The Day It Changed
Daily Inspiration
She was 23, strong and moving through the world with a runner’s step, when she found the bump. Just a small thing in the mirror, on the belly, something that didn’t belong. It made her pause during her run one morning—her breaths shallow, the rhythm gone. She saw the bump, felt it, then pushed on. But that night, the burning began. In her gut. In her bones.
She went to urgent care. The doctor pressed gently on that bump. Said maybe a hernia. Ordered an ultrasound. She held her breath. Watched the pale room.
The days after, the MRI showed masses. Liver, bile duct. A doctor said the word quietly: cancer. Cholangiocarcinoma. A disease for old bodies, not 23-year-olds. She sat still. Felt it settle.
She told them to biopsy. Then, they said Stage IV. She didn’t argue. She only nodded.
She posted a video that day. It was raw. No filter. No grand speech. In the frame, you could see the hospital bed, the white walls, her eyes. She looked tired. But she spoke steady:
“This is a big part of my life now.”
It struck people. Over 770,000 on TikTok followed. Sixty thousand on Instagram.
They found her—a Dartmouth graduate, a yoga teacher, runner—made their way gently into the narrative. They listened to her run one day, cry the next. They watched the scans, the IV lines, the hospitals. They sent hearts and care.
She didn’t hide. Not the tears, not the phone calls with mom and brother, not the exhaustion. She showed the morning she couldn’t hike. The day she made it out the door.
The Treatment
She began chemo, immunotherapy. Five months of it. The needles, the line in her arm. The taste in her mouth. The fatigue. But then, they cut into her. In January 2024, they removed part of her liver, her gallbladder, and lymph nodes. She woke to quiet machines and a new emptiness inside.
They wanted more chemo after that. But her body wouldn’t rise. White blood cells too low. She rested. They waited. She moved home to New York. Memorial Sloan Kettering took over.
She started again—chemo, immunotherapy, tests, scans. She told them: “This too shall pass.” She held a plank in her living room. She took a walk. She ran when she could.
She signed up for the Los Angeles Marathon. Half a hope. A full defiance.
The Community
She found people in rooms she never expected. At the cholangiocarcinoma conference, she met one person like her. First time she wasn’t alone. TikTok followers messaged, one from Minnesota, another from Spain. "You helped me feel seen."
She posted that sometimes people questioned her illness. "You don’t look sick." She would show a chemo bag or a sunken room. She’d tag Dr. Abou-Alta, her oncologist, show medical reports. Evidence. But mostly, she showed herself. In bed. In a bra. In a yoga pose.
One Redditor wrote:
“She had her doctors, family, and friends contacted… but she was very clearly receiving chemotherapy.”
Another:
“Sydney Towle is dripping in sincerity & humility. … She does not … give off a faking cancer vibe.”
They believed her. Hundreds did.
Discover the heartfelt stories of John Rinaldo—author of Remi’s Journey, Rediscovering Vancouver, and Dancing Letters. Each book inspires hope, healing, and wonder. Available now on Amazon.
Small Moments
One morning, she filmed herself sipping coffee. Light on her face. She talked about a walk that day. The way the sky looked soft. No mention of chemo. But in the stillness, you could feel her choice. To look forward, to breathe, to find color in a grey room.
She posted about her mom’s trip. They raised money so her mother could fly out—to sit by her side. She paid for the flight. Some asked why she needed donations. But she said the money would go to others too, to bring awareness, to maybe help someone else get to treatment.
She said: “Not my job to convince others.” She said: “We need grace.”
She said: “Everyone’s carrying something.”
Crisis and Doubt
In early 2025, news outlets questioned her story. A subreddit grew. Voices asked: Is she real? Is she faking it? The world turned cynical. Her TikTok filled with doubt.
But her medical team spoke. Dr. Abou-Alta said: “She is facing Stage IV.” Her scans said it too.
In one post, a nurse wrote: “I can attest she has stage 4 cancer… She needs positive support.”
Her community rallied. People learned the difference between skeptics and haters. They chose to stand with her.
Truth Beneath the Surface
On the surface: images of hospital gowns, IV tubing, selfies with a scarf. Below: a young woman, 25, standing at the edge between fear and purpose.
She carries pride, but not bravado. She carries light, but not denial. She carries community, built from videotaped traces: a lab coat, a yoga mat, text from a friend saying, “You’re not alone.”
February Morning
A film of her stepping outside at dawn. Light soft. She breathed in the cold. She thought of the marathon. Months away. She trained in intervals: two minutes running, three walking, until she could’t. Then she rested, thoughts to the horizon.
