Once, while sitting in the reception area conducting a training at work, a delivery man walked in. In my effort to make sure he knew he was appreciated, I offered him one of the snacks we kept for patients.

Which sounded a bit like this:

“Thank you. Take a water if you’d like, and I can also offer you a little nut bag.”

As the words left my lips, I realized what I’d said. My staff looked at me with a mix of amusement and horror.

It was, in fact, a small bag filled with delicious nuts, but my presentation was off, and this must have contributed to his decision to decline the offer before quickly scurrying out.

I’m not sure how I got to be this way, but I promise more than one stranger has a story involving something I’ve said and the special way in which it was delivered.

Years ago, my husband and I were at his company’s Christmas party. Everyone was sitting around a huge table at a restaurant, and one of the couples was arguing. Actually, it was more of a girlfriend berating her boyfriend, rather extensively and in front of his coworkers and their spouses.

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Everyone looked around awkwardly, trying to pretend it wasn’t happening. And then my inside voice escaped. I raised my water glass and said out loud, “To the happy couple.”

OH.

MY.

GOD.

That wasn’t in my head, was it? The look on Patrick’s face confirmed that it had come out of my mouth.

I was mortified.

It sounds so mean when I tell the story. I promise, if you know me, you know that I wouldn’t say anything that malicious. Ever. I still cringe when I think about it.

I wish these were the only two stories that I had on deck.

Patrick and I will have been married for a decade in October. But before we were married, we ran into one of his former lady friends at the gym. Instead of being polite, meeting her, and then walking away, I was polite, met her, and invited her to come to yoga with me. As I was saying it, I realized in real time that I didn’t want her to accept and that I’d said it only because I didn’t know what else to say.

She looked at me like I had an arm growing out of my forehead and politely but abruptly declined.

Patrick stood there after she walked off and said, “Really?”

I didn’t even know how to respond to him. I learned in that moment that if you don’t know what to say, maybe just keep your mouth shut.

To this day, I manage to do and say the kinds of things that bring levity to many situations. Things that leave people laughing sometimes and with loads of questions other times. And it gets dramatically worse if I’m in any way uncomfortable in the situation.

I guess it’s part of my charm. One of my many facets. I like to think it makes me endearing, mostly because if I thought otherwise, I’d have to crawl into a cave and keep my palm forever pressed to my forehead as I relived the moments that make for funny stories now.

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Even when I don’t have someplace to be, I feel rushed. I have to remind myself to slow down. Take a breath. Be in the moment.

I’m in the in-between right now. I don’t have a 9-to-5. I don’t have to get up before the sun to be at the gym so that I can be in the office at 8:30, which means that I don’t have to rush through my workouts.

I can be at the gym for more than an hour and focus on slow, methodical sets where I feel the muscle contract and release. I get to work out with my husband, who pushes me to work harder and question my limits.

I don’t have to rush through breakfast. I can stop and taste my food. Chew slowly. Savor the moment. Let my tea steep for the full 20 minutes and sip it, knowing that the warm tea and healthy meal are nourishing me. Then I can sit and digest instead of rushing off to the next thing.

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And despite all of my newfound time, my days are still full. I have time to focus on my writing, work on my website, invest in my friendships, and rebuild my health. I crawled into bed last night and couldn’t believe how quickly the day had gone by. I hadn’t even finished everything I’d set out to do.

What an interesting concept, time. Time itself isn’t something we made up, but the way we divide and measure it is.

Animals live by time in a way. The seasons, the dawn of a new day, the phases of the moon. But humans have broken time into incremental moments, and those moments have become the structure of the civilization we’ve created.

We live by them. We watch the clock, and we can’t be late. We have to clock in. We have a starting time. We have appointment windows. If we’re late, we’re disrespectful. We’re rude. We lack courtesy.

But is the bird late to the feeder in the morning? Or does it arrive exactly when it is meant to?

I’m finding that rushing is not always a response to being busy. Sometimes it becomes a way of moving through the world. I’ve been working since I was 14. Over the years, my body has learned to anticipate the next obligation before I’ve finished the one in front of me. We’re great at doing this. It’s summed up in the way we speak: “When I reach this next goal, I’ll relax.” “If I can just do this thing, then I can be happier.”

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Even now, with nowhere I have to be, I feel like I’m running late. To what? Life shouldn’t be about running all the damn time.

While I have the luxury of being in-between, I’m focusing on slowing down. Because when I rush and rush and rush, I miss things.

I don’t notice the flowers in bloom or the roadrunner with a lizard in its mouth. I miss the hummingbird moths in my garden at dusk and the song of the birds early in the morning. I don’t savor the flavor of the Fredericksburg peach as the juice drips down my chin.

