THE INKWELL SOUL

Tag: #weight

  • 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 Weight of the Unspoken

    This feeling – that my history is a vast, dark forest where others might get lost or flee – is a heavy burden to carry. It makes me treat my voice like a secret weapon that I have dismantled for safety, worried that if I reassemble it, the sound would be too loud, too jagged, , or too “much” for the world to hold.

    The truth is, we often quiet our voices because, at some point, the world or the people in it taught us that our complexity was a “complication.”

    I have swallowed my history like stones, one for every year, one for every scar, until my throat is a dry well and I’ve forgotten where the bucket and the rope are. I ask: Where is my voice? And the silence answers back in my own tone – I have traded my speech for a fortress, thinking it better to be quiet that to be known and then rejected.

    There is a phantom fear that my past is a flood, a dark water of “too much” and “too long ago,” that if I opened the floodgates of who I am, the people I love would have nowhere to go but away. I worry my history is a map of dead ends, a collection of flaws too sharp to be touched, that if they see the wreckage behind the curtain, they would realize they didn’t love me that much.

    So I keep the volume at a whisper. I prune my edges to fit into their frames. I hide the chapters where the ink is smeared and the characters have no names. I have learned to be a “soft” version of myself, a ghost in the corner of my own life, terrified that the “real” me – the loud, the hurt, the raw – would be a fire that cuts like a knife.

    But how can I be loved if I am a shadow? How can I be held if I am made of mist? The flaws I fear will drive them away are the very things that prove I exist. Maybe the voice isn’t lost, just waiting for a silence that feels safe enough to break – for a heart that doesn’t see a “burden” but a soul with a story it’s finally ready to take.