When does your story start? Everyone’s life doesn’t actually start at birth. It starts when something significant happens that people are bothered about. No one actually cares about your childhood or all the boring things that happened throughout your life. This is the kind of society we live in. _No one cares_, and it’s time you accept that.

So, think about it. When does your story start?

My story starts when I was 15.

I’ve been doing ballet since I was 9. I’ve always loved it even though I knew that it was my parents’ dream. I still loved it. I know most people tend to resent the things that their parents force them to do but ballet was a genuine passion of mine. My mother is an ex ballerina. She had to stop after she got her knee injury at 29, so she lives her dream through me.

So my story begins. I was 15 and performing on stage for a charity event. The audience was relatively small. It was about 50 people and most were parents of the performers. We were performing Black Swan. Honestly, I was kind of amazing back then.

All of a sudden I stop. I’m just there. And I collapse to the ground, wheezing relentlessly..

I froze. I just couldn’t move. Now that I look back on it, yeah, it was very embarrassing, but honestly sort of petrifying. I let myself just be vulnerable, on stage, for everyone to see.

I can still remember the cries of my parents. They ran on the stage and started screaming my name. Asking me if I was okay. Telling me to stay calm. I could see the pure fear in their eyes. I wish I could speak. I wish I had a way of reassuring them I was okay. Instead I just lay there watching my parents cry in terror, unable to breathe or to speak.

What a horrible human I am.

The ambulance sirens still ring in my ear. The painfully excruciating noise filling up my ears with misery.

Everyone’s eyes were fixed on me, asking if I’m okay. I just felt so guilty. I felt like I was such an attention seeker.

I was rushed inside the ambulance with my parents for what felt like ages. I remember thinking it was probably nothing. That all would be okay. Ballerinas have injuries and mishaps all the time.

I clearly recall being calm in that ambulance ride. Thinking I would go, get a quick checkup, and be back performing.

Boy, oh boy, was I so incredibly wrong.

The checkup must’ve been an hour long and I remember what I was going to eat for dinner. Yes, I was _that_ calm.

After the doctor was finished with his checkup, he called both my parents in. He hit me with those words you would never expect to hear. The words you think you’re safe from. What everyone thinks they’re safe from. Why is the human brain wired to think that bad things can never happen to us? We see bombings, shootings, illnesses and crimes on the news. We never once expect it to happen to us. Why? Why do we have the audacity to think we are safe? No one is ever safe. Although we convince ourselves we are, it’s not true.

“Your daughter has cancer.”

All the stars in the galaxy could never amount to the number of thoughts that flashed through my mind as he said those four words.

I just sat on the hospital bed. Motionless. Resembling how I was on stage. I reminisced about me performing, on stage, in the spotlight. I mean, who could blame me? I figured I’d probably have to give up on ballet forever.

But I stopped thinking of myself. I looked towards my mother. She’s going to have to raise a daughter with cancer. How will she tell her friends? How will she be able to cope? How can she live with that?

I looked over at my father. How will he pay for this? What is he thinking about? How will he treat me?

Will I be a burden?

Then I look down at my hands. Is this who I am? Will this define me? Will I survive?

Tears welled up in my eyes but I blink them away. I will _not_ show vulnerability. I need to give my parents hope. I need to show them I can survive.

As a matter of fact, I need to give _myself_ hope. I need to tell myself I’m safe, even though I’m not. I’m far from safe. Safety is a spectrum, and right now I’m on the far end.

“What kind of cancer?” my mother manages to blurt out through her ever-flowing tears.

“Lung cancer, ma’am. Stage 3,” the doctor says with no emotion. I mean, come on! You can at least try to fake being sympathetic.

My father rubs my back, trying to get me to cheer up, as if that would do anything.

My mother starts hugging me. That actually does something. It makes me think…

When will I have a ‘last’ of everything? When will I have my last hug? My last kiss? My last meal? My last cry? Last smile? Last blink? Last breath? Last “I love you”?

The tears came back.

I repeatedly think to myself: I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.

I’m wasting time. I’m wasting time thinking of this. I could be thinking of better things. I need to treat my parents and repay them for all the things they’ve done for me, before it’s too late. All their sacrifices.

I’ve accepted my fate. I’m not sure if I’m going to die for sure, but there’s a pretty good chance that I will die.