The whisper of recurrence, though a cruel sound, has become a startling call to a deeper way of living. There is a peculiar clarity that comes when one stands face – to – face with a stark biological truth: an adversary within. This awareness, sharp and immediate, has not diminished life, but intensified it – coloring every moment with a profound, almost startling grace.
This journey is not one I walk alone. It has illuminated the preciousness of my “army” – the loved ones who stand guard around my well-being. Their commitment is the truest form of love, manifesting in hours spent researching, in nourishing meals prepared with meticulous care, and in the sheer constancy of their presence. They are the earthly anchors who refuse to let me drift.
The changes within my daily life are testaments to this fight, but they are also acts of self-reclamation. Eating choices have transformed from casual decisions into mindful commitments to healing. My mental fortitude is not a given; it is a muscle I work daily, building resilience through intentional positive thinking. The collective effort – the fusion of personal discipline and the inspiring research poured over by everyone in my circle – has created a shield of knowledge.
I am carried on the wings of this support, a dual face of the tangible and the spiritual. The army of this earth provides the strength to face the daily treatment, the fears, and the shifts. The army from the heavens provides an ethereal peace and unwavering hope.
Without this incredible outpouring – this collective well of strength, wisdom, and love, I know I would falter. Instead, I stand today, not merely fighting a “dis-ease”, but thriving through a renewed appreciation for life’s beautiful fragility. For this unparalleled, abundant support, my heart overflows with eternal gratitude. It is, in every sense, a blessing.
A few weeks ago, I shared the anxiety of waiting. The routine blood work that was anything but routine. The CAT scan that showed unsettling spots. The liquid biopsy and the PET scan that followed felt like a countdown to a moment I desperately hoped wouldn’t arrive.
Well, the wait is over. The results are in. And with a profound, deep sadness that I’m allowing myself to feel, I have to share that the unwelcomed guest has returned. The scans confirm that the Invasive Lobular Carcinoma has metastasized, and I now have bone cancer.
It is a heavy blow. It’s a moment that steels your breath and makes the world pause. After all the fighting – the mastectomy, the chemo, the radiation – I find myself standing at the beginning of yet another battle. The scans show there are many compromised areas, and the road ahead will be complex.
But here is where the story shifts.
I have faced this beast before, and I will face it again. And this time, I am armed with five extra years of strength, experience, and an even deeper well of gratitude.
My heart is absolutely hopeful for the treatment plan ahead. I truly believe that gratitude and a positive attitude are key to navigating the complexities of this disease. My focus is not on the darkness of the diagnosis, but on the bright possibility of the future. I believe with every fiber of my being that I have decades of new adventures ahead of me.
How do I find this courage? I look around.
My support group – my amazing friends and family – are my bedrock. My children are my living, breathing reason to fight. My beau offers a new love and future to grow into. And my faith is the unwavering, solid ground beneath my feet. Without this incredible circle of love, I know I would not have the strength and courage to be this brave and this hopeful right now.
This is a new chapter in my life. It is not the one I would have written, but I will read it, live it, and approach it with fierce determination. I am ready to fight again. I am ready to live again.
Today marks five years since I started treatment for stage 3 Invasive Lobular Carcinoma ( breast cancer). It was a life-altering experience, one that forced me to face my own mortality before I was even 50. I chose to fight with everything I had – a double mastectomy, dose-dense chemotherapy, and weeks of radiation. I won that battle, and for five years, I have been blessed with the gift of health.
But my cancer is metastatic. It has a reputation for returning, and in these past five years, I have lived with the ghost of that possibility. You live your life, you build, you grow, but a part of you is always looking back, hoping it never comes again.
A week ago, I had some routine blood work done, and the results brought a moment of pause. A subsequent CAT scan revealed some spots on my spine. Now I’m waiting for a liquid biopsy and a PET scan to get a clearer picture. It’s a moment of truth, and a part of me has just gone numb. You put on a brave face, but you freeze. The quiet hope you’ve been holding onto for years is suddenly tested.
I am trying so hard not to let fear take over. There is still a chance that it’s nothing, and I’m holding onto that hope with both hands. I’m focusing on gratitude. I am grateful for my life, for the people in it, and for every experience I have been blessed with. I have children to live for, grandchildren to hope for, and a new love to cherish. I am choosing to keep the dark thoughts at bay. I am begging for healing. There is so much life left to live, and I am not done fighting for it!
Growing up in a small farming community, my understanding of the world was shaped by the rhythm of the seasons and the close-knit bonds of rural life. Church gatherings and school events weren’t just for my peers; they were a chance to be with everyone, including the older generation. I cherished those moments, sitting with them and listening to their stories. Even the grumpy ones and a well of wisdom. These cherished memories laid the foundation for my deep respect and appreciation for the elderly and their calm strength.