Cancer taught me that time matters.

And now that I’ve closed that chapter, the in-between is teaching me that I don’t have to rush through it.

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It’s the eve of my 45th birthday, and I sit and reflect on the last few years...

I was diagnosed with cancer... I went through two surgeries, three PET scans, chemo and immunotherapy, and I’m in remission.

I closed my 10-year real estate career.

I took an opportunity in aesthetic medicine and closed that chapter last week.

I watched my dad’s health continue to decline until eventually we lost him in March.

I started writing, which lights up my soul. I’ve learned that being vulnerable might just be one of my biggest talents. Wait, can I call vulnerability a talent?

But now that I’m at the end of treatment and I’ve resigned from the job I’ve been at for the last three years, what’s next?

I don’t have a next treatment. I’m not living by a calendar. I don’t have a deadline for work. Should I... relax? Do I know how?

It’s interesting because, for all intents and purposes, I should be nervous to enter the unknown. But I’m actually filled with a strange sense of calm.

I know more about who I am than I ever have before. I stand firm in my morals and values, and I do not waver.

I don’t have any idea what my life will look like in six months. Where will I be? Should I be freaking out? Should I be nervous? I’m not. I shrug.

I look back at my list of Good Things Are Always Happening to Me. I read it. I look around. My trees are blooming, my plants are thriving, the birds at the feeders are singing, Dolly snores from her spot at my side, and Patrick continues to be my rock. I take a deep breath. I feel grounded.

The quiet moments are the ones I treasure most.

I have to trust that the person I’ve become will rise to meet whatever I encounter. I always have, even when it was a path I didn’t choose. I have no reason to believe tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow morning, I’ll wake up to 45. A healthy, happy, well-earned new day.

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This is a big week.

Friday, I finish my treatment.

FINISH!

Like, done. I’ll leave the infusion center without a “see you next time.” I’ll sit in my car, and join all the people on Mopac driving, only they won’t know that I just finished my cancer treatment. They won’t know that I just wrapped up the longest, hardest season of my life.

I’ll make my way home and continue my life in the ordinary, make some tea, read a book, love my people.

I’ve had a next treatment since January 29, 2024.

While I’ll have more scans, more fear, more check-ins and check-ups, I’ll have this chapter behind me. A difficult and beautiful memory. How wonderful that this season gets to transition to a memory.

A couple of weeks ago, I posted a video talking about how I was almost done with treatment, and someone DMed me with, “Be careful, these things come back.”

I initially got upset. Why on earth would someone send that sort of negativity in a message?

That person is correct.

These things do come back... sometimes.

They also don’t come back... sometimes.

Both possibilities exist.

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My choice is to live in this moment. And, in this moment, I am in remission.

Here’s the thing. My cancer is highly treatable. They don’t call it curable. The majority of patients have many years of disease-free survival.

And that’s where I will happily live, with the understanding that it may resurface, or it may not.

I may go through treatment again, and I may not.

I don’t live in the “be careful, these things come back” mentality. That’s not what I choose. I don’t live in toxic positivity either. I’m more pragmatic.

I did maintenance treatment for two years to help lower the chances of it resurfacing, to prolong the good years. And I can assure you my good years are better now than they were before.

Cancer reshaped me in many ways.

Next Thursday, I turn 45. I don’t look at birthdays the way I used to.

What a gift that I get to turn another year older. What a gift that I get to notice my crow’s feet. To create more smile lines.

Those lines, those “wrinkles,” get a bad rap. I see something different.

I see a life that’s been lived.

Each line earned through smiles, sadness, laughter, and love.

I hope I earn many more.

Not everyone gets tomorrow.

So, I’ll keep watching the sunrise.

And I’ll keep saying, “Thank you for this new day.”

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I walk often. It helps settle dinner. It’s good for me. It gets me in nature. It gets me off the couch. And, my neighborhood is quite literally the best.

I walked alone the other night, and I was in the absolute best mood. ‘90s alternative was jamming in my ear, nature was all around me, and I saw a cottonwood seed drifting past like a tiny tree fairy. I had to resist the urge to dance my way down the street.

When I was just moments from the spot where I usually turn around, a small fox ran out in front of me, dinner safely (well, for the fox, not the dinner) lodged in its mouth.

We locked eyes.

I slowed to a stop, not wanting to scare this creature who was just trying to take dinner back home. Our eyes stayed locked for what felt like forever. Long enough to grab my phone and snap a picture. Long enough that when a car came up behind the fox, I had to shoo it off the road. For several seconds I urged the fox with my hand... shoo, get out of the road.

