind of things that happen and usually pass.

Except it did not pass.

At first, no one was really worried.

We watched.

We waited.

We told ourselves it will go back to normal.

But the days went by, and nothing changed.

Worse, it got worse.

So we went to see someone.

And then everything sped up.

A doctor.

An X-ray.

Then an MRI.

The next day, I was in the hospital.

I remember being in a room, lying in a bed that felt too big for me.

That smell.

That silence that will haunt you.

My father is there.

My mother too.

I do not understand yet what’s at stake,

but I immediately feel that something is wrong.

The way they speak.

The way they don’t.

Then the doctor comes in.

He says I have cancer.

I don’t remember the exact words.

But I remember the effect.

The room feels smaller.

The air heavier.

As if the world had suddenly changed density.

They talk to me about chemotherapy.

Treatments.

Hospital stays.

Hair falling out.

I am eleven years old.

I listen without understanding everything.

At that time, my dream was to become a clown.

So I did what I knew how to do.

I made a joke.

A joke about losing my hair.

I was proud of it and myself.

For a second, it loosened the atmosphere.

A little.

Even today, we laugh about it as a family.

But I wasn’t completely unaware.

The word cancer, I knew it was serious.

My grandmother had died from it a few years earlier.

What they told me, though,

was that my life wasn’t in danger.

That the worst case might be losing my leg.

Much later, through my mother, I learned the truth was harsher.

That my life really had been in danger.

And that my parents had chosen to protect me.

Because there are things you don’t tell a child.

Even when the child is already growing up too fast.

That day, they also told me that I would not be starting sixth grade.

That my year would take place in the hospital.

I was no longer a child like the others.

And even if I didn’t understand everything,

I had already grasped one essential thing:

nothing would ever be the same again.

That evening, we didn’t go home.

My parents decided we would sleep at my uncle and aunt’s place.

To breathe.

To not get through that night alone.

I liked their house.

Perched in a small mountain village.

A large living room.

A kitchen with a strange layout that I had always loved.

It was infinitely more comforting

than a night in a hospital bed.

My aunt took great care of me.

A big box of candy.

A soft voice.

Simple gestures, as if nothing serious had happened.

That kind of kindness doesn’t explain anything.

But it soothes.

My parents, on the other hand, were tense.

At eleven years old, I couldn’t read everything yet.

But I felt their effort:

standing upright, not collapsing in front of me.

They set me up on the couch to sleep.

I remember that mix of discomfort and exhaustion.

The fatigue that falls after an overload of emotions.

I didn’t speak.

That was my way of coping:

not bothering anyone, staying calm.

As if silence could keep things from getting worse.

I closed my eyes, pretending to sleep.

That night, without yet being the hospital,

marked a strange break.

An in-between.

Nothing had really begun yet…

but everything had already changed.

What I remember most is a place.

The eighth floor.

The floor for children with cancer and leukemia.

The floor where I would spend a huge part of the year ahead.

Even before entering, there was that airlock.

The disinfectant gel.

The gloves.

The strict rules.

It took me less than ten seconds to understand:

what I had was serious.

Not because someone had told me.

But because I could see it.

The hallway was silent.

Clean.

Too clean.

A silence that makes noise.

Then the room.

The machines.

The beeping.

Two beds.

Next to me, an eighteen-year-old boy.

His leg amputated a few days earlier.

A strange calm,

as if he were already far away from all this.

I was eleven years old.

And I understood that this kind of neighbor would become normal.

The months that followed were a repetition.

Six rounds of chemotherapy.

Three days in a row.

Every three weeks.

And always the same sequence:

the vomiting, the fever, the mouth sores, the nights soaked in sweat, the aplasia.

No immune defenses.

So back to the hospital.

Again.

The bed.

The machines.

The line connected to my chest, day and night.

Sometimes, when my condition allowed it,

I went downstairs to see Valérie.

A sports instructor.

A few simple exercises.

Just enough to remind me

that I still had a body.

At home, it was different.

Not normal.

But different.

My room.

My cat.

My two best friends coming once a week.

Yu-Gi-Oh cards.

Stolen laughter.

And then that evening.

An evening when I thought I could stay home.

We had just watched Harry Potter.

A moment of calm.

They took my temperature.

Too high.

Back to the hospital.

Usually, I endured it.

But not that night.

That night, I said no.

I screamed.

I cried.

I exploded.

Everything I had held in for months came out all at once.

The fear.

The exhaustion.

The injustice.

Then the crisis burned itself out.

I was empty.

And we left again.

A few months after the first major operation,

they had to operate on me again.

They removed the metal rod

they had placed in my leg.

In its place, a bone graft.

A piece of bone taken from my back, shaped,

and installed where part of my fibula was missing.

The operation went better than the first.

Less pain.

Less fear.

When I woke up, I was weak.

But calm.

After that, there were the crutches.

For a long time.

More than six months.

I was still limping.

But it was no longer alarming.

It was a discomfort I had grown used to.

I mostly remember going up the stairs sitting down.

Step by step.

As if the world had shrunk

to that slowness.

But inside, something had changed.

I knew it was over.

Not repaired.

Not like before.

