I just got back from an afternoon walk. The trees are wearing their autumn best: brilliant reds, yellows and oranges. Nothing compares to feeling the warmth of the sunlight on my face. I swear that I could walk forever once I tear myself away from my computer or a good book and get out there. Thoughts swim around in my mind of all the people that I love and the places that I would like to someday visit. I think about my law school friends, Smith sisters and countless others. I am one lucky lady. I flash back to invincible college nights, days living in Washington DC, and re-live cherished memories. Strolling along, I think of my sisters and my parents. I can feel their love inside me. I must have a grin on my face the entire time. Walking is healing for me. I take in deep, cool cleansing breaths as I move along. I am in my own world, spinning in thoughts.

Thinking of how far I have come, I can hardly believe it. This time last year I could barely walk up the stairs or sit through a family meal at the dinner table without becoming exhausted. A trip to the mailbox to collect the day's mail, or taking a bath, were monumental tasks. I didn't have a hair on my head. I was deep in the throes of my battle with cancer. I was winning, but I sure didn't look like it.

The fall before that was a complete nightmare. One week I was at a cranberry harvest with friends, tailgating at a football game, studying all-night in a law library. The next I was a full-time resident of a pediatric oncology ward.

It began exactly two years ago today on a day just as beautiful as today. I had just finished my morning classes and was walking back to my apartment. I remember kicking the leaves at my feet thinking, "Thank you God!" I was dancing in the moment, grateful for my beautiful life. After being in my apartment for an hour or so, the phone rang. It was my oncologist's voice. I knew. My cancer was back with an attitude.

So much has changed since then. I am where I dreamed of being. I finished my chemotherapy. I have a head of sassy, curly dark hair. My color, my eyelashes, eyebrows and freckles are back. I look in the mirror and I recognize myself again. I can go off to New York City, or anywhere else I please and revel in my independence again. The simple joy of taste and a hearty appetite are mine. I am always on the go: as a spokesperson to raise money for cancer research, in the many projects that I have become involved in, in the precious time I spend with patients. Nine months off treatment,I remain cancer free.

As wonderful as these last nine months have been, it has been difficult to live my life between six week lung scan intervals. Naturally I want more. Post-treatment life is not as care-free as it may seem while you are struggling to finish. During treatment you long for the end and when it finally comes it is shockingly sudden. There is not the instantaneous explosion of reverie you expected. Don't get me wrong, it is a joyous time, but it comes with its own challenges and hardships. There is still work to be done.

Once you finish chemotherapy, trusting that it is over is not easy. You hope and pray that the chemo worked. You cope with occasional fears that are wed to a sharp ache or pain. Scan Eve anxiety weighs on your heart and trounces your dreams. Certain smells of soaps and rubbing alcohol ignite flashbacks. I am back in the real world but part of me still lingers in those hospital halls.

As survivors we have "reality checks." Today, when I meet people for the first time, they ask me, "What do you do for a living?" For two years, no one asked me that question. Now when I hear it, the words almost freeze in mid air as they come to me. I usually fight back a smile. That frozen moment drums home the fact that I am finished, that I am no longer fighting cancer full-time. Even sitting on the subway, I feel like I am new to this world. I sit and all the faces around me look so miserable. They do not know where I have been and the suffering that continues in those hospital rooms. But their lives continue, and the momentum of this world continues. And now that I am better, I am expected to jump right back into a world that looks at life very differently than I.

The bliss of my walks is almost always interrupted by a passing car, slowing down as a face presses up against a window, gawking at the fact that I have lost my arm. Or a bank teller hassles me, calling over the manager in front of a waiting line of patrons, asking "Is this you in this picture? What happened to your arm?" Don't feel bad for me. I'm no wimp. I stare right back. I walked right out of that bank. It's just that when I was sick, I never noticed the stares in a restaurant, in a store or on the street. I was so elated at the chance to go out that I was in a world untouched by stares. I was fighting for my life and living for every moment.

Now I catch my reflection as I pass by a storefront window and I can't believe what I see. It's as if I sometimes slip back into "her". My image looking back at me fills me with a rush of joy mixed with disbelief. I went to a concert recently, and as I entered the crowded arena, a young man touched me on the shoulder and said, "YOU are beautiful." I was more flattered than he'll ever know. I'm back. Free at last.

There was a time that I felt like the end of my treatment would never come, that the first chemo-free summer was a lifetime away. But I did finish; and that summer came. It was glorious. Then the autumn followed and the leaves still changed colors. Yes, the world does not stop for me. My life is not the same it was two years ago before cancer came back into my life. But I know that I am stronger and better. Today is much sweeter for me. The leaves are brighter, the air more crisp, the sunlight more warm. I know that as I search for my place again, I can trust that I will be okay no matter what. That trust comes from having people in my life that love me. That love has lifted me above the worst that this life could probably throw at any one. It will lift me again. I am much more than even this day. I look in the mirror, and I see forever.