The driver and I locked eyes, like, did that really just happen?

I continued a few moments up the road to my turnaround spot, smile plastered on my face, elated by the intimacy of the eye contact with the wild fox. How lucky am I to have had a moment like that with a fox! On my way back, I looked into the woods where the fox had exited the road and, lo and behold, the fox was still there.

Don’t believe me? I wouldn’t have either. Who am I, Snow White? See the video evidence below.

The fox and I shared another long glance. I wondered if the fox was young, that it was still so trusting of people. This time I got a much closer look at its dinner, which made me thankful that I’m not a fox, as it did not look appetizing at all. Finally, he turned away and continued on with his evening as I did with mine.

A few minutes later, I saw a deer lingering in the road. She looked hesitant, like she was unwilling to stray too far from the woods. As I got closer, I crossed the road so as not to spook her. As I passed by, her ears and tail raised in caution, and she walked into the woods, keeping a close eye on me. That’s when I saw she had a young fawn with her. So young its back was still freckled like Bambi.

They both just watched as I passed by.

Coming off my last encounter, I already felt that this was the most magical evening walk ever, and this moment solidified that sentiment. I made my way home feeling fortunate to have had those interactions with nature. Interactions where the natural world didn’t retreat in fear. Interactions that were more about observing.

After all, I was a guest in their world.

I made it home and began watering the plants on my porch when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. As I leaned in to get a closer look, I saw a snake slither out of one of my pots and into our outdoor couch.

NOPE.

I backed away, and then I saw his tail, so I knew he wasn’t poisonous. I gave him his space and went on with my watering, though I’d be lying if I told you that I didn’t turn around every few seconds to make sure he hadn’t morphed into the kind of snake that was going to attack me while my guard was down.

About ten minutes later, I finished watering the plants and went inside. I peeked out the window to see if he was still on the couch, and there he was. It was as if he was looking inside. Literally. Head up, looking through the window before he slithered away. Perhaps he was just making sure I was now inside, just as I was making sure that he was still outside. What the heck was going on with me tonight?

I checked the weather stripping on all the doors before I really relaxed, and my husband reminded me that he’s the kind of snake that eats rodents and the things we really don’t want hanging around the porch.

Okay. He can stay.

That night, as I came down from all of my wildlife encounters, I took a shower to unwind before bed, all the while pondering if the life of a Disney princess was the hand that I was being dealt.

As I stood in the shower, a rather ominous-looking spider crawled up the grout.

I got out, dried off, and did a Google image search to make sure it wasn’t a bad, bad spider. Google thought it was a brown recluse and assured me they aren’t aggressive.

I went with, “F^% that*,” and killed it.

I guess all of this is to say...

Be open.

Have balance.

And apparently...

I’m not heading into my Disney princess era.

More from The Survivor's Edit

Relationships breed misunderstanding. It doesn’t matter if it’s romantic, friendship, or work related, misunderstandings happen. And, in my opinion, one of the best traits that a person can embody is the ability to look within and self-assess their part in the story. None of us moves through life without contributing to misunderstandings.

Years ago, I had a fight with a man I was in a relationship with. I’d decided that the relationship was no longer serving me, and I left. I was young, and my lack of life experience led to me leaving in a way that was disorienting to him.

I remember him saying, “Why does this always happen to me?”

While his comment was intended to inspire sympathy in me, it had the exact opposite effect. I remember thinking... with that attitude, it always will.

I’ve noticed over the years that people who are the victim in all of their stories are often the problem. Looking inward, assessing our flaws, is truly one of the best pathways to growth. It sucks, it’s painful, and our ego will fight it every step of the way. But, I think the moments I’ve stopped to observe my inherent flaws are the moments that have led to the most personal growth and change as an individual.

The interesting thing is, I know I’ve been... rather played the victim in my own stories. I think we all do this to some extent.

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I remember a pivotal moment early on in my marriage when I wasn’t taking accountability. I was unsure how to handle my big feelings, and retreating and acting like my husband was the bully seemed right in the moment.

But when I look back at that experience, it didn’t give me the response, conversation, or closure that I was craving. In fact, it had the exact opposite effect. My performance didn’t pull my husband in. It caused damage, it lacked accountability for my part in the situation, and it pushed him very far away.

And, there’s another side to taking ownership of one’s actions. It can go too far. There are people, usually the ones who are uncomfortable asking themselves how they contributed to a situation, that will gladly let you carry their share of the burden of accountability. There are people so gifted at rewriting the story convincingly that you begin to question your own version.