In a world of constant motion and unending digital chatter, where minds are racing and opinions are shouted into the void, there’s a profound sense of peace to be found in the quiet strength of the older generation. It’s a different kind of calm, not the kind that comes from silence, but the kind that comes from stillness.
When you’re with people in their 70’s and older, you can feel their inner peace. They’ve weathered life’s storms and navigated its winding paths, and in doing so, they’ve arrived at a state of grace. Their minds aren’t filled with the frantic noise of what-ifs and what-nows. They’ve let go of the need to prove themselves or chase fleeting trends. They simply are.
There’s a beautiful, quiet knowing in their eyes – the result of a life well-lived. They’ve seen joy and sorrow, success and failure, and through it all, they’ve found an acceptance of themselves and the world around them. Their stories aren’t just entertainment; they’re a tapestry of wisdom and resilience. They remind us that the frantic pace of youth isn’t the final destination. Life, it you’re lucky, unfolds into something calmer and more accepting. We can learn a great deal from their experiences and grace, finding in their quiet strength a road map to our own inner peace.
There are moments when the very structure of a life – its obligations, its expectations, its definition – feels like a cage. The body, worn and seasoned, carries a heavy coat of stories, each one a thread woven into a tapestry that feels too….tight. In those moments, the deepest yearning isn’t for more or less, but for “just to be”.
It is a longing to shed the rigid form of self, to unlearn the habits of a mind that constantly categorizes and names. To let the guards fall, stone by lonely stone, until there is only an empty frame for the air to pass through. It is an act of trust, a quiet and profound surrender to the flow of the moment.
This is the state of being we see in liquid. It has no ego, no rigid definition of what it should be. It simply exists, taking the shape of whatever holds it. A river carving a canyon over centuries, or a single drop of dew clinging to a petal. It is a part of its environment, not separate from it. It is at once powerful and utterly yielding, content to be contained by a cupped hand or to fill the vastness of an ocean.
To exist in this way is to find our place in the space around us, not as a solitary entity, but as a silent participant. It is to let thoughts cease and to let only the senses exist – the cool air on the skin, the quiet hum of the earth, the scent of pine after a storm. It is a practice of profound release, where we become a river without banks or destination, simply flowing.
Strength, we often mistakenly believe, is a fortress impervious to the storms. We picture a stoic figure, unyielding and untouched by the harsh winds of life. But true strength, the kind that anchors us through the deepest gales, is not the absence of difficulty. It is the ability to bend without breaking, to absorb the impact and still find the resilience to rise again.
Life, in its unpredictable wisdom, throws us into the thick of it. Health falters, relationships shift, dreams dissolve like morning mist. These are not signs of weakness on our part, but the inherent nature of existence – a constant flux, a dance between order and chaos. In these moments, the urge to fight, to push back against the discomfort, can be overwhelming. We crave clarity, a roadmap out of the uncertainty. But sometimes, the most profound act of strength is not to struggle against the unknown, but to sit with it.
This “sitting” is not passive resignation. It is an active engagement. It is allowing the uncertainty to be, without the frantic need to resolve it immediately. It is breathing through the anxiety, acknowledging the fear, and trusting in the inherent process of life. The fog of confusion, of grief, of transition, can feel suffocating. Our minds race, trying to find answers where none are readily available. But like a natural fog, this mental and emotional haze will eventually dissipate. It requires patience, a willingness to be in the murkiness, knowing that clarity often emerges not through force, but through gentle persistence and the passage of time.
There’s a poignant truth in the statement: “We can only measure what we lose, but cannot measure what we will gain.” Loss is tangible. We can count the empty chairs, the silent phone, the diminished health. The pain of what is gone is immediate and measurable. But the gains that arise from these experiences are often intangible, unfolding in ways we cannot predict. The resilience we build through hardship, the deeper empathy we cultivate through loss, the unexpected opportunities that emerge from closed doors – these are immeasurable at the moment of suffering. To focus solely on what we have lost is to limit our vision, to blind ourselves to the potential for growth and transformation that lies within the very challenges we face.
This brings us to the profound question: “Do we have to die to see heaven?” If we equate “heaven” with a state of ultimate peace, joy, and understanding, then idea of it being solely an afterlife destination feels limiting. Perhaps “heaven” is not a place we arrive at after death, but a state of being we can cultivate within ourselves, even amidst the complexities of life.
The struggles we endure, the uncertainties we navigate, the losses we grieve – these can be the very crucibles that forge our inner “heaven”. By sitting with discomfort, by embracing the unknown, by finding strength not in the absence of difficulty but in our response to it, we begin to glimpse moments of profound peace and clarity. These moments might be fleeting, but they offer a taste of that deeper understanding, that sense of connection and meaning that we often associate with a heavenly realm.
