“The Body That Survived: Learning to Surf Again After Cancer”

By Melanie Ezell

Melanie is a surfer, writer, and mother living on the North Shore of O‘ahu. In 2022, she was diagnosed with stage four ovarian cancer, a turning point that deepened her relationship with the ocean and with herself. Once a competitive athlete who battled an eating disorder and perfectionism, she now writes about healing, surrender, and the way surfing continues to teach her what it means to live fully in the face of uncertainty.

• How did your relationship with your body change after surviving cancer and stepping back into the ocean?

When I first stepped back into the ocean after cancer, I didn’t recognize the body that carried me there. It was softer in some places, missing in others. Scarred, swollen, burned. It felt foreign, like I was inhabiting a rental instead of a home.

Before cancer, my body was something to master. I trained it, disciplined it, pushed it to paddle harder, surf bigger, run faster. My worth lived in performance, how well I could control, sculpt, or outperform my own limits.

But after cancer, control was gone. My body had become the battlefield and the survivor, both. Every cell had carried me through something unspeakable. I couldn’t hate it anymore. I couldn’t punish it for being different. I had to learn to listen.

The first time I dove under a wave again, my arms trembled from atrophy. I sat in the channel and cried, but not from sadness. I cried because I was still out there. The ocean didn’t care that I’d lost my hair, my ovaries, my old strength. It met me exactly where I was, fragile, raw, alive.

That’s when everything shifted. I stopped moving against my body and started moving with it.
Surfing became less about dominance and more about dialogue. Each paddle stroke a conversation. Each wave a surrender.

Now, when I look down at my body, its scars, its fatigue, its proof of survival. I see power, not loss. I see a woman who has been burned to ash and returned to saltwater. I see the ocean reflected back at me, ever-changing, untamed, resilient beyond comprehension.

• Was there a specific moment when you realized you had fully reclaimed your strength and confidence?

I’ve had three occurrences of cancer and been through chemotherapy three times. In fact, I’m still in chemo now. When I was first diagnosed, I wondered if I’d ever surf a wave overhead again. I knew I was losing my ovaries—which, let’s be honest, is the female equivalent of castration, and I didn’t know if my body would ever bounce back from that. I didn’t plan on it.

Still, I surfed through chemo. My goal was to catch a double-overhead wave with a bald head. I got a few. It was always a balancing act between listening to my body and believing in myself.

After my first remission, I spent an entire summer training hard. When winter came, I didn’t know if I could trust my new body. But I did know how to rebuild that trust: big waves. Big waves had helped me trust my body once before, when I was recovering from an eating disorder, and I knew they would again. So I forced myself to paddle out, even when I was terrified. I repeated my mantra: “Trust your training. Trust your equipment.”

The moment that stands out was the night before The Eddie. The swell was building, scaffolding going up, spectators already gathering on the beach. I caught a wave that night and felt more powerful than I ever had before. I needed that wave. I needed to teach my mind that my body was still strong and capable.

When the cancer came back the following winter, I gave myself a pass on big waves. I decided to let my nervous system rest. I purposely grounded myself from anything over five feet. It was hard, but also, honestly, a relief.

Now, I’m on oral chemo that’s gentler on my body. I’ve been training like a madwoman. The body and mind are always in a feedback loop. My body feels strong and healthy, but my mind still remembers everything I’ve been through. I have doubts. So little by little, my body is teaching my mind to trust again. Giving up is not an option. I have to keep pushing myself to surf bigger, because I want to keep living. 

We all go through things that change us. We never come out the other side the same. I am both better and worse. But I’m learning to live in this “new normal,” to adapt, and to keep going.

• How does surfing big waves make you feel about your body today compared to how you used to see it?

If I’m fully honest, when I first started trying to surf big waves, it was still about my body.
I was using it to be seen, to stand out, to feel loved, to earn belonging. I wanted to be noticed for what I could do. There was so much ego in it.