The other night, a friend called me with a situation that felt a bit “rewritten” after a misunderstanding had spilled from her friend group into her workplace. By the time we talked, she was carrying the entire burden of what had happened. She’d started to take on all of the responsibility, and only some of it was hers to carry. As we chatted, I reminded her that we can have several situations in a row in which we are the common denominator, and that alone does not mean we are the problem. Self-assessment is crucial to keep ego in check, but not at the expense of our worth.

I reminded her who she is, as she’s done for me on many occasions. We talked about the fact that the truth is often in the middle. And, to be honest, that was just the reminder that we both needed. It’s good to have friends that can remind you of your true north when you lose sight for a moment.

To me, accountability is a gift. A gift which must be measured carefully. There’s a slippery slope between accountability and self-blame. We’ve all heard that we need to take accountability, but have we been taught what it actually looks like to do so? I often “reality check” with my husband and close friends to be sure that the stories I’m telling align with who I am, who I aspire to be. I do this because I easily fall into self-blame. I’m learning. And learning the difference may be one of the hardest lessons in being an adult. Well, that and keeping plants alive.

One of the most fascinating questions to me now is this: how do you assess in the moment, work toward self-reflection and growth? And, how do you set boundaries when dealing with a person who lacks personal accountability? How do you honestly own your part without allowing someone else to convince you that everything is your fault? If you figure it out before me, please share.

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I’ve started saying yes.

Not to everything. Actually, probably to fewer things than ever before.

But to the things that feel aligned. The things that feel like my true North.

I recently had the opportunity to sit down with Krystal on her podcast, Plot Twist: Still Alive.

A year ago, I probably wouldn’t have believed I’d be comfortable talking publicly about cancer, grief, divorce, adultery, pregnancy loss, or any of the experiences that have shaped the woman I am today.

Every time I share a story, someone reaches out to say, “Me too.”

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And let me tell you, those two words never get old.

I’m writing every week. Through that, I’m sharing parts of me that once seemed too difficult to speak about. Things that once felt like secrets.

I’m building something that didn’t exist before cancer interrupted my life. Community. A place to show up as you truly are.

It’s funny. I used to think survival was the end of the story.

Plot twist... It was just the beginning.

If you’d like to hear more of my story, you can listen to my conversation with Krystal on Plot Twist: Still Alive here.

Thank you for reading, sharing, and coming along for the ride. I don’t take it for granted.

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There’s a funny thing that happens when life gives you challenges that weren’t on your bucket list.

Cancer and grief have both taught me a lot about the things I refuse to waver on.

The things I refuse to waste time on.

For most of my life, I measured success by way of...

Career advancement.

Titles.

Recognition.

The next milestone.

The next accomplishment.

The next promotion.

The next thing to prove.

As though they were things I was checking off a to-do list.

My younger self obsessed over having a prestigious career. The titles, notoriety, respect, and recognition that would come with it. I was proud to tell people what I did in my professional life.

And for a long time, I genuinely believed those things would make me feel happy and fulfilled.

Oh, how wrong I was.

The interesting thing about surviving something life altering is that it changes the lens through which you view the world around you. And the lens through which you view success.

When you’re sitting in an oncology office, the patients sitting nearby don’t ask you what your title is at work. They may ask you what cancer you’re fighting. Or they may only have the energy to get through their own day.

When you’re sitting beside your dad holding his hand for what you KNOW is the last time, you don’t think about quarterly goals. You don’t ask yourself if you met KPIs. Or how you’re going to approach the annual reviews with the staff.

Priorities rise to the top like cream when life shows you how finite it is.

I realize now more than ever that the titles that matter most have nothing to do with my professional life.

Wife.

Friend.

Sister.

Daughter.

Your loved ones won’t hold your hand as you take your last breath and fondly remember your office decor. They won’t discuss the time your salary hit a new level, reminisce about your promotions, or reflect on the letters after your name.

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They’ll remember how you made them feel. Whether you showed up. Whether you loved them well. They’ll reflect on those amazing holidays, vacations, afternoons of quality time.

They’ll remember the time you spent together. The belly laughs after a random day at the beach ended with hilarity on a pier, there’s a video of that day. The adventures you went on, one with a flat tire that came from the deepest island pothole known to man. The houses you rented with all the people you love in the world. The phone calls you answered even when it wasn’t the best time. The holidays you shared. The random Friday happy hour that resulted in calling the husbands to pick us up because we overdid it on house margs and COULD NOT drive home. The moments that seemed ordinary at the time but became precious in hindsight.