Perhaps the “heaven” we seek is not the destination beyond the veil, but a state of inner grace attained through the conscious navigation of our earthly journey. It is the ability to find beauty in the brokenness, strength in vulnerability and hope in the face of despair. It is the wisdom gained by allowing the fog to clear on its own time, trusting that even in the darkest moments, the potential for profound growth and unexpected blessings remains, immeasurably yet undeniably present. We don’t necessarily need to die to experience a form of heaven; we need to learn how to truly live, with all its uncertainties and challenges, and find the quiet strength within to embrace it all.
The insidious creep of a toxic relationship often begins not with a bang, but with a whisper – a subtle red flag that we, in our fear of solitude, choose to ignore. It’s a painful truth that many of us find ourselves entangled in unhealthy dynamics because we fail to assert our boundaries early on. We allow disrespect and neglect to fester, driven by a primal fear of losing a companion, no matter how detrimental that companionship may be to our well-being.
How long do we permit such behaviors to continue? The answer, ultimately, lies within us. There comes a crucial point where we must cultivate healthy boundaries, defining unequivocally how we expect to be treated. This isn’t a responsibility that falls to anyone else; our experience, our peace, and our heartbreak are, in large part, our own to manage.
For those whose lives have been a constant cycle of “fight or flight”, the distinction between the thrill of new love and the warning signs of danger can become blurred. Red flags and the flutter of butterflies in the stomach can feel indistinguishable, leading us down paths we later regret. It’s a harsh realization that much of our heartbreak is self-inflicted, born from a misguided belief that if we pour enough of ourselves into another person, they will transform into the partner we desperately desire.
Yet, the red flags aren’t always about the other person’s actions alone. Sometimes, the most glaring red flag is the one we wave ourselves – the moment we begin to lie to ourselves about who they truly are. This self-deception, fueled by the agonizing prospect of loss, is the most critical warning sign to heed. It’s not about being colorblind to the obvious; it’s about hoping against hope that our perceptions are wrong, that the uncomfortable truth isn’t really true.
The lesson, learned often through bitter experience, is clear: never ignore the red flags in the beginning. Those initial, dismissed warnings will inevitably become the very reasons the relationship crumbles. Red flags, by their very nature, do not magically transform into green lights. They are stark warnings, and our willingness to acknowledge and act upon them is the true measure of our self-worth and our commitment to a healthy, respectful future.
I am, indeed, the coin, holding within me the intricate dance of joy and sorrow, of profound connection and devastating absence. My life has been rich with different kinds of love, each right for the season it occupied. I’ve known partnership and companionship in marriages, and I honor those experiences and the unique love they brought into my life.
In 2006, one side of my coin shimmered with an unbearable brightness: the discovery of my soulmate. This was a love so deep, so profound, it surely felt like destiny – a connection unlike any I had known. Those two years of marriage, though tragically brief, imprinted an experience of love that many only dream of. That was the blessing, the side of the coin etched with an exquisite beauty.
Then, in 2009, the coin flipped with a force that shattered my world. The other side revealed itself, stark
and brutal – the sudden, unthinkable loss that stripped away not just my husband, but a piece of my very being. That was the suffering, the profound grief that lingered long after the immediate shock faded. I bore witness to life’s capacity for both immeasurable gift and excruciating theft, all within the span of a few years.
Now, as I navigate the dating world, a cancer survivor with the ghost of a potential recurrence whispering in the background, I feel the weight of that same coin in a new, acutely personal way. I carry the memory of that extraordinary love, a testament to my capacity for deep connection. This is the enduring strength, the resilience, the understanding of what truly profound intimacy feels like.
Yet, alongside this richness, there’s the palpable fear of history repeating itself, not just for me, but for those I might allow into my heart. I’ve lived through the agony of losing the love of my life, and that pain was unbearable. The thought of inviting someone new into my world, only for them to potentially experience that same devastating loss if my cancer were to return and take me…. it’s a burden I honestly struggle with. How can I ask someone to risk that kind of heartbreak? How can I knowingly put them through the watching, the hoping, the ultimate grief, when I know precisely how soul-crushing that experience is? It’s a deeply protective instinct, this reluctance to inflict potential pain on another, especially when I’ve felt its full force myself.
And yet, despite this overwhelming concern, I still yearn for it – that profound, all-consuming love again. The blessing of experiencing it once has shown me what’s possible, what truly enriches life. This isn’t a simple “two sides” scenario; it’s a dynamic, ever-present reality. My coin spins, sometimes showing the vibrant imprint of love found, sometimes the stark emptiness of love lost, and now, the profound vulnerability of daring to love again while acknowledging life’s inherent fragility. I am holding both sides of that coin, longing for connection while grappling with the very real cost it might exact on the heart of another.
