Met the WeCanRow Boston team last Tuesday, where I showed up as one of nine newbies—all breast cancer survivors, with the nervous anticipation of people who’d just been handed a second life (or at least a really intense gym membership).
During introductions, I quickly realized I was the "cancer rookie" of the group. Most of these women had 10+ years of survivorship under their belts. Me? A shaky 16 months...
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It was exhilarating, though after 15 minutes on the ergs (those sadistic rowing machines), my back staged a full mutiny. But here’s the thing—so did everyone else’s. And that’s the magic of this team: no one expects perfection. Just effort. And maybe the occasional groan of despair.
"Legs, then body, then arms!" the coach barked, as if we weren’t all moving like overcaffeinated flamingos.
"Follow the person in front of you!" she added, which was great in theory—until I realized the person in front of me was also flailing.
What no one tells you about survivorship is how lonely it can feel, even when you’re "fine." But here, in this boathouse, there’s no explaining, no sugarcoating. When someone says, "Yeah, my shoulder’s stiff from radiation years ago," you just nod. No pity. No platitudes. Just "Yep, mine too. Pass the oar."
What’s next? The real rowing starts soon—on the Charles river in May, in actual water that doesn’t come with training wheels. I’m equal parts thrilled and terrified, mostly because I still haven’t decided if I’m more afraid of tipping the boat or being the reason it tips.
P.S. To anyone out there wondering if they’re "ready" for something like this: You’re not. Do it anyway.
(And maybe practice swimming first. Just in case.)
