The Survivor’s Lane: Radiation, Fear, and the Body of a Masters Swimmer
What it means to face radiation at 60 — as an athlete, a survivor, and a woman fighting back through cancer.
By Leann Rossi
I had my first appointment for radiation treatment the other day, and I didn’t expect the wave of emotion that hit me. I’ve always been someone who manages anxiety by talking it out — bouncing it off my spouse, leaning on someone who can share their experience, strength, and hope. But when the radiation tech came to get me from the waiting room, something inside me cracked open. I immediately started to cry.
The fear was overwhelming.
The vulnerability was sharp.
And for a moment, I felt small — smaller than I’ve felt in years.
It’s strange how you can be surrounded by people and still feel alone in a moment like that. The tech did his best to comfort me, but fear has a way of shrinking the world down to a single point. And in that point, I was just a woman facing something I never thought I’d face again.
Because yes — this is my second cancer era.
What Radiation Means for a Masters Swimmer
Radiation is a powerful tool in cancer treatment, but it’s also a stressor on the body — especially a body that has lived, trained, aged, healed, and adapted the way a Masters swimmer’s body has.
While every person’s experience is different, radiation can affect:
- Muscle strength and recovery
- Fatigue levels
- Range of motion
- Energy production
- Soft tissue flexibility
Radiation isn’t designed to harm healthy tissue, but it can still affect the muscles, fascia, and skin around the treatment area. For swimmers — who rely on fluidity, rotation, extension, and power — these changes can feel especially personal.
And for a seasoned athlete, the emotional impact can be just as real as the physical one. We know our bodies intimately. We know how they move, how they respond, how they recover. When something threatens that relationship, it shakes us.
Facing Radiation at 60 Hits Differently
I’ll be 60 in a few months. I never imagined I’d be facing cancer again at this stage of my life. Fifteen years ago, when I had malignant melanoma removed — along with lymph nodes in my groin and under my right arm — I was stronger. More resilient in that almost reckless way you can be in your 40s. I powered through. I didn’t question my body; I trusted it.
Now, things feel different.
Not worse.
Not weaker.
Just… different.
There’s a gravity to facing cancer later in life. A weight. A deeper awareness of what’s at stake. And yet, there’s also a wisdom — a knowing — that I didn’t have the first time around.
The Water Still Holds Me
Through all of this, the water remains my sanctuary.
My USMS Masters team — the camaraderie, the laughter between sets, the shared language of effort — is part of my healing. The water wraps around me like a full‑body hug, a God‑hug, reminding me that I’m held even when everything else feels uncertain.
Swimming is where I remember who I am.
Swimming is where I feel whole.
Swimming is where I feel strong — even when I’m scared.
I can’t imagine what it’s like for those who have been pushed out of our community, or those who have had to navigate life’s hardest challenges alone. The pool has always been my anchor. My compass. My place to breathe.
For the Women Who’ve Walked This Path Silently
As I move through this next phase of treatment, I’m mindful of something important: I’m not alone. I know there are many women in our sport who have gone through breast cancer quietly, without ever sharing their story.
To them, I want to say this:
You don’t have to be silent about your breast cancer journey.
Your story matters.
Your voice matters.
Your presence on the pool deck matters.
There is space for you in this community.
There is space for your fear, your strength, your questions, your healing.
There is space for your hope.
The Lane Ahead
Radiation is just one part of this journey, but it’s a part that has already taught me something: resilience isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it’s tear‑streaked. Sometimes it’s lying on a treatment table, breathing through fear. Sometimes it’s showing up to the pool even when you don’t feel like yourself.
I don’t know exactly what the next months will look like. I don’t know how my body will respond or how my training will evolve. But I do know this:
I’m still here.
I’m still swimming.
I’m still learning what it means to be resilient in a body that has lived, endured, and adapted more than I ever gave it credit for.
This is my lane.
This is my journey.
And I’m choosing to swim it out loud and courageous.
About the Author
Leann Rossi is an elite United States Masters Swimming (USMS) athlete, coach, and advocate for inclusive, evidence‑based conversations at the intersection of sport, health, and identity.