Several years ago, I started to think that Christmas gifts weren’t feeling meaningful. One of my most favorite female friends was feeling the same way, and it began an annual tradition of going to a fancy ass dinner dressed to the nines on Christmas Eve. There’s still an investment, but it’s not all monetary - it’s the investment of time. And what a compliment it is to receive that most precious thing a person has to give, all while making new memories.

Cancer taught me that life can change with a phone call.

Losing my dad taught me that sometimes those changes, and their finality, can rock you to your core.

Both experiences highlighted the importance of time. You can’t put more sand into the hourglass.

Each day is a blessing.

That realization isn’t depressing.

If anything, it’s clarifying. It makes it much easier to answer the question, “How do I want to spend my time?”

If I’m spending my time in a place, with a person, or in a situation that isn’t adding value and is only robbing me of some of my sand, it’s time to pivot.

In the end, the decision I made wasn’t really about work.

Work just happened to be the place where the lesson showed up.

When something no longer aligns with the life I’m trying to build, eventually I have to decide whether I’m willing to spend my sand on it or if it’s time to move on.

And let’s be honest - most things in our lives have a shelf life, an end date.

Somewhere along the way, I realized I want my life to be measured by personal fulfillment, the measure of love, the depth of friendship, and the strength of my marriage. I want my KPIs to be based on amazing memories of laughter, love, and authenticity.

These are the pillars I want to build my life around.

And once I became clear on what matters most, the rest was easy.

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And cancer is certainly a big life change. But looking back, the fear of going through cancer and treatment is not altogether different from divorce, grief, loss, or any other monumental moment in our lives.

I’ve struggled with the word brave for as long as I can remember.

People called me brave when I left a marriage that wasn’t working.

People called me brave when I went through cancer treatment.

People called me brave when my father died.

I never argued out loud. I just quietly disagreed.

None of those things felt brave to me.

This morning as I walked into the gym for a workout I didn’t want but knew I needed, it finally struck me why.

When people call someone brave, it feels like they’re trying to put words to the way that person showed up in the face of something difficult. To me, bravery implies choice. I’ve not met people who are naturally brave. They simply know that, in certain circumstances, the risk outweighs the reward, and they’re not willing to live with the aftermath of the wrong decision.

My husband was a police officer for 24 years. He won an award for being heroic. He doesn’t proudly display it. He doesn’t talk about being a hero. In fact, when I mention the award, he doesn’t even jump at the chance to talk about it. Because to him, he was just doing his job.

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I don’t think that’s unlike me getting through cancer treatment.

I wasn’t brave.

I just knew that I had to put my head down and get through it or risk becoming more sick and potentially facing death.

I didn’t choose cancer.

I didn’t choose to lose my father.

My husband didn’t choose to be put in a situation that would require him to save a life.

We don’t wake up one morning hoping to navigate some of the hardest chapters of our lives.

What choice is there?

We all have moments that we don’t want to face, and still we get up.

We go to the appointment.

We sign the paperwork.

We answer the phone call.

We make the funeral arrangements.

We keep moving.

Why?

Because life keeps moving.

So, what choice do we have?

Maybe what people are actually seeing isn’t bravery.

For me, the word that comes to mind is courage.

I had the courage to get out of bed and drive to chemo knowing that it was going to make me sick in the short term, hoping that it would make me healthy in the long term.

My husband saved a life knowing that it would put his life at risk in the short term and acknowledging that this was the job he signed up for.

My father did workouts well into his decline from a degenerative disease, not thinking it would save his life. Hoping that it would prolong his mobility and independence.

My mother didn’t want to say goodbye to her husband of 46 years. She stayed by his side caring for him day after day, even though at the end he barely resembled the man she married.

Maybe this is the distinction I’ve been searching for.

Bravery feels like stepping into something difficult by choice. Like stating, “I’m the tribute who volunteers to take this on.”

Courage feels like continuing through something difficult when life has made the choice for you.

The people I admire most embody this.

They aren’t fearless. They don’t consider themselves to be heroes.

They are ordinary people pushing through extraordinary circumstances.

Because to them, there is no choice.

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I was taught to be empathetic. Taught to consider other people’s feelings, needs, and perspectives. That can be a gift in the right circumstances. But it can put us in danger in the wrong circumstances.

There are moments in my life that I look back on and wonder how I might have acted differently if the Weslea of now was transported back in time. Moments when I should have stood up for myself. Moments when I should have stood up to someone else.

In another life, there was a man I worked with. That man held a position of power over me.

He acted inappropriately and then said, “This is perfect, because if you tell people this happened, they’ll believe me, not you.”

I was scared.

That man texted me non-stop. I’d read the texts sitting on my screen without a response and panic, wondering why he thought this was okay. Every time my phone went off in those days, my heart sank. Those screenshots still live on my phone.

