Every six months, my calendar has a date circled in red—a mammogram. Not because I’m at the recommended screening age or because I’m just keeping up with routine health checks, but because about 3 years ago, suspicious images showed up on my annual mammogram. And so, instead of once a year, I now live in half-year cycles of waiting, imaging, and wondering.

At first, I thought it would be manageable. I mean, six months is a long time, right? Wrong! I quickly learned that the worry doesn’t vanish when you leave the radiology department. It lingers in the back of your mind, a quiet reminder that something could be wrong, and you just won’t know until the next set of pictures.

The days leading up to each appointment are the hardest. Anxiety builds like a drumbeat: What if it’s changed? What if it’s worse? What if this is the moment they say, “We need to talk about cancer”? Sleep becomes restless, and I find myself checking the calendar more often than I’d like.

Even when results come back stable, the relief is temporary. A week, maybe two, of lighter shoulders, before my mind shifts back to counting down the days again. Living in this cycle means never fully relaxing. It’s as if part of my life is permanently on hold—plans, dreams, even simple joy—because there’s always a cloud hanging just six months away.

I don’t often talk about the mental health side of this. People understand the physical necessity, but not always the emotional cost. The truth is: it’s exhausting. I already have Fibromyalgia and CFS/ME to deal with, and this is just another pothole in my already fumbling path of life. It’s draining to hold onto the possibility of bad news so often, to carry that constant “what if” around like invisible baggage.

What helps me is giving myself permission to feel it all. The fear, the anger, the sadness—it’s valid. I try to lean on the people I trust, and sometimes I write it out, like I’m doing now. Naming the fear lessens its grip. I also remind myself that these screenings, as heavy as they feel, are also a form of protection. They’re my safety net, my early warning system.

But, it’s still hard. I’m not going to lie that it isn’t. Living life in six-month increments feels like a suspension between normalcy and the unknown. I don’t have an answer to make it easier. I only know that I keep showing up, scan after scan, because my health is worth it—even when my peace of mind feels like the price I pay.