“The Mask I Wear – Living with What You Can’t See”

People look at me and say,
“You look great!”
“You don’t look sick.”
“You’re so strong.”
“You’d never know.”

And I smile.
Because that’s the mask doing its job.

Behind the smile is a man who has been living with lung cancer—not once, not twice, but three times.

It began in 2004.
I was young and scared. The word cancer was foreign, overwhelming, and heavy. But I fought. I pushed through. On my 25th birthday I got the news. Three months later I was in the hospital getting right lung lobectomy to remove the tumor

It came back in 2014.
Different year, same fear. I understood more, but it didn’t make it easier. It just made me quieter about the pain. Yet again, surgery and three rounds of radiation.

And then again in 2021.
That’s when I stopped saying I “beat it.”
Now I live with it. Every day. In my chest. In my mind. In every breath.

Because when you have lung cancer, every cough isn’t “just a cough.” Every cold isn’t “just a cold.”
It can quickly spiral.
Sometimes I gasp for air, and it’s terrifying. It feels like drowning in slow motion—while everyone else keeps breathing normally.

I don’t do chemo, so I don’t lose my hair.
I do immunotherapy—a different kind of fight. One that’s quieter, but still brutal in its own way.
It doesn’t make me bald, but it makes me tired. Deeply, endlessly tired.
It wears down my body. My energy. My patience. My hope.

People don’t always understand. Because they can’t see it.

They don’t see the fatigue that makes getting out of bed feel like climbing a mountain.
They don’t see me holding my chest, praying this cough is just a cough.
They don’t see the isolation. The loneliness. The ache of navigating this journey—often alone.
They don’t see the depression that comes from feeling like your body is your enemy.
They don’t see the quiet grief of pretending you’re okay just to make others comfortable.

So I wear the mask.
I cake it on—strength, humor, smiles, productivity, faith.
Because people expect me to be “Dr. Nick.”
Because I don’t want to be pitied.
Because if I fall apart, who’s there to hold the pieces?

But underneath, I’m tired.
I’m worn.
I’m human.
And yeah, I’m alone more often than I care to admit.

This isn’t a call for attention—it’s a call for understanding.
A reminder that not all battles are visible. Not all illnesses come with bald heads and sympathy cards.
Some come with smiles and silence. With clear scans and breathless nights. With functioning on the outside and crumbling on the inside.

If you’re living with something invisible, I see you.
If you’re holding it all together while feeling like you're falling apart—I get it.

And if you’re one of the lucky ones who hasn’t walked this road, just remember:
Compassion doesn’t require understanding. Only presence.

Sometimes the kindest thing you can do is to simply believe someone when they say they’re struggling.

—Dr. Nick
Still breathing. Still walking. Still here.
Even when it’s hard. Even when no one sees.