THE INKWELL SOUL

Tag: #strength

  • 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.

  • Learning from the Lived-In Life

    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.

  • The Quiet Strength in the Fog

    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 Woman I’ve Become

    The air crackled with unspoken energy, a silent challenge hanging between us. He thought he was clever, a master of calculated moves and veiled intentions. But I saw through the smoke and mirrors, the practiced charm that masked a hollow core. This wasn’t a game I was willing to play.

    “She’s not the type of woman you play games with,” the words echoed in my mind, a quiet affirmation. I had built walls around my heart, not out of bitterness, but out of self-preservation. I had learned the hard way that vulnerability in the wrong hands was a weapon, a tool to be used and discarded.

    He thought my composure was an invitation, a puzzle to be solved. He didn’t understand that my stillness was my strength, my silence a shield. I thrived on stability, on the solid ground of truth and authenticity. His world of shifting sands and fleeting emotions held no appeal.

    “If you want her, you need to be smarter than that,” the internal voice whispered. I had seen his kind before – men who chased the thrill of the chase, the ego boost of conquest. But I wasn’t a prize to be won. I was a force to be reckoned with.

    He wanted access to my light, the positive energy that radiated from within. But that radiance wasn’t a gift to be bestowed on just anyone. It was earned, nurtured, and fiercely protected. My inner circle was small, populated only by those who valued truth as much as I did.

    “If you want her, you have to do things you’ve never done before.” The gauntlet was thrown, not by him, but by the quiet voice within. It wasn’t about grand gestures or superficial changes. It was about genuine growth, about shedding the layers of pretense and embracing vulnerability. It was bout becoming a man worthy of the space he sought to occupy in my life.

    The thought of ‘luck’ flickered through my mind. It wasn’t luck that determined whether someone gained access to my world. It was consistency, the unwavering commitment to growth and honesty. I was a garden that required constant tending, not a fleeting amusement.

    “She’ll turn your weakness into strengths.” The words resonated with a deep truth. I had the capacity to nurture, to inspire, to ignite the dormant potential within another. But I wouldn’t waste my energy on a barren landscape. He had to bring something to the table, a willingness to learn, to evolve, to become a better version of himself.

    “Her love will enable you to move mountains.” My love was a force, a catalyst for transformation. But it wasn’t freely given. It was a treasure to be earned, a sacred fire to be tended with care.

    “Her integrity doesn’t allow just anyone to get close.” I knew my worth. I understood the power I wielded, the depth of my capacity to love and nurture. But that power was reserved for those who respected it, who understood that intimacy wasn’t a game but a sacred exchange.

    He was still circling, trying to decipher the enigma he thought I was. He didn’t realize that I wasn’t a puzzle to be solved, but a mirror reflecting back his own inadequacies. My walls weren’t impenetrable barriers, but filters, discerning those who were genuine from those who were merely playing a role.

    And as he continued his dance of calculated moves and veiled intentions, I simply smiled, a Mona Lisa smile that held both mystery and unwavering self-possession. I didn’t need to play this game. I was playing my own. And the rules were simple: Truth. Integrity. Growth. Anything less was simply not worth my time. He could chase his fleeting thrills and empty victories. I was waiting for a man who understood that the greatest adventure wasn’t the conquest, but the journey of building something real, something lasting. And until he was ready to embark on that journey, my walls would remain standing. Not as a challenge, but as a testament to the woman I had become.