My name is Jacob Santiago, and mine was supposed to be an ordinary life. I taught high school history in upstate New York. I was never the loudest voice in a room or the person people instantly remembered. When I first noticed the dull ache in my side, I brushed it off—too many papers graded slouched over my desk, I figured. But then came the diagnosis: cancer. Just like that, my world split open.
In those early days, I remember feeling like I was on the outside looking in. I kept asking myself, “Why me?” Life became a storm of tests, scans, blood draws, unfamiliar faces in white coats rattling off words I barely understood. Losing my hair and weight, watching my old self disappear in the mirror, I felt like I was vanishing from my own life.
What I never expected was how many wonderful people stepped in. Some friends drifted away, unsure of how to help or handle it, but others amazed me. They brought dinners, sent texts, even just sat quietly with me when I had nothing to say. Letting people help was hard—I’d always prided myself on being strong and self-sufficient. Cancer taught me that real strength sometimes means letting others hold you up.
The chemo, the fatigue, the never-ending uncertainty: some days, it all but broke me. I had nights where tears soaked my pillow and mornings where dragging myself out of bed felt impossible. I found pockets of comfort in surprising moments: a nurse who remembered that I like peppermint tea, the sunlight pouring through my hospital window in the early morning, the warm weight of my daughter’s hand in mine. The little things became my lifelines.
I connected with a few other cancer patients, and together we laughed and grumbled through treatments, finding courage in shared stories. I drew hope from their resilience—when I ran low, they topped me up with their own supply. Even when some doctors seemed resigned, telling me their truths through their expressions if not with their words, I stubbornly held onto each tiny victory. A good lab result. A letter from a student. A day without pain.
Eventually, the tide began to turn. My body started to heal. Scan after scan showed improvement, until finally, unbelievably, my doctor said the words: “There is no cancer detected.” The relief and gratitude were deeper than I ever imagined. I celebrated gently—I knew too well the journey doesn’t end for everyone the same way. I have great memories of a close friend to prove it.
Now, I walk into my classroom changed, and I hope, stronger. I know firsthand that it’s okay to be afraid, to feel lost, to cry, to lean on loved ones.
If you’re fighting now, I see you. You’re allowed to feel however you feel, and you’re not alone. Miracles aren’t always loud—sometimes they’re quiet, a life rebuilt day by day. I’m living proof that it is possible to find your way through, and that the ordinary moments after—sun on your face, a laugh with a friend, the chance to just be – are the most extraordinary gifts of all.
In fact, if this is YOU, this journey may be the wake-up call you never asked for and never saw coming – but just may be the best teacher of life you’ll ever know.
