I know now that victory is not the absence of wounds. Victory is the body, battered and remade, marked by the wars it has fought. Victory is breath that does not come easy, a lung that has forgotten how to stretch, the cruel joke of survival—a heart that beats but remembers too many battle rhythms. But what they do not tell you—what no one ever tells you—is that some battles do not end when the war is declared over.
The doctor told me the cancer was gone, retreated into remission. I had beaten it. I praised God for this victory. I had won. Twenty years have passed since that declaration. Twenty years of marking each year, each test result, each breath as another milestone, another stone placed on the altar of my survival. And only now did the doctor name what my body has known all along. That there are scars of victory. Remnants that linger to remind you even as you try to forget.
The doctor’s words made the lingering scars seem like a gift. As if a wound that does not kill you is a blessing. As if breathlessness is simply a reminder of strength. As if all suffering must be rewritten as something noble.
But how do I see it?
Survival is a thing that lingers; we do not walk out of the fire and leave the ashes behind. The body keeps an account, a detailed ledger, that reminds you pain has a memory—that nothing truly vanishes, no matter how you try to forget. And I wonder now, not just what has been lost, but what more my body might yet take from me.
Will it fail me in a moment of need? Will I stand before a congregation only to fall silent, breathless, undone?
So when I wake, lungs tight like a clenched fist, I wonder: Is this what the victors feel? Is this how the body remembers?
I think of those who came before me, those who broadened their shoulders for me to stand on. What of the battles they fought? What wounds did they carry forward, sewn into their bones, passed from mother to child? Passed on to future generations. What of their scars and the scars that I do not wear but still bear?
This is survival. But survival doesn’t always mean you are winning. By God’s grace, winning comes in various forms. So tell me, what does it mean to win when I still struggle to breathe?
The air is sharp with morning cold as I step onto the platform. The station is a place of motion, of urgency, but my body no longer moves with urgency. The burden of my backpack digs into my shoulders, the duffel bag swings heavily at my side, and I can already feel the warning signs. The tightening in my chest. The way my breath comes short.
The steps to platform 1 loom before me. And I take a deep breath. They are just a few, but enough to remind me that my body is no longer a thing that obeys. I place my foot on the first step.
Exhale.
The second.
Inhale.
The third.
Already, I feel the pull of something deeper than exhaustion. I grip the railing because I need to be steady and because I do not want them to see. Those around me, the morning travellers, the ones with strong lungs and unbroken bodies.
I do not want them to see the way my knees falter—my uncontrollable gasping. I do not want them to pity me. Worse—I do not want them to fear that I might fall.
One more step.
One more.
I reach the top, swallowing the air greedily, forcing stillness into my face, masking the tremor in my hands. The train is coming. And I make my way down now to platform 1. I can’t walk any faster, I can’t run to ensure I don’t miss the train, but I can move with purpose.
I will not miss the train; I will be late if I do. So I cannot, I must not. There is more at stake than punctuality. There are expectations, my name on a programme, my voice expected in rooms that echo with worship and argument.
I watch the train approach, steel and glass, and I think about the journey ahead. A three-day meeting, hours away—a gathering of ministers, of voices raised in praise and theology. They are expecting me. I am required to attend.
So yes, I will go. I will board the train. I’ve made it just in time. When I arrive, I will sit among my colleagues and contribute, even if my body demands that I remember survival is not the same as healing.
The train doors slide open.
I step inside.