In the film Her a character says, “The past is just a story we tell ourselves.” Until recently, nothing I have lived and encountered felt like it was carefully placed to rest in the past. It was still very much alive and beating furiously inside my head.

When I was first diagnosed as being in remission, it felt as if an unexpected chapter had come to an end. Just when I had become comfortable with the constant hospital visits, the blossoming of blood poppies on my skin when an IV was inserted, the constant fretting, and my mom tiptoeing around me quietly as if even a slight disturbance would disrupt my treatment—they said I was cured. Just like that. One day cancer is multiplying and attacking you within, and the next it’s gone.

Don’t get me wrong: I was elated to be told I was free to resume my life! But how does a teenager go back to being a teenager, when your life was taken from you so quickly? It caught me by surprise. After dealing with cancer, I felt that I had a more solid personality. I was much more of a realist. It was like a veil had lifted from my head. I didn’t have the freedom I used to have, either. I’d lost my grip on who I was and was dangling from a cliff, trying to place my feet on ground I wasn’t sure existed anymore. All I heard in my mind was, “Find me where you left me.”

The hardest thing for me then and now was not the hair loss or the sickness itself—it was saying goodbye to a part of myself I knew could never be returned. When I see photos of myself pre-chemotherapy, there is a sense of detachment. Since I’ve ended treatment, when I see those photos of myself I don’t recognize them as me—it’s like they are pictures of another girl.

I wrote this note to myself once: “I keep trying to find that girl I left behind junior year. To bring her back to the surface, but she isn’t coming back. I wanted too much from her and now I’ve lost her.” I’ve been able to create entire romances, adventures, and scenarios in my dreams. How do you prepare to tell yourself that you’ve finally lost your innocence? I was only 16, and I hadn’t even figured out all the people I am. How do you say goodbye to something so deep, something so strongly felt that doesn’t have a physical shape or form?

It’s hard to remind myself that it’s OK to look over my shoulder for a second, but then to continue walking only forward. I live with the past, not in it. Now memories act as building blocks that support me. I am in love—in love with my family, my girlhood, my friends, and my life. In a sense, this is an apology letter. To myself, for being unable to admit until now that I was ill, and to the people I love:

I’m sorry that I hurt you during the times I felt hurt, that I might have ignored you during the times I felt ignored, for yelling at you during the times you probably felt like yelling at the world. I’m sorry it took me this long to even tell you how I feel, but I’m still sorting these puzzle pieces out. Thank you for putting your love in me. I want you to know that the love I have for you is the most honest part of myself. ♦