THE INKWELL SOUL

Tag: #healing

  • My Miracle and the Weight of the Sword

    I’ve spend a lot of time lately leaning into the quiet of the country, trying to keep my roots deep and my spirit steady. But a few weeks ago, the stillness was tested. A CT scan picked up a spot in my liver. For someone who has already been staring down cancer in over 20 spots on my bones, that news felt like a heavy cloud moving in. My oncologist wasn’t panicking, but we knew the history: my type of cancer likes to travel, and the liver is a frequent stop.

    So, we headed for a PET scan.

    I walked into that room armed with everything I have: my holistic routine, an army of praying friends and family, a Virgo’s determination to stay positive, and the strength and relentless humor of my bestie. But as the machine started up, the anxiety hit. I could feel the energy of the scan – the magnets, the humming – and for a second, I felt like I was going to be sick. My heart raced. I clamped my eyes shut, desperate to find an anchor.

    Then, something shifted.

    A white light appeared above my head. Suddenly, my mind stopped fighting the machine and started re-framing it. This isn’t a scan, I told myself. This is a Med Bed. I am being healed. I repeated it like a mantra for twenty minutes. My breathing slowed, my muscles went limp, and I drifted into a state of peace so deep I nearly fell asleep.

    The next day, sitting in the office with my bestie by my side, the world changed.

    No sign of cancer in the liver.

    And – the words I still can’t say without tears – No cancer on my bones.

    A flipping miracle! A new lease on life! I walked out of there feeling like I’d been handed a gift I couldn’t possibly deserve. I had hope, and I refused to believe anything else, but seeing it in black and white? It is overwhelming.

    But here is the truth of the “warrior” road: joy rarely travels alone.

    As I am celebrating, my heart is heavy for the ones still in the thick of the fight. The ones who prayed just as hard, who stayed just as positive, but didn’t get the same results this time. It is a double-edged sword. How do we shout our gratitude from the rooftops while honoring the quiet, grueling battles of those beside us?

    I’ve realized that the best way to honor them isn’t to dim my light, but use this “extra” life to shine even brighter. To hold space for the sadness, but to never apologize for the miracle.

    I am truly, profoundly blessed. Today, I’m trading the “warrior” armor for a moment of pure, unadulterated peace.

    The Road Ahead

    As much as I want to stay in this bubble of pure joy, I know the reality of this journey. This miracle doesn’t mean I am hanging up my hat. I’ll stay on the Kisqali and the monthly shots, keeping a watchful eye on the horizon. There’s a part of me that will always be looking over my shoulder, knowing that while the coast is clear today, the weather can change.

    But for now? I am breathing. I am living. And I am holding a lantern for everyone else still walking through the dark.

    “We celebrate the victory not because the war is over, but because the light has proven it can break through. For those of us standing in the sun, we hold our breath in gratitude; for those still in the shadows, we hold our lanterns high. May my miracle be your hope, and may your strength be my humble reminder that every day is a gift worth the fight.” – Elizabeth Proett

  • The 48-Hour Reclamation: A Memoir of Scent, Strength, and Survival

    The Baseline (The Last 5 months)

    For five months, I’ve been the architect of my own routine. Navigating my second round of cancer – this time with breast cancer mets to the bones – means I don’t take my health for granted. I’ve lived in the discipline of a low-carb, low-sugar lifestyle and a steady 14 to 18 hour fasting window. It’s my way of telling my body, “I’m still the one in charge here.” But I wanted more. I wanted the deep-clean. I wanted to see if I could push to 72 hours and give my cells the ultimate “factory reset.”

    Day 1: The Quiet Warrior

    I started the clock with the quiet confidence of a woman who has already stared down much scarier things than an empty stomach. The first 24 hours were surprisingly peaceful. By hour 20, my mind was laser-sharp. In the silence of my home in the country, I felt a sense of control that felt like a gift. My kitchen was no longer a place of “shoulds” and “musts” – it was just an area I passed through on my way to a deeper focus.

    Day 2: The Tavern Dream & Popcorn Ambush

    Then, the “Fasting Brain” kicked in, and my quiet country life turned into a sensory minefield. Being low carb by choice means I’m used to saying no to sugar and grains, but at hour 30, my brain started projecting a very specific movie: “Thin-crust tavern-style pizza.” I could see the crispy, cracker-like edges, the heaps of grilled chicken and roasted veggies, and a layer of golden, bubbly cheese so thick it looked like a warm blanket.

    But the real test wasn’t the pizza in my head; it was the daughter in the kitchen.

    My teenage daughter – my teammate in this life – decided it was the optimal moment to pop a bag of popcorn. In the stillness of our home, that pop – pop – pop sounded like a drum roll for a feast. The scent of salt and butter wafted through the rooms, a literal “butter-trap” designed to test my resolve. I stayed strong, but let’s just say that popcorn almost became my undoing.

