I'm a 24-year-old cancer survivor who got vaccinated. I felt guilty about it.

No one warns you about vaccine guilt.

I got my first dose of the Pfizer COVID-19 vaccine on Feb. 18. The process was efficient. I stood in a socially-distanced line, filled out forms, got checked in, stood in a socially-distanced line again. I was one of nearly 600 to 800 people being vaccinated at the site that day.

I sat in a foldable metal chair as my nurse, Gina, chatted with me about how excited I was for the shot and how it was important to still wear my mask in public.

Nurse Gina took selfies with me as she poked my arm with the syringe holding a vaccine that would soon erase all the anxieties and troubles I've had in the last year. She put a band-aid on my arm.

But as my worry for my own safety faded, a new guilt filled me. I sat down in the observation area, waiting to see if my body would have an allergic reaction to the vaccine, and I looked around me:

"I'm the youngest person in this room," I thought. I'm 24.

"I shouldn't be here."

"I'm stealing this vaccine from someone who needs it more."

There are thousands of people who died and should have gotten this before me."

"I'm not a front-line worker. I can work remotely. I'm relatively young and healthy still."

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The room was heavy, and the observation area was quiet. Everyone else in the observation area was either staring at their phone or the ground. I wonder now if others felt the same guilt as I did.I took a picture of my incomplete vaccination card to post on social media and grabbed an "I got my COVID-19 vaccine!" sticker on my way out.

It's still hard to process how fortunate I've been this last year, even with how much I've gone through myself – as a cancer survivor and as a journalist.

But I'm getting there.

Before the pandemic, it was hard to explain to people what the worst part of cancer and chemotherapy was.

Sure, stabbing yourself with a needle at least twice a day sucked. Losing all my hair was hard to go through (losing my eyebrows was even harder). I was tired, I didn't eat – there was a lot I'd rather not relive from those seven months of my life.

But the worst part of it all is the loss of control, not being able to leave your house or hospital room, let alone your bed. It was being confined and bored and alone, except for the few friends, family members and medical staff who came by.

Now, people get it – they lost all sense of control in 2020. They were confined and restricted and isolated, and they lashed out and cried just like I did.

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That's not something I'm comforted by, though.

I struggled severely at the beginning of the pandemic, but because of who I am, I buried myself in work to avoid my emotions. I would have crippling flashbacks to chemo treatments some nights.My breaking point was at 8 a.m. on Monday, April 20 right before I was supposed to start work.

It was the moment I realized that the pandemic was going to last a year or longer. I remember thinking that my apartment floor wasn't comfortable enough to have a mental breakdown, so I grabbed a pillow off my couch before curling into a fetal position under my desk. I started therapy sessions soon after.

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Over the last year, I wrote seven obituaries for people who died from COVID-19 – just a fraction of the total lives lost, but too many all the same. I listened to Smithfield workers cry over the phone about how scared they were to be classified as an essential worker and put their family's lives at risk. I talked to business owners who didn't know if they would lose everything they'd built because of the pandemic.I haven't been sick since I had cancer. No one knows if my body could handle COVID-19. Every time I walked outside my apartment to interview Smithfield workers or Black Lives Matter protesters or simply tell the stories that are important to our community, I knew I was putting my life at risk.

But I did it. I did it because that was my job.

It's reassuring that I can get back to doing my job and feeling safe about living my life again – meeting sources in coffee shops and joining my coworkers in the newsroom.As for my vaccination guilt? I'm still learning to accept it some days.

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I got my second COVID-19 shot on March 11.

I didn't stew in my imposter syndrome as I waited in the observation area, and I chose not to distract myself on my phone, either. I took that time to remember the grandparents, parents, brothers, sisters, coworkers and friends who died because of this virus.

I also took that time to listen.

"Is this your first or your second shot?"

"I'm planning a trip to Portland, Oregon this summer."

"This is my second time. My daughter and grandkids are coming to visit us after they're vaccinated, too."

The atmosphere wasn't somber or lonely this time. The excitement was palpable, and people, many of whom were receiving their second COVID-19 vaccine, were grateful.

They were hopeful for better days ahead. And I am, too.