How ‘Man in the Mirror’ Reflects a Cancer Journey

Diagnosed with stage 3b colorectal, Joe Bullock underwent surgery and chemotherapy, achieving NED status. Read Joe’s blogs here!

Being a kid of the ’80s, the music of Michael Jackson’s music was an intricate integral part of my teenage life. I remember countless school dances and activities where his music was front and center. I often rocked his tunes on my the Walkman — the one I had saved money for months to buy. I even used my Columbia Records account to purchase the cassette tape that contained one of his most powerful songs, “Man in the Mirror.”

That song stuck with me. The lyrics, the and message — it resonated deeply within me as I grew older and reflected on my own life. I always wanted to make a difference, to leave the world a little better than I found it. Over the years, I sought opportunities to do just that, but I never expected my biggest impact to come through cancer.

Cancer doesn’t just affect the person diagnosed; it ripples through families, friendships and entire communities. I’ve watched it ruin lives — not just because of the disease itself, but because of everything that comes with it. I’ve known families who have fallen into bankruptcy trying to save their loved ones. I’ve met people who stopped treatment because they didn’t want to burden their families. And I’ve seen others simply give up — not because they wanted to, but because the physical and emotional toll was too much to bear.

Through it all, I’ve come to realize that “Man in the Mirror” wasn’t just a song — it was a challenge. A call to action. And maybe, just maybe, my journey through cancer is my way of answering that call.

After surviving cancer, you may find yourself reevaluating your entire life’s journey. Six years into this space, I sometimes look in the mirror and don’t even recognize the person staring back at me.

The lines on my face have deepened — not just from time but from the weight of worry, the fear of recurrence that never fully fades. I know I shouldn’t be vain, that aging is inevitable, but sometimes it feels like cancer has fast-tracked the process, stealing a part of the youthfulness I once took for granted.

And I know what you’re thinking — I should just be grateful. Grateful to be here, grateful to have survived. And I am.

But it’s not that simple. When cancer has been the central force in your life for so many years, it doesn’t just fade into the background once treatment ends. It lingers in the way I see myself, in the way I navigate relationships, in the way I find purpose.

Yet, there are days I look in the mirror and like what I see. Cancer, for all it has taken, has also given me something in return. I’ve become more honest and, more open — especially when it comes to expressing my feelings. I no longer hold back when I care about someone. I expect more from my friendships, and because of that, I’ve learned that some relationships aren’t meant to last. Before cancer, I never thought about what it meant to “hold space” for someone, but now, it’s at the core of what I do. It’s become my life’s work.

Cancer doesn’t just affect the person diagnosed; it ripples through families, friendships and entire communities. I’ve watched it ruin lives — not just because of the disease itself, but because of everything that comes with it. I’ve known families who fell into bankruptcy trying to save their loved ones. I’ve met people who stopped treatment because they didn’t want to burden their families. And I’ve seen others simply give up — not because they wanted to, but because the physical and emotional toll was too much to bear.

Through it all, I’ve come to realize that “Man in the Mirror” wasn’t just a song. It was a challenge: a call to action. And maybe, just maybe, my journey through cancer is my way of answering that call.

TStill, there are moments when I see someone a little lost in the reflection. Losing so many friendships to this disease takes a toll. There are days I wonder why I stay in this space, why I continue to immerse myself in a world so deeply intertwined with pain and loss. But then, I get that one message — the one from a newly diagnosed person searching for connection, for support, for someone who understands. And in those moments, I know exactly why I do this.

Cancer may be done with me, but I’m not done with cancer. I’ve found meaning in the aftermath, a purpose that feels bigger than just survival. I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror if I turned my back on that today.

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