But over.

The last battle had been fought.

And won.

That year broke me.

Physically.

Mentally.

Emotionally.

It tore away my body,

my reference points,

my innocence.

But I didn’t know it yet.

Cancer was not just an ordeal.

There was a before.

And there was an after.

And this is where the climb back begins.

Slow.

Invisible.

Often mistaken for stillness.

This was the year

everything changed in my life.

The “after” came later.

If you’ve ever gone through something that changed you,

I’d be curious to hear how it shaped you.

Now, when I see “normal” people, I’m actually proud not to be.

I think I really understood I was different the day I went back to school after my cancer.

I took the bus.

I had crutches.

I was limping.

I had no hair.

And I could feel it.

People were looking at me differently.

That was the moment I realized I wasn’t like everyone else anymore.

At that time, being normal meant something simple.

Being a teenager.

Having an easy life.

No real problems.

Just fitting in.

But I couldn’t.

And I thought that was a bad thing.

But at some point, I started to see things differently.

Maybe being different wasn’t something to fix.

Maybe it was something to use.

I understood something else later.

When I said I wanted to work in a specific field, people told me it was inaccessible.

When I told people I wanted to write a book, no one really believed me.

That’s when I realized something.

Many people stop believing in their dreams.

On my side, I try.

I try to build the life I want.

It’s slow.

It’s not easy.

But step by step, I’m getting closer.

Today, when I look at normal people, I sometimes feel a bit of distance.

Sometimes even boredom.

Like everything is already decided.

Sometimes I still envy them.

But less and less.

One of the best things I did was traveling alone.

It changed everything for me.

I learned to know myself.

To enjoy being alone.

To appreciate my own company.

If you feel different, maybe that’s not a problem.

Maybe that’s your strength.

You don’t have to fit in.

You just have to build a life that feels right to you.

The diagnosis.

The treatments.

The hospital.

And then one day, it’s over.

People talk about recovery.

About victory.

About going back to normal.

But no one really explains what “normal” actually means.

Because the truth is, things don’t go back to how they were before.

I had cancer when I was 11.

Today, I’m 26.

The illness is behind me.

But some things never fully leave.

Not physically.

More in the way I see the world.

After the illness, I felt different.

In some ways, I had become more mature.

I had seen things most kids hadn’t.

But in other ways, I had fallen behind.

Especially socially.

During the year I was sick, I lost something there.

I became more distant.

I almost stopped small talk altogether.

Conversations about light, everyday things…

I’m just not very comfortable with them.

Sometimes I feel a bit out of place in those moments.

Before that, I was a pretty normal kid.

Good at school.

Good at sports.

Surrounded by friends.

I was part of things.

After the illness, something shifted.

People saw me differently.

More fragile.

A bit “special.”

They were kind.

But also a little distant.

I wasn’t quite like the others anymore.

My relationship with sport changed too.

Before the illness, I was really good at it.

Then I stopped completely for years.

At first, because I physically couldn’t.

But later, even when I could again, I didn’t feel capable anymore.

And I wasn’t really interested either.

For a long time, I didn’t have much ambition.

Life was moving forward, but I didn’t really know where I was going.

With time, I understood something.

My life was never going to go back to what it was before.

Not because something was broken.

But because I had changed.

I had grown.

I had seen things.

I had learned things.

The person I was before doesn’t really exist anymore.

And that’s okay.

It’s 1 a.m. in France.

My girlfriend is somewhere between two flights, on her way to Japan.

And I’m here, alone, listening to Joji.

Tonight, I’m sad.

I won’t see her for two weeks.

I’m tired, but I don’t feel like sleeping.

So I just sit here, letting the music play.

Since I met her, something changed.

I listen to less music than before.

Well… I still listen a lot.

I’ve always loved music.

But it’s different now.

I don’t spend sleepless nights diving into lyrics,

singing and dancing alone.

With her, I mostly listen to simple songs.

Songs we share.

I discover fewer new artists.

And maybe that sounds like a loss.

Music is powerful.

It makes you feel things.

But that’s exactly it.

Since I met her, I’m no longer looking for emotions.

I already feel them.

I feel full.

Before I met her, I used to listen to Joji all the time.

She knows that.

It was one of the first things we talked about when we met.

And I think, in part, that’s why I fell for her so quickly.

But I don’t think she realizes how much music meant to me back then.

I was always listening.

While gaming.

At work.

In the car.

In my bath.

It was everywhere.

It filled my days.

Joji makes mostly sad music.

Music about loneliness.

And it helped me.

It was like a bandage.

My girlfriend isn’t a bandage.

She removed the wound.

I don’t need that kind of music anymore.

I don’t hurt anymore.

But tonight, she’s not here.

It’s 1 a.m.

I’m a little tired.

A little more emotional than usual.

And I’m listening to Joji again.

Not because I need it.

But because I remember what it used to feel like.

It’s strange.

I’m reconnecting with something I had forgotten:

just listening and letting myself drift.

I’m sad she’s not here.

But at the same time, I’m happy.

Because my sadness today is simple.

It’s just this: not seeing her for two weeks.

And besides that, I have everything.

