I had a PET scan, and it was cleared. Not one cell of cancer

When Abby Lee Miller confessed, “I had a PET scan, and it was cleared. Not one cell of cancer after three rounds of chemo. But I still had seven more just for safety, which was stupid. I should have just worked on therapy,” she spoke not only of her own battle, but of the eternal struggle between fear and wisdom, between endurance and discernment. Her words are the cry of one who has stared into the abyss, conquered it, yet continued to fight shadows long after victory was won. In them lies both lament and warning, for she reminds us that survival is not only about fighting disease but also about healing the soul.

The meaning is sharp and painful. A PET scan revealing no trace of cancer is a triumph, a moment when the heart should rejoice and the body begin to mend. Yet Abby continued with seven more rounds of chemo, driven not by necessity but by fear, by the desire to be absolutely safe. In hindsight, she calls it “stupid,” not out of cruelty toward herself, but as an honest recognition that relentless struggle, once no longer needed, becomes self-destruction. The true task, she admits, was not more poison to chase away an enemy already gone, but therapy to restore the strength of body and spirit.

History too knows this lesson. In the Peloponnesian War, the Athenians, though victorious in certain battles, often pressed further when retreat would have been wiser. Their hunger for absolute control led them into overreach, and in time, to ruin. Victory must be recognized and embraced; otherwise, one exhausts all strength chasing after what has already been secured. Abby’s continued chemo mirrors this truth: to fight past the point of necessity is to risk losing the very peace one has fought to achieve.

There is also a deeper reflection on the human condition here. We often believe that more struggle, more toil, more sacrifice will guarantee our safety. Yet life does not always reward excess effort; sometimes it calls us to rest, to heal, to redirect our energy toward renewal. Abby’s regret shows us that courage is not only in fighting, but also in knowing when to stop fighting and to begin rebuilding. The battle is not complete when the enemy is gone; it is complete when the warrior has learned to live again.

The lesson is clear: discernment is as essential as perseverance. Fight hard when the battle is upon you, but know when to lay down your weapons and tend to your wounds. In health, in work, in relationships—victory is not endless striving, but balance. The farmer does not plow the soil forever; at some point, he must let the seeds grow. The patient, too, must know when to cease the harsh medicine and embrace the gentler work of therapy.

In practical action, this means: listen closely to the body, the heart, and the wisdom of trusted guides. Do not let fear alone dictate your choices, for fear blinds and demands more than necessity. Instead, once victory is in sight, shift your energy to rebuilding strength, to reclaiming joy, to nurturing what has been wounded. Whether in illness, in career, or in personal struggle, ask yourself: am I still fighting the enemy, or am I fighting only shadows of my own doubt?

Thus Abby Lee Miller’s words, born of pain and hindsight, carry forward as timeless wisdom: “I should have just worked on therapy.” She teaches us that battles must be fought, yes, but healing must follow. To know when to endure and when to restore is the mark of true strength. For the goal of every struggle is not merely to survive—but to live again, whole and unburdened.