It was 5 AM. Natasha Nathan dialed her doctor’s number but was unable to speak. Having had an “abscess” near her tonsil drained the day before, it wouldn’t stop bleeding - atypical for an infection. She gripped onto a notebook listing her symptoms and ailments, her only means of communication. Enduring the bitterness of the New England winter, Natasha set out on foot to a local Boston emergency department. 

Red blood. White snow. She recalls the vivid image of spitting blood into the snow-covered Earth. She couldn’t eat. She couldn’t sleep, fearing that the bubble of blood in her mouth would pop. One ENT considered Natasha’s symptoms to be the result of a possible bleeding disorder. She surgically cauterized the bleed without further diagnostic testing. “I was told it would heal within three weeks, like a tonsillectomy would,” she explained in our recent interview. “But every two days, I returned to the doctors because it continued to swell.”

 
Natasha’s persistent sore throat, continuous swelling, and uncontrollable bleeding marked the beginning of a two month long trek through seeking 6 different medical opinions, misdiagnoses and mounting frustration that would ultimately lead to a life-altering discovery. Following an emergency surgery to debulk the swollen mass, this time resulting in an actual tonsillectomy, Natasha noticed a new growth where the debulked mass had been. The operation revealed that the resected tonsil was 90 percent dead tissue. “In two months, the tumor (that I didn’t know was a tumor at the time) had basically taken it over,” Natasha explained. The morning the biopsy results came in, Natasha stared down at the Charles River from her hospital bed, a view she had become familiar with from her college dorm, which neighbored the hospital. “I remember thinking it was poetic,” she recalled. The collegiate view that once epitomized sensations of youthfulness and invincibility now became the backdrop for Natasha’s confrontation with her own mortality. 

As her surgeon entered the room, Natasha saw his face and knew. “I’m 99 percent sure you have a  malignant tumor,” he admitted. The diagnosis: rhabdomyosarcoma, a rare and aggressive cancer typically seen in children. Natasha was just two weeks shy of turning thirty.  

In the face of this daunting reality, Natasha found an unexpected clarity, a resolute calm that would define her experience with cancer and reshape her life. “I’ve never felt happier or more relieved,” she recalled of the moment she heard the word cancer. “I remember thinking, ‘Thank God, they figured it out.’” After two months of uncertainty and her concerns being dismissed by multiple doctors, this diagnosis, no matter how grim, meant she could begin to find a way forward.  

Despite her parents’ work in oncology, the diagnosis, rhabdomyosarcoma, was unfamiliar. “I literally asked [my oncologist] to spell it on my phone,” she confessed. “For I think the first eight months of my diagnosis, I spelled my own cancer wrong.” Natasha’s initial reaction was unexpected, a mixture of dark humor and genuine peace. “I laughed and said, ‘That’s just so typical of my personality to get a rare tumor.’” Her surgeon, accustomed to the more solemn reactions of his previous patients, was visibly taken aback. “He says it’s typically found in children. “‘We don’t usually see this in a 30-year-old.’ And I laugh again, and I go, ‘Well, I’m turning 30 in two weeks, so I guess my body just doesn’t want to grow up.’” This lightness in the face of such a devastating diagnosis was striking to Natasha’s oncology team and loved ones; however, it exists as a testament to Natasha’s steadfast optimism. 

In spite of her humor, her composure was tested when she considered her prognosis. “I asked, ‘I guess in terms of my life, how long do I have?’” The surgeon’s response was raw and honest: “‘I’ve given people with only a 10%  chance of living, and they lived. Others with a 95% chance of living, and they died. I don’t give numbers anymore. It doesn’t matter. You’re a person, not a percentage.’” He emphasized the power of attitude. He had witnessed how patients’ attitudes impacted how they faced treatment and their outcomes. “So I said, ‘Well, I’m going to live.’ He said, ‘That’s the plan.’ And I said, ‘No—really, that’s the only option.’” This exchange became her anchor during the darkest days of treatment.

Her calm acceptance of a destructive anatomical force unsettled her. Yet, the classification of this force with a concrete name brought Natasha clarity and offered her a path forward. The immediate challenge for Natasha was the uncertainty of the rhabdomyosarcoma subtypes: embryonal (ERMS), approached with a “treat to cure” plan , or alveolar (ARMS), which would make Natasha higher risk. . Despite the uncertainty, however, Natasha’s determination was unwavering. “I told my oncologist, ‘don’t tell me which one it is,’” she said. “It won’t change how I enter this. I’m going to do treatment, I’m going to do it really well.” When further testing confirmed the disease to be ERMS, Natasha’s oncologist immediately informed her mother, who insisted he tell Natasha. 