And even when she’s not here,

she’s still here, in a way.

I’ve never been this happy in my life.

Not before her.

So while I wait to see her again,

while I wait for her to land in Tokyo,

I go back to my old bandage.

I listen to Joji,

thinking about her,

and writing this for her.

My parents, my family, my friends.

But recently something changed. I realized that if I wanted the book to reach people outside my close circle, I would have to start talking about it more openly.

So this week I really started the marketing phase.

So far I’ve contacted around 70 public libraries in my region and about 10 independent bookstores. One library from my town already replied saying they would like to get a copy of the book. It may seem like a small step, but it felt encouraging. It means the book might reach somone who doesn’t know me at all.

I also reached out to a few local newspapers, but for now I haven’t received any response.

By chance, a doctor who specializes in life after cancer recently read my book. The book is a short autobiographical story about my life after having cancer as a child, and the process of rebuilding that followed.

She told me she really appreciated the book and found the story very accurate in the way it describes life after illness. Hearing that meant a lot to me.

For now, I’m still figuring out where to focus my energy. I know that I really like Substack but it might not be enough on its own to build a community and help the book reach readers.

I don’t really use Instagram yet. I recently created a professional Twitter account, but I’m not very active there either. Twitter is probably the platform I understand best, so I might try to build something there.

Another idea I have is sending copies of the book to some Instagram or TikTok creators. I’m also thinking about reaching out to hospitals and cancer-related associations, since the book is about life after cancer.

At the moment, everything still feels experimental.

What I’m learning is that writing the book was only one part of the journey. Now comes the part where I try to help the book find its readers.

I’m also discovering that talking about your work publicly can feel strangely vulnerable.

And if I’m honest, there is still a small fear behind all of this.

The fear that not many people will read it.

Because somewhere inside me, I also hope this book might become something bigger.

For now, I’m simply taking small steps and seeing where they lead.

If you’ve ever published a book or tried to share your work with the world, I’d be curious to hear how you approached it.

And if you enjoyed this piece, feel free to like, comment, or restack it. It really helps others discover the writing.

It’s a short book about life after cancer and the long process of rebuilding that followed.

Writing a book is a strange experience.

For months, the work is almost entirely private.

You write alone. You think about it constantly.

Little by little, the project becomes part of your life.

But at some point, something changes.

You have to start telling people.

The first person I told was my girlfriend. I mentioned the idea quite early, when the project started to feel real. At first she didn’t really believe it would actually become a book. But she quickly saw that I was thinking about it all the time.

Eventually it became obvious that the book was really going to happen, and probably sooner than she expected.

Telling my parents was stressful.

The book talks about my life after cancer, and some parts of it are quite personal. But in a way I had an idea of how they might react. They were proud of me and supportive, which meant a lot.

A few days later, when the book was officially released, I shared the news with my family and close friends.

It made it feel official.

The book was no longer just an idea in my head. It was out in the world.

Strangely, telling my colleagues felt even more stressful.

We see each other every day and we get along well, but we are still colleagues. They didn’t really know much about my personal life. They knew I had cancer as a child, but that was about it.

And suddenly there was a book where I talked about that part of my life.

Until recently, most of the people who knew about the book were people close to me. But now the book is slowly starting to move beyond that circle.

It’s a strange feeling.

Writing it felt like a very personal process. Sharing it with the world feels a little vulnerable.

But at the same time, I hope it might help some people, even in a small way.

If you’ve gone through something similar, I’d be curious to hear your story.

And after finishing this first one, I know one thing for sure:

I want to keep writing.

If you enjoyed this piece, feel free to like, comment or restack it. It really helps other people discover the writing.

It’s a sentence I used to tell myself often when I was younger.

And lately, I’ve been thinking about it again as an adult.

For me, a sailboat represents something simple: freedom, travel, and calm.

This idea comes from a very specific memory. I was around thirteen years old. Not long after my cancer, an association invited me to join a sailing trip.

There was the captain, a volunteer, and four kids. Several other boats were also part of the trip with other young people, and sometimes we would meet to do activities together.

Honestly, my precise memories are a bit blurry today. But some sensations stayed.

I remember the water all around us.

I remember that every day we arrived in a different town.

And I remember one very simple moment: listening to the Kill Bill – Twisted Nerve music while the boat was moving across the sea.

It felt like freedom.

At that time, I was no longer sick. But life was not really easy. At school, everything was complicated. I didn’t really have friends anymore. I was shy, different, and still physically fragile.

These holidays felt really good.

The atmosphere on the boat was simple.

Even though I was quite distant from people at that time in my life, I liked our small crew and the atmosphere on board.

After all, we were in the same boat.

That sailing trip was not the only holiday I had thanks to associations. I was lucky to travel several times because of them.

Looking back, I realize how much those experiences mattered. They gave me moments of normal life during a time that wasn’t really normal.

And maybe they also contributed to something else: my love for travel.

Even today, I like to leave, discover new places, see other cities and other landscapes.

And somewhere in a corner of my mind, that idea is still there.

One day, I’ll have a sailboat.

And if that day comes, I will probably play some music while sailing.

I’ll probably start with the one from Kill Bill.