It wasn’t so different from my eating disorder days, really. Back then, I believed that if I looked perfect, I’d be accepted. If I could control my body, I could control my worth.

But the ocean became my teacher.
And it humbled me, fast.

Pride really does come before the fall, and I fell. A lot. I got hurt. I had to quit more than once. But every time, my body came back for me. Like an injured player in the fourth quarter yelling, “Put me in, coach!” It kept adapting to whatever I put it through. It carried my grief, my fear, my stubborn will to keep going.

It wasn’t the waves I stood on that showed me my strength, it was the ones that held me under.
It wasn’t the photos or the likes that made me feel loved, it was the wipeouts, the hold-downs, the moments I had to save myself that gave me the most.

That’s where I learned what I know now:
I am resilient.
I am powerful.
I am capable.
I am worthy, just as I am.

• What message would you give to women who are struggling to love their bodies after illness or trauma?

First, I want to say, I get it.
When your body betrays you, or breaks, or changes in ways you never asked for, it’s hard not to see it as the enemy. You feel robbed of something: your control, your beauty, your innocence, your strength.

But your body is not your enemy. It’s your witness. It’s been there through everything, the heartbreaks, the hospital rooms, the nights you thought you wouldn’t make it. It never stopped showing up for you, even when you stopped showing up for it.

After cancer, I had to learn to stop demanding that my body look the way it used to, or perform the way it once could. I started thanking it instead. Thank you for getting me out of bed. Thank you for holding my son. Thank you for letting me feel the ocean again.

Healing isn’t about getting your old body back. It’s about building a new relationship with the one you have now. One that’s rooted in reverence, not resentment.

You don’t have to love every scar or stretch mark right away. Start with respect. Start with awe. Start by realizing that the same body you might criticize is the one that has carried you through hell and back.

Your body is not less because it’s been through something.
It’s more. It’s proof.

• When you look at yourself now, strong, healthy, and surfing massive waves, what goes through your mind?

Honestly, the first thing that comes to mind is how fleeting it all is.
Right now, I have the energy to train, to push, and my body is responding beautifully. But I’m also aware that odds are high I’ll need more aggressive treatment again soon. Odds are high that this disease could still kill me. So I try to hold all of this lightly.

It feels wonderful to be strong and vibrant again. I’m relishing every sprint, every breath hold, every kettlebell swing. And at the same time, I know none of us get to keep our strength forever. That’s what makes it so sweet, the knowing that it’s temporary.

Still, I believe my training is a big part of why I’ve made it this far. Waking up early and lifting weights when my body aches and my mind begs me to go back to bed isn’t easy, but that’s exactly why I do it. My body needs to know it can go through hell, through acute physical and mental stress, and not only survive, but come out stronger.

So I live in the space between two truths:
One, that this body is transient, and everything, health, strength, life itself, will eventually pass.
And two, that while I’m here, I’m going to fight like hell to hold on.

That choice isn’t right for everyone. But for me, the will to live is strong. I have a five-year-old who needs his mom.

And honestly, the waves are just too damn good to check out early.

If you’re going through something right now, and honestly, who isn’t? here’s what I’d say to you:

You don’t have to be a warrior. You don’t have to be strong. You’re allowed to fall apart. You’re allowed to close the curtains, turn on Netflix, order takeout, and let the world spin without you for a while.

Just do it with your eyes wide open. Be willing to feel the consequences of your choices, good or bad. Be willing to let emotions live in your body, to feel the ache, to let pain move through you. That pain is information. It shapes what comes next.

Make the best choice you can in this moment. Then learn from it, what it gave you, what it took from you.

I’ve sat in the darkness, fists raised, screaming at God.
I’ve eaten the whole tub of ice cream.
I’ve stayed in the relationship long enough to lose my mind.
But there I was, at dawn, still me, still breathing, still making the next best choice I could.

Whatever you’re going through, keep going.

Even the longest hold-down ends eventually, just keep trusting that the wave will let you up for air. And when it does, you’re going to be a whole lot stronger for it.