Today is World Neuroendocrine Cancer Day.

This cancer hides. It whispers. It waits. It doesn’t make itself obvious, or loud, or easy to find; it just changes everything before you even know it’s there.

Most people don’t know what neuroendocrine cancer is. I didn’t either. It’s not the kind of cancer that gets headlines or fills shop windows with ribbons.

Ours is the zebra ribbon.

A reminder that when you hear hoofbeats, it isn’t always a horse. Sometimes it’s something rarer. Harder to spot. But just as real.


I was lucky. Mine was found early. But too many people aren’t as lucky. For them, the diagnosis comes late, after years of “it’s probably nothing,” after pain dismissed, symptoms explained away, hope chipped down to fragments.

And this week, people will lose their lives to it.

This last week, someone who has been so unbelievably kind to me about my own diagnosis lost the love of her life to it.

That’s what this cancer does. It takes. Slowly, silently, cruelly.

So today, I’m thinking of everyone who’s still waiting for answers. Of the ones fighting. Of the ones who didn’t get the chance to.

Awareness doesn’t change the past, but it can change the future.

Not all cancers are visible.

Not all scars are seen.

But every story told makes it harder for this one to hide.