Gratitude in the Aftermath: Fia’s Story of Overcoming Cancer and Finding Mindfulness

At just 22, Fia Rasyah’s life was turned upside down by a cancer diagnosis. After facing the physical and emotional challenges of surgery and chemotherapy, she reflects on how the illness reshaped her relationships, her view on life and her future.

© Fia Rasyah

Fia and I stand next to each other gazing out of her living room window on a wet, grey day. I've just taken off my damp coat and am feeling less than happy that the October rain seems to have coated every part of me.Fia on the other hand feels a little different. She's also been on her bike in the drizzle, riding six kilometers to pick up a package containing her new pair of DocMartens.  “Younger me would have cried on the ride,” she laughs. “But I found these corners of the city I hadn’t seen before. There was this big green field against a red bike path, it's just such a contrasting colour. And these little white flowers. Life is so beautiful, even though I'm under the rain.” 

Her words hang in the air and seem to put everything so clearly into perspective, making my damp self-pity feel a little pathetic. I guess when your life has been turned upside down with a cancer diagnosis at just 22, when it's a matter of survival, then cycling in the rain seems like a walk in a sun-drenched park.  Fia's stage one ovarian cancer diagnosis came in August 2022 after multiple hospital visits. “I went to the gynaecologist. They did an ultrasound on my stomach. I was like, please not a baby, please not a baby. But it's a fucking tumour. Not much better,” she says, shaking her head with a half-smile.

Ovarian cancer is a serious health risk for women, often detected late due to vague symptoms. It ranks as the eighth most common cancer for women globally, with over 300,000 new cases each year according to the World Health Organisation. Early-stage diagnosis, like Fia’s, has a much higher survival rate - up to 90% - but the emotional and physical toll of treatment, including surgery and chemotherapy, is immense.

At 18, Fia moved from Indonesia to the Netherlands to study Arts, Culture, and Media. The cultural shift was overwhelming. “I didn’t find my real friends,” she recalls. “Everyone was obsessed with getting high. We bonded through alcohol. Outside of that, it was awkward. Life before cancer was superficial.”

About three years after her arrival in Groningen, Fia’s mental health hit rock bottom. She felt trapped in a cycle of shallow friendships, numbing herself with alcohol just to navigate social situations. Her self-care routines had completely unraveled - late nights and a general neglect for her body had become the norm. “I survived on one of those, probably 5-year-old rotisserie chickens from the market every day,” she says. She'd told me earlier that she uses humour to cope, and her conversation now is smattered with wry little comments that are as dry as the chicken. 

Reducing food to the bare minimum or drinking lots of alcohol – Fia prefered extremes. Today, we're sitting in front of plates with mandarins and caramel dripping stroopwafels. It's a reflection of Fia’s newfound philosophy on life, one that emerged after her illness. “It’s about balance,” she says.

But before the diagnosis, she'd been losing weight rapidly, welcoming it. “I said to myself, I'd rather be sick and skinny than healthy and fat. I regret that so much. I was not kind to my body at that time,” she admits, shaking her head slightly as if disapproving of her younger self.

It wasn’t long before her body forced her to pay attention. Things began to feel off - her breath developed a sharp, ammonia-like smell. It was a sign of kidney malfunction, the result of a tumor, later described as "big as a rugby ball" growing inside her.

The news was finally confirmed in an Indonesian hospital, and she was scheduled for surgery to remove the tumor shortly after. “I remember being in the operating room. The last thing I said was, ‘I feel really cold,’ and then everything went dark.”

“They said I was almost dead,” she recalls. After surgery, her kidney malfunction had complicated things. It impaired her body’s ability to filter the anesthesia, leading to an extended and slow recovery. When Fia finally regained consciousness, her arms were restrained to prevent her from accidentally pulling out the tubes connected to her body. The tumor was gone, but her battle was far from over.

Fia’s post-surgery options were laid out by her doctor in Indonesia: undergo chemotherapy or wait and observe. “My world. Yeah. It went crashing, because then chemo would mean bald,” she said. “But that was the only thing I thought of. Appearance.” She admits the focus on her looks seems absurd in retrospect. “Stop caring about your appearance, okay? Girl, you should live.”

Fia after shaving her hair to “regain control” © Fia Rasyah

The realization hit her hard - life is not only about looking good. “I just realized that after cancer. Wow.”

Chemo began the very next day and over the course of a year, she endured 16 cycles, each session lasting eight hours followed by two exhausting weeks of recovery. Fia refers to it as her “gap year”. 

What kept her going through the treatment? Fia smiles and turns her phone over to show me the back. "I found a stray cat. This girl here actually." Tucked behind her transparent phone case was a Polaroid of a curious-looking kitten, her dark eyes too big for her tiny white face.

A guardian cat.

 “I looked forward to the future. That was my main motivation—because I really felt like my journey wasn’t done. I still want to study. I still want to work at a museum. I still want to have a future with my boyfriend. That was my fuel.” Her voice softens when she mentions her boyfriend.  “I couldn’t thank him enough. He became my caretaker. Oh, getting emotional now.” Her eyes begin welling up with tears. 

One of Fia’s biggest supporters during her illness: her boyfriend Bram © Fia Rasyah

Some friendships faded, but she found deeper connections. Fia blows a kiss skywards in a quiet moment of remembrance for another cancer patient she met but who passed away this year. Her approach to life had undergone a profound shift. “I used to overthink everything—appearance, friendships, what people thought of me. Now, I just do what feels right. Whoever stays in my life is meant to be there. I focus on my own path.”

When I ask her if she would change the past, Fia lets out a loud, surprised exhale. “Oh fuck. Of course, I didn’t want to go through all of that. But I wouldn’t be the person I am today without it. I learned to appreciate.” Her words are thoughtful and deliberate. “I took Groningen for granted. I took my life for granted.”

Fia smiles. There's a sense of peace evident in her expression. “The sun’s been shining on my earth,” she says. “Here I am. Back, learning again, loving what I do. I still plan for the future, but I’m not obsessed with every detail. I’m just grateful to be here, living the moments I once used as motivation to get through chemo. Life is good again.” During her treatment, one ovary was removed and the other remained. There is still a chance for her to have children of her own. 

Fia gets up from the table to give me a hug. When she pulls back, her eyes meet mine, filled with sincerity. “I’m fully convinced that everyone will experience a turning point in their life that gives them a new perspective. I had mine at a young age.”

She pauses, her gaze intensifying. “Has it happened to you yet?”