He behaved in ways that were filthy, horrible, and honestly illegal.

I called my boss. I told him what happened, all while texts continued to ping my phone. I was scared. My boss sounded sympathetic. Over time, the sympathy faded.

Later, my boss and I discussed the situation again. I said that I didn’t want to be alone with that man. His response was not what I expected. There was a look of irritation on his face.

“Did you actually feel like you were in physical danger?”

Yes.

I did.

What happened that day was not a misunderstanding. It was a violation.

But by then, I had spent so much time questioning myself that I wasn’t even sure how to answer the question. I had become more concerned with how this would look within the industry. If this came out, who would ever want to hire me? If this came out, would I lose my job?

It seemed to confirm what that man had told me... they would believe him and not me.

I had two managers, and both of them were questioning my “version” of events. Eventually, I began to question it too. I knew what had happened. I had the texts. But I didn’t want to fight for my reputation. I didn’t want to stand up and deal with the potential fallout. This was years before #MeToo, and honestly, I felt alone.

But finally another man found out. He’d worked closely with that man. He called me personally.

“I’m so sorry this happened to you,” he said. “He’s done this before, but not with one of our coworkers. If I’d known, I would have stopped it.”

Now I think back to the woman I was, coming out of a divorce. Working hard to support herself. Trying to navigate life with an armor.

And maybe that armor gave the wrong impression.

That I was strong.

That I was the girl who could take anything.

I wasn’t.

I was scared.

I felt alone, and I felt like I couldn’t trust my version of reality.

Years later, I saw that man again.

In passing. In my neighborhood in Texas.

It had been a decade since the events had transpired.

And still my heart rate increased.

I ran to the bathroom of the store I was in and called my husband.

“He’s here. At our neighborhood store.”

I panicked.

Tell me now that it wasn’t real.

A decade later, my body still went into fight or flight.

I fled.

Maybe sometimes women struggle to trust themselves because we receive feedback that others don’t trust us either.

Oh, you know women...

They’re dramatic.

The woman I am now wouldn’t have stood for it.

Maybe that’s because I’m stronger.

Maybe it’s because other women paved the way.

Maybe it’s because I finally learned to trust myself.

Whatever the reason, I wouldn’t stay silent now.

I used to think self-love and self-care were the same thing.

For most of my twenties, loving myself came easily.

I had confidence. I trusted my instincts. I liked the person I saw in the mirror. I believed I was smart, capable, and beautiful. I knew I had life figured out.

When I graduated college and landed my dream job, it felt like i had the world wrapped around my little finger. Marriage, babies, career success, and all I wanted in life seemed as though they would arrive just as effortlessly as that first job offer.

Oh, how wrong I was. What’s that saying, “if you want to make God laugh... tell him your plans.”

What I didn’t realize at the time was that the “love” I thought I had for myself hadn’t been through the ringer. I hadn’t faced adversity. I hadn’t experienced deep loss. And, I didn’t know that challenges could result in a loss of self. And ultimately a loss of self-love. Because for me life hadn’t truly “LIFED” yet.

There are many moments now that I can look back on and recognize as the moments I lost pieces of my innocence. Pieces of that innocent love that I had for myself. I remember some of the moments that I lost myself. But, some of them were less clear. A boundary crossed. A firm stance that I wavered on. A husband that I cheated on.

It didn’t happen all at once.

It happened over years.

A thousand small moments. A handful of life-altering ones.

Dreams shifted. I realized that my dream job was just an entry point to the whole wide world. And, as I made my first career change, I realized that some of the people I held close, didn’t hold me in the same regard. A supervisor at work who had taken me under his wing, only to lie about a situation when his feet were held to the fire. He made me look bad. Who does that? It was the first time in my life that I’d truly had someone stab me in the back with a blatant lie.

Career changes happened. I made my second cross-country move for a new job. This was the one that would change my life. This one would save my marriage, that felt rocky and unstable. What I failed to realize at the time is that one of the biggest issues in my marriage was me.

A body I once loved was shamed by people and events. I’ve always had hips. But, I’d never thought of myself as fat. Until one day, while working in radio, a shock-jock morning show down the hall talked about my body in a way that made me loathe it. Hate my hips. See myself differently than I ever had before.

Pregnancy loss arrived. And it shattered me on a soul level.

Infertility followed. Which robbed me of more of myself with each loss.

A marriage dissolved. That’s when the self-loathing really came into the picture.

Endometriosis entered the picture. Why wouldn’t my body work with me? I saw myself as a victim, and I embodied that mentality.