She started treatment a mere forty-eight hours after this diagnosis, which left her little room for the consideration of its long-term consequences, such as harm to sexual health. Natasha pragmatically chose to prioritize survival over fertility preservation, a decision that would later highlight the critical, yet often undiscussed, impact of cancer therapies on a young adult’s reproductive health. Natasha suggests that oncologists have open conversations with their patients about the effects that chemotherapy has on sexual health, even when fertility preservation is not an option. She notes: “I wish that in the conversation about fertility, they discussed, ‘Listen, you don’t really have options for fertility, but I do want to talk to you about what chemo does to your body’ because I am now in my 30s, and I did not understand that early menopause also means heart health risk. It means bone health risk, and you may need hormone replacement therapy (if an available option to the patient) to balance that out until you reach a normal menopause range.”

Beyond the long-term physical effects Natasha experienced, the visible alterations to her appearance brought by treatment profoundly affected her sense of self. Natasha recounts, “I thought if I ever had to shave my head, it’d be the end of the world. But when I got diagnosed, I didn’t care. I actually thought, ‘I have a good shaped head. Thanks, Mom (who delivered me by C-section).’” However, losing her facial hair, including her eyebrows, lashes, and nose hair, proved to be more challenging. “I didn’t recognize myself,” she admitted. “My sister and I joked darkly that I looked like Voldemort. Then later, like Dobby. There’s even a video of me spinning in a giant sweater and I like a stick..” What impacted Natasha most was not seeing herself in the mirror. She would picture the pre-cancer version of herself and the reflection would not match. Then, when treatment ended, regrowth brought new identity shifts. 

As a former ballerina, deeply attuned to her body, weight loss was another challenging side effect of Natasha’s cancer and cancer treatment. During treatment, she reflected on the pressure she had previously faced in the dance world to be small: “I hate all the times that I ever felt like I had to live up to that pressure and deprived myself of anything I wanted because during treatment,  I couldn’t have anything. I was on a feeding tube due to complications. I couldn’t ingest a brownie if I wanted to. I couldn’t have anything. I hate that I ever wanted to be a really small size because, during treatment, I could not wait to gain weight back.” Through this transformation, a deeper understanding emerged: her body, far from betraying her, had endured, sustaining her through the greatest challenge of her life. Natasha describes a photo her best friend had taken of her when her body was at its smallest. She recalls, “That’s the smallest I’ve ever been. I look like I have wings instead of shoulder blades. But, how could I ever have described my body as betraying me, because it’s trying so hard to sustain me , and it’s doing it. I now can’t believe I get up in the morning every day, like I can’t believe I’m still breathing.” This realization became a cornerstone of her redefined self-perception.

Emerging from treatment, Natasha grappled with the labels society readily assigns to cancer patients. She found discomfort in terms like “survivor” or “fighter,” preferring to be “a person who has experienced cancer” or “finished treatment.” Her perspective was further shaped by the loss of her friend, Mery, whose unwavering optimism in the face of a terminal sarcoma diagnosis profoundly impacted Natasha’s understanding of “survivorship.” Mery’s ability to dream and live fully until her last breath inspired Natasha to do the same. This deepened realization coalesced into her guiding philosophy, encapsulated in her “Live, Anyway” tattoo. The phrase is a reminder to push through fear, to embrace life’s uncertainties, and to live fully regardless of limitations.

This deeply personal experience irrevocably altered Natasha’s career path. Originally in research administration, her cancer journey ignited a powerful desire to bridge gaps in sarcoma care and advocacy. She became deeply involved with the Sarcoma Foundation of America (SFA), initially through fundraising for the Race to Cure Sarcoma, which led to valuable networking opportunities. Her passion and unique perspective culminated in her current role as Program Manager of Engagement and Advocacy. Through this role, and as a co-host of SFA’s Sarcoma Stories podcast, she channels her personal experience into meaningful work, ensuring that others facing similar diagnoses find the support and information she sought or didn’t have.

Natasha’s advocacy extends beyond her professional role, driven by a profound sense of gratitude for her own journey and a fervent desire for equity in cancer care. She empowers patients to self-advocate and seek specialized sarcoma centers, keenly aware of the systemic disparities, particularly for minority groups and those facing the financial toxicity of modern healthcare. Her personal healing, she notes, comes from “channeling anger into productive advocacy,” transforming her frustration into impactful action. Ultimately, Natasha’s life perspective can be summarized by a few key messages: “Live, anyway. Don’t wait.” “Be kind.” “Live still, within whatever your limitations are.” And perhaps most poignantly, “Aging is a privilege.” For Natasha, every wrinkle and ache is a testament to the precious gift of time, a privilege denied to too many, too soon.