THE INKWELL SOUL

Tag: #warrior

  • 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 Malleable Heart: Finding Light in My Shadow

    My heart is not a simple battlefield. It is a place of perpetual, exhausting motion, an endless oscillation between hope and despair.

    I was taught to see these as opposites, but I’ve learned they are merely two faces of the same fragile truth. There is a terrifying wisdom I’ve begun to grasp: that hope, unchecked and untethered, can become a disguise for despair. It’s the mistake of waiting for the grand, sweeping miracle that leaves me devastated when it doesn’t arrive. It is the setting of a rigid expectation that only prepares me for a crushing fall.

    But here, in the crucible of this experience, I have discovered the secret: I must stay malleable. I refuse to be hardened by the blows. I let the despair wash over me, recognizing it as natural, and then, slowly, I allow myself to be reshaped by the currents. I am not a statue; I am a river stone, worn and smooth and strong by the struggle, forever changing, forever moving.

    The overall scenario of my life may indeed seem disparaging – a landscape shrouded in fog and fear. Yet I force myself to look closer. I hold my gaze steady, not on the vast, overwhelming mountain, but on the small, brilliant things scattered at its base:

    The pure sound of my children’s laughter.

    The unexpected warmth of a hand holding mine.

    The strength I mustered just to get out of bed this morning.

    The small, scientific victory on the doctor’s report.

    These are not trivialities; they are small, fierce pockets of hope. They are the necessary proof that life persists and that my own profound strength continues to radiate.

    This is my fight, and it is a sacred one. So I take this truth and hold it tight: I must hold tightly onto what I believe in. I cling to my inner knowing, my faith, and to the people who are my anchors. I will not wait for the perfect moment or the perfect feeling.

    I know what must be done. I do the small things. I take the breath. I make the next phone call. I attend the next appointment. This is the work of a warrior with a malleable heart: one who accepts the darkness, honors the despair, and then, with quiet, unyielding power, uses the smallest fragment of light – the memory of a kind word, the effectiveness of a medicine, the strength of the day before – to illuminate the path forward.

    That fragment is all the light I need right now. I am strong, I am human, and I am finding my way through the beautiful, terrible complexity of this journey.