A second marriage arrived. Every day of my life since I met that man I’ve been filled with gratitude. His love for me taught me a lot about how to learn how to love myself again.

Cancer entered the picture. And, for me I felt less like a victim with this diagnosis. I realized how precious life can be. And, how much I wanted to live every minute to the fullest.

Now you have the CliffsNotes version of the last 20+ years of my life.

Somewhere along the way, I lost myself.

Not all at once. Not dramatically.

Just little by little.

I lost confidence in my instincts. How could I trust a person who had people who didn’t like them, who had people that didn’t trust them. Who had betrayed the trust of others.

I lost trust in my body. It didn’t do the one thing in this world I wanted it so desperately to do.

I lost my voice. Out of shame? I don’t know. But, I lost it. Ironic for a person who started their career as a radio personality.

I spent years wishing I could become the woman I had been in my twenties again. I spent years, loathing the present and only catching glimpses of things that I could like about myself. The young woman I’d been was fearless. Certain. Unshaken by the world around her.

What I didn’t understand was that she was never going to be the final version of me. We still haven’t met her.

I was grieving the loss of someone I was never meant to remain.

The truth is that life wasn’t taking me further away from me.

It was transforming me.

Like a caterpillar that has yet to become a butterfly, I couldn’t see the metamorphosis. All I could see was what should have been. The grief. The uncertainty.

Now, in my forties, I understand something I never could have understood in my twenties.

Self-love is not believing you’re beautiful when life is easy.

It’s not about making sure you take time for yourself on a Sunday, do a face mask, take a long shower... nope, that’s not it.

It’s loving yourself after life has broken your heart. After you’ve broken your own heart.

It’s trusting yourself after you’ve made mistakes. I have my husband to thank for this. He told me one time that if he didn’t hold something against me, then I needed to work on forgiving myself. It was one of those pivotal moments where I realized I’d had it all wrong.

It’s appreciating your body after it has failed to cooperate with your plans. After it’s gained and lost the same 20 pounds 20 times. Only to realize sometimes there’s a level of happiness that can only be achieved if you eat the damn french fries.

It’s finding your voice after you’ve lost it.

The woman I am today is wiser, softer, stronger, and far more compassionate than the woman I was at twenty-five. She also takes way less shit.

And for the first time, I understand the difference between confidence and self-love.

One came from believing life would go according to plan.

The other came from surviving when it didn’t. Pushing through when it seemed unlikely that things would ever work out.

I spent years trying to become a version of myself I had outgrown.

I was never supposed to go backward. We don’t drive while looking in the rearview mirror.

I was becoming someone new.

And I am deeply grateful for the woman I’ve become.

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Three months since I heard him say, “I love you a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.”

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In some ways, I think my grief hasn’t begun yet.

Dad’s celebration of life isn’t until Labor Day weekend. So I wonder if I’ve even made time for closure. Or, if I’m pushing it off. I’m sure that weekend will fill me with emotions I can’t yet imagine.

It will be the last time a group of people comes together to formally celebrate him. To commemorate him. To acknowledge the impact he had on the world. And, I can assure you it was a big impact. One that he left quietly, without fanfare or acknowledgement. We’re only now finding out from people in his community, or, from total strangers, the acts of kindness that he did. Things he didn’t even tell my mom.

If you never got to meet my dad, I’m deeply sorry that you missed out on knowing one of the greatest humans to walk this earth.

For me, I’m deeply sorry that I’ll never hold his hand again.

But, I have a mold of our hands intertwined that sits by his urn and the very last photo ever taken of us. I see it every morning as I walk to the door to let my dog outside. And when I go outside I greet the small tree I planted in memory of him.

He used to get us a live Juniper tree every year instead of a Christmas tree because he didn’t want to have a dead tree in the house. He would rather have planted it and added to the beauty of the outside world.

And he did that, daily.

There are days when I don’t want to eat a healthy meal. I don’t want to work out. There are days when I’d rather mope around and feel sorry for myself.

But now, more often than not, I remind myself that I need to take care of his daughter.

That’s what he would want, right?

The days I want to quit, I think he wouldn’t have wanted that.

The days I’m angry, I think about how courageously he faced each new development in his decline from PSP.

Progressive supranuclear palsy. If you don’t know what that is, I’m thankful. It means you’ve been spared from it.

Dad met every new loss with grace. And he had more fight in him than most people have in their entire life.

And when I find myself struggling, I try to remember that. I try not to be jealous when I see photos of people with their dads. I try not to get angry that his life was cut short. I try, but I don’t always succeed.