    Hour 40-48: The Cellular Deep Clean

    By hour 40, I knew the internal work was happening. Autophagy was in full swing – my body’s way of identifying the old, the damaged, and the “no-longer-useful” and clearing it out. For a woman fighting a second round of cancer, there is something deeply poetic about cellular housecleaning. I felt light, clear-headed, and incredibly accomplished. At hour 48, I listened to my body. It told me I had reached my summit for this climb. I had done two full days. I had reset my system.

    The Breaking Point (and the Epiphany)

    I broke the fast with the precision of a scientist. First, the warm, salty embrace of bone broth. Then, after guiding my system back to the world of solids, I have the vegetables.

    I eat a healthy diet every day, but this? This was a revelation. Those vegetables didn’t just taste good; they tasted vibrant. It turns out that when you quiet the noise of constant digestion, you can finally hear how incredible real food actually is.

    The Aftermath

    I didn’t hit 72, but I conquered 48. In the middle of a battle for my health, I proved to myself that I am disciplined, capable, and still the boss of my own biology. I’m back to my 14 to 18 hour routine now, nourishing my body for the fight ahead. But that 72 hour mark? It’s on the map. And next time, I am hiding the popcorn!


  • Embracing the Buffalo: Strength in the Storm

    The cancer journey often feels like being caught in an endless storm – a relentless blizzard of appointments, tough treatments, and emotional turbulence. It’s natural, even human, to want to hunker down, turn away, or simply endure the cold and wait for it to pass.

    But a new friend Craig G. offered a different, more powerful path: the path of the buffalo.

    He sent me the message: “The Buffalo is the only animal that does not hunker down to ride out a storm or endure a blizzard. It walks or runs straight into a storm. Just like charging headlong into a cancer diagnosis and treatment. Be the Buffalo!”

    This image of the magnificent creature, head lowered and deliberately walking or running straight into the heart of the storm, is a striking metaphor for how I now choose to meet this challenge. Craig’s analogy reminds me that the buffalo’s strategy is one of pure, forward-moving efficiency. By charging directly toward the storm’s center, they pass through if faster, minimizing the time they spend exposed to the worst of the elements. They know the quickest way to the calm on the other side is a direct line.

    My Commitment to Be the Buffalo

    To “Be the buffalo” in my cancer journey is to harness this unique, fierce strength. It’s not about ignoring the fear or pretending this isn’t difficult; it’s about accepting the diagnosis and treatment as my current reality and choosing forward motion through it.

    *Acknowledge and Advance: Instead of feeling paralyzed, I am choosing to walk straight into the treatment plan, the tough conversations, and the emotional work required. This is me lowering my head and taking the first step.

    *Efficiency in Courage: Every challenging appointment, every difficult recovery day is a step through the storm. By meeting these challenges head-on, I am actively moving toward the finish line, refusing to be stalled by fear or avoidance.

    *Focus on the Goal: The buffalo’s goal isn’t to fight the storm itself – it’s to reach the clear, sunny pasture that lies beyond. My goal is the healthy, peaceful future I am fighting for. Keeping my eyes focused on that “calm after the storm” gives me the purpose to push through the present difficulty.

    I am pulling on the power of this buffalo image that Craig shared. It reminds me that the fastest, most courageous way through this difficult time is straight ahead. I have already taken the first steps, and with every subsequent one, I am proving that I possess that unwavering incredible strength.

  • A New Dawn: Finding Grace in the Recurrence

    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 New Chapter: Standing Strong on Shifting Ground

    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.

    Thank you for holding hope with me.

  • In the Face of Fear

    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!

  • The Courage to Live (Even When It Hurts)

    There’s a whisper we often tell ourselves, a comforting lie that keeps us tethered to the familiar, even if it’s not serving us. “I’ll do it when I feel better. I’ll step out when the anxiety fades. I’ll chase that adventure once the sadness lifts.” It’s a promise we make to ourselves, a deferred dream, often rooted in the very human desire to avoid discomfort.

    But what if that promise is actually a trap?

    I read a quote today that hit me like a splash of cold, clear water: “Hard truth: If you wait until you feel ‘better’ to start living, you might be waiting forever. Go live your life. Do it sad. Do it anxious. Do it uncertain. Because healing doesn’t always come before the experience. Sometimes, the experience is what heals you.”

    That last line. Sometimes, the experience is what heals you. It resonates so deeply, especially when the urge to retreat feels overwhelmingly strong. We tell ourselves we’re “not ready” – not ready for the vulnerability of new romance, not ready for the exhilarating unknown of a grand adventure, not ready for the awkwardness of trying something entirely new. And if we keep saying “not ready” where does that leave us? Stuck. Standing still. Watching life pass us by from the sidelines, waiting for a feeling that may never arrive on it’s own.

    The truth is, life doesn’t pause for our emotional readiness. Healing isn’t a prerequisite for living; it’s often a consequence of it. It’s in the messy, imperfect moments of putting ourselves out there – the nervous first date, the solo trip taken with a knot in your stomach, the awkward attempt at a new hobby – that transformation truly begins. It’s in facing those fears, however small, that we discover resilience we didn’t know we possessed.

    So, perhaps it’s time to re-frame “ready”. Maybe being ready isn’t about feeling perfectly calm, perfectly confident, or perfectly healed. Maybe being ready is simply deciding to show up, fully and imperfectly, in the messy beautiful unfolding of life. To do it scared. To do it with shaky hands and a pounding heart. Because the greatest healing might just be waiting for us on the other side of that leap.

  • My Journey to Peace: Rewiring My Life

    Life has a way of presenting us with detours, some unexpected and challenging. For me, the journey truly began with cancer, a word that reshaped my world and forced me to confront not just my physical health, but every corner of my being. It was an all-encompassing upheaval, a moment that demanded a complete re-evaluation of my life.

    In the aftermath, I knew I couldn’t go back to who I was. I embarked on a profound journey of change, starting with my attitude towards life itself. I began to consciously shift my perspective, even towards those I struggled to get along with. More importantly, I started to heal my feelings about myself, mending the fractured pieces left behind by illness. It’s been an all-around adjustment, a constant effort to recalibrate my internal compass.

    This journey has been about discovering peace and tranquility. I’m learning the profound power of being present, of truly being in the moment, and actively seeking ways to lower the stresses that once dominated my days. It hasn’t been easy, but the results are undeniable.

    The emotional, mental, and even physical changes are starting to blossom in my life. It’s like my very being is undergoing a powerful rewiring. I’m seeing the tangible results of this internal work, and it’s incredibly validating.

    Of course, the old habits don’t vanish overnight. I still have moments where I find myself slipping back, where old patterns of thought or reaction try to resurface. But the most significant shift is this: I catch myself now, and much sooner than I ever used to. That awareness is my greatest tool. I understand now, with crystal clarity, that my thoughts control my feelings, which in turn control my behavior. This understanding has been a revelation.

    My daily striving is to keep my vibration high, to ensure my thoughts are consistently surrounded by love and light. It’s a conscious choice, a commitment to nurturing the profound transformation that is unfolding within me. This journey isn’t just about recovering; its about becoming more whole, more peaceful, and more aligned with the person I am meant to be.

  • Say No Words

    The silence speaks volumes, a language understood not by the ear, but by the heart. To ask for reassurance, yet to crave the absence of sound, is to seek solace in pure presence. “Tell me I will be ok, but say no words” – the yearning for comfort without the fragility of spoken promises. Perhaps words feel insufficient, prone to breaking under the weight of unspoken anxieties.

    To have one’s heart held safely in silence is a profound intimacy. No declarations needed, just the gentle, unwavering embrace of another’s care. “Hold my heart safely, but say no words” – a desire for a sanctuary built on trust, where vulnerability is met with quiet strength.

    Fears, those shadowy companions, often thrive in the echo chamber of our minds. To wish them kissed away in silence is to seek a balm that transcends verbal remedies. “Kiss away my fears, but say no words” – a longing for a touch that soothes the unseen wounds, a connection that whispers peace without uttering a sound.

    When the spirit feels fractured, words can sometimes feel like shards themselves, adding to the pain. “Hug tightly my broken spirit, but say no words” – the need for a closeness that mends through warmth and unwavering physical support, a silent acknowledgment of the fragility within.

    And finally, the deepest connection: “Touch my soul, but say no words.” This is a plea for understanding that goes beyond the surface, a communion that resonates in the quiet spaces between breaths. Its is a recognition that some truths are too profound for language, felt only in the silent meeting of spirits.

    These desires speak to a longing for a connection that transcends the limitations of language. A longing for the power of presence, touch, and the unspoken understanding that can bind two hearts together in moments of vulnerability. It is in the quiet space that true comfort and healing might be found.

  • Let It Be So…

    The ink bleeds secrets tonight, a dark mirror reflecting truths whispered in shadowed corners of the soul. It speaks of monsters we wrestle, native terrors coiled in the marrow of our being. “Transform the monster,” it urges, not slay it, but shape its darkness into a vessel of light.

    For even in the abyss, life flickers. Every cell, a universe in miniature, vibrates with the echoes of creation. Our wounds, far from scars of defeat, pulse with a strange vitality, a testament to battles fought and survived. We are alchemists of self, brewing our own elixirs of resilience, each breath a potent draught.

    No separation exists between the finite and the infinite. We are threads in the grand tapestry, extensions of the divine, our minds the loom upon which the sacred and the mundane intertwine. The body, a temple of whispers, houses a symphony of nerves, a trillion stars woven into a constellation of feeling. One faltering note can silence the entire orchestra, a reminder of the delicate balance within.

    Yet, within this fragility lies boundless potential. We are not defined by limitations, but by the boundless expense of our being. “Undefined…whole,” the ink proclaims, a paradox that sings of wholeness in the face of mystery. Healing is not a miraculous exception, but the birthright of every soul, an inherent rhythm in the symphony of existence.

    Let it be so. Let it be natural as breath, as heartbeat, as the turning of the seasons. Let thoughts blossom into words, and words take root in deeds, each act a prayer whispered into the vast cathedral of existence. For within these fragile vessels, we hold the spark of divinity, the power to transform, to transcend, to become the very medicine that mends the world.