The subway seat was my small refuge. After chemo, every movement was exhausting, and my hood hid the evidence of my illness—my patchy, bleached hair. I just needed to rest.
Then an older woman and a young boy stepped into the car. The boy sat immediately, while the woman fixed her gaze on me.
“Give me your seat,” she said, not asking but telling.
I looked up weakly. “I’m sorry, I can’t. Maybe your grandson—”
She cut me off. “Nonsense! You’re young—stand up! Where are your manners?” Her voice carried, and nearby passengers turned to watch.
Heat rose in my cheeks. Without a word, I pulled back my hood, revealing my bare scalp.
“I have cancer,” I said, my voice low but clear. “I just finished treatment. I can’t stand.”
Silence. The woman’s mouth opened, then closed. The stares around me softened—some with sympathy, others with quiet shame.
I covered my head again, suddenly aware of how out of place I looked among the healthy, indifferent faces around me.
Respect goes both ways. That day, I learned that sometimes, you have to stand up for yourself—even when you can barely stand at all.