I’m thankful that I had the kind of father who made such an impact. The kind of father who wanted my sister and I to have a better and more fruitful life than he’d had. Who sacrificed and put on the back burner his heart’s desire so that ours could be fulfilled.

I love you, Dad.

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I grew up in the era of Girls Just Want to Have Fun and Disney Princesses. It was a wildly confusing time for a young woman to learn her identity in love and relationships. How does one reconcile being the fun girl and getting your happily ever after?

Over the years and through the mistakes, I learned that when you’re intimate with someone, whether you like it or not, they shape who you become. They leave pieces of themselves in your heart and marks on your life.

In my younger years, I dated a lot. That is to say, I learned a lot of lessons.

Sometimes it’s through the gentle lessons those relationships teach you about love. About admiration and kindness. The men who you don’t spend a ton of time with, but who leave you with kind words, kind actions, and loving gestures.

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Other times, it’s because they break your heart and leave you standing confused and disoriented in the chaos, trying to figure out what just happened. Trying to pick up the pieces and remember who you are. The man who you spent way too much time waiting on and compromised way too much of yourself for.

I began to think that I should protect my heart in love. And so, I spent years trying to become smarter, less vulnerable, less likely to get hurt. I had a facade that I wore in the dating world that said I was hard and unbreakable. If you know me, you know that’s laughable. It was a big fat lie.

And if I could stand in the shoes of that young woman, I would hug her. And then I would encourage her to honor herself.

I’d tell her to protect her peace, not her heart.

I’d tell her to have stronger boundaries and not be available to the wrong people. To be put on a pedestal should have limits. You can’t be someone’s everything. It’s not realistic.

A shorter fuse for excuses. A greater love of self. It’s a sad thing that I’ve only recently really come to love myself fully and wildly. But I don’t think I’m alone in that. It’s too easy to believe what other people say, to look at yourself through the lens of others’ judgment.

And damn, I’m fun.

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Less tolerance for lies, the wolf in sheep’s clothing. He may bring some good times, but he leaves you wondering what the hell just happened.

Age has many benefits, and one of them is the gift of hindsight. I know now that if someone likes you, they make time for you. They don’t play games. They don’t lead you on. They show up and they tell you how they feel.

If they’re saying they like you but can’t make the time to see you, can’t return a phone call, can’t show up consistently, can’t decide what they want, then they’ve given you an answer. Actually, they’ve given you a gift, the gift of not wasting more of your precious time. If I could tell my younger self that, I wonder, would she listen?

When I met my husband, he showed me that a man can be strong, fun, and wildly honest about how he feels. I remember one of our first trips together. He asked me where we stood on kids.

I didn’t really know how to respond. He’d put himself into my story with a big, fat “we,” all while asking a wildly important question. It sounded like he thought there was a future. I wasn’t used to that.

Who was this guy?

He showed me again and again that he had values and stood by them. He wasn’t perfect, and he didn’t proclaim to be.

He held me close the first night we slept in the same bed. No man had EVER done that. And this one knew me less than some of the others.

He wasn’t afraid to make plans for the future. He’d call and text for no reason. Who is this guy?

My head was spinning.

Those dysfunctional, chaotic relationships taught me how to truly value what matters. They taught me how to recognize a man who cherishes me.

The road to get here was rocky.

But honestly, I’m filled with gratitude for those lessons.

They made it so clear that he was the one.

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When I started The Survivor’s Edit in December, I thought it would be a place to connect with other cancer survivors.

For me, it has evolved.

The cathartic nature of writing has shown me that we are all survivors in one way or another. Life brings moments where we are asked to dig deep, keep going, and learn what our new path looks like. That, too, is survival.

What a beautiful evolution this has been.

To live is to survive.

We survive divorce. Loss. Illness. Change. Work. Grief. New beginnings.

And through writing, I have discovered something exquisite: the community that comes from sharing.

So often, we keep our survival quiet. We lock it away in hidden places where no one can see the hurt that brought us to where we currently stand.

But that is not me.

I share.

Sometimes, I overshare.

And through that sharing, I feel a beautiful community coming together.

So while I do talk about cancer survivorship, I also talk about all types of survival. All the ways women and men carry loss, grief, change, and new beginnings.

There are many paths in life that cause us to live in the after.

This is a place for those stories.

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During the conversation, I opened up about the end of my first marriage and the fact that I was unfaithful. It’s a part of my story that took me a long time to come to terms with. I believe that when you put in the work, you become more than the darkest moments and deepest mistakes of your life. I believe it because I’ve lived it.

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Infidelity was not the only reason the marriage failed. There were many reasons my first husband and I should not have been together. And there’s no need to discuss those reasons. What I