By Dani Roulette
Trying to explain the impact of something like the 2025 Survivor Conference is next to impossible, so maybe I won’t try.
What I can share is this:
During the scariest and most isolating time of my life, Young Adult Cancer Canada (YACC) became my tether. A lifeline back to safety. To connection. To the most intimate and strong parts of my spirit.
When I think about how much love I hold for the friends I’ve made through YACC, I wish I had the words to describe the warmth I feel in the center of my chest (as a writer, it torments me that I don’t.)
But I can tell you this:
I met five incredible people in my very first online support group via YACC. After the group ended, we made a group chat and we’ve been holding space for other ever since. Most of us were bald when we started. Disoriented. Grappling with something immense.
And years later, I got to sit beside them, our hair growing back even more than it had last year at our first conference, yes, but more than that, our lives growing forward even when we feel like we’re still at some sort of standstill.
I watched my friend Mike’s story told through a short film. I cried, overwhelmed with pride, with remembering, and Alannah sat beside me and comforted me as I did.
Jessie filmed me singing karaoke, telling me later I made a funny face when I noticed her recording.
I roomed with my dear Maranatha, who I once paddled alongside down a reservoir in Quebec.
Each of these moments felt like small blessings I wasn’t always certain I’d get.
I stood in the atrium of that hotel and mourned one of the most incredible women I’ve had the privilege of meeting. My friends looked at me and said, “whatever you choose to do today, we’ll support you.”
So I stood where two rivers meet in Calgary.
I said a prayer for Sam.
A fish splashed in the water, acknowledging.
Over and over again, I was held in moments like that.
That’s what YACC is.
That’s what Survivor Conference is.
You come home and suddenly feel nervous to see people outside that bubble again. You go from being surrounded by people who get it, who see you, to feeling like maybe what you’ve been through is something other people will never truly understand.
To have my Winnipeg friends Kylie, Alannah, Prakul and Annie Rose there eased something in me too, I knew I wasn’t going home alone. I sat on my return flight and realized my sense of community back home has grown. It made returning easier than last year.
It still takes a little while to adjust.
But then you remember:
The people you met, the community you carry, they’re still with you. Even after you say your tearful goodbyes, tell each other you’re going to miss one another. Always with you.
Because during a time of so much uncertainty, illness and fear: they’ve been my constant.
For that I’m so grateful. Kitchi miigwech.