She didn’t say why she came out. She didn’t usually talk about death or hope. But you could feel both.
Grand Simplicity
She doesn’t speak in metaphors. No grand claim. No bigger-than-life message. Just this: “I feel tired today.” “I saw my mom.” “I’m going to keep going.”
In Hemingway’s world, these are the truths—sparse, but deep. Beneath the surface, the push and the pain. The line between giving up and holding on.
Community Truth
One message came in: “You saved me.” Another: “I feel less alone.”
She became a lighthouse. Not because she stood tall, but because she showed the rocks.
Now, at 25
She writes in videos: chemo resumes. Immunotherapy continuous. New scans pending. She isn’t well. But she isn’t gone.
She climbed stairs yesterday. She stretched. She planned jokes.
She’s not sure of outcome. But she fights.
Why This Matters
Cancer isn’t always visible. The MRI shows it. The fatigue doesn’t fade. But you may meet her at yoga or running. She looks healthy, and that’s the problem. That’s the misunderstanding.
She fights stereotypes. Stage IV doesn’t always look like everything stopped. Sometimes it looks like a woman making coffee, training for a marathon, crying and being honest.
She fights the doubt. She got hate online. But she fought it with video evidence, doctors, scans, heart. She fought it by keeping steady.
The Marathon
She hopes to run L.A. Marathon. Maybe she will walk. Maybe crawl. But she’ll finish it.
She filmed the studio. She filmed her shoes. She filmed the walls of her apartment, the empty hallway in Sloan Kettering. She filmed the track outside. Every step she took became a question: can I keep going? And yes, she can a little more.
The Quiet Power
This is a recognition, not applause. A story of small acts that mean more.
A bump in the stomach. A biopsy. A life reversed. A hospital bed. A selfie. A coffee. A step outside. A running shoe on pavement.
She walks forward, so others can see someone who keeps going. She speaks less in emotion, more in action. She lives the iceberg.
Toward the Light
No excuse. No justification. Just truth.
When she posts: “Today chemo again.” Beneath: fear, hope, grit. She writes: “I plan to run.” Beneath: joy, stubbornness, life.
She posts: “This too shall pass.” Beneath: pain remembered, unknown ahead.
She posts these because she’s lived it. Not for likes. Not for sympathy. But for those who need proof: you can be sick and still move forward. You can be sick and still matter.
Afterword
She’ll be known for honesty—not because she admits pain, but because she doesn’t hide it. Not because she shows strength, but because she shows weakness.
Hemingway wrote of endurance in simple sentences. Sydney Towle lives it. Under the surface, there are stones in her lungs, tumors in her liver, rooms of scans, days of exhaustion. But you see a smile. You feel a step. You hear a breath.
She is 25. She hopes. She waits. She pushes.
And she reminds us that every day we breathe is a chance to move forward. No matter how heavy, no matter how slow. The world isn’t just the pain we carry—but the steps we still take.
Silence
She lies awake sometimes. Thinks of the future. The unknown. But the breath comes again. And again she chooses to wake up, walk, speak, show up.
That is the story. Not the end. Not the cure. But the choice. The everyday choice. And that is enough.
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Inspiration for This Story.
The inspiration for this story is Sydney Towle herself.
It’s drawn from the quiet fire of a young woman who, at just 23, was forced to reckon with mortality—not in abstract, but in the form of a rare, aggressive cancer. Most people would retreat. Sydney chose to show up—with her voice, her body, her fear, her strength. She didn’t embellish. She didn’t ask for pity. She told the truth.
Not because she gave grand speeches. But because she lived each sentence with weight behind it. Her videos say, “I’m tired,” or “This is treatment day,” but beneath those words is a mountain of endurance, grief, defiance, and grace. She walks. She lifts. She smiles. She breaks. She records. All without telling us what to feel—just showing us what it means to keep going.
Sydney’s story is about honoring the dignity in the fight. The beauty in honesty. The quiet bravery of continuing—through doubt, pain, and misunderstanding.
She is the iceberg. What we see is just the surface. What lies beneath is what makes it extraordinary.
—John Rinaldo
Kudos to her resilience 🫡✊🏻
MORE POWER TO HER💪💪💪
And she reminds us that every day we breathe is a chance to move forward. No matter how heavy, no matter how slow. The world isn’t just the pain we carry—but the steps we still take.
As always John your writings are simply superb and pleasure to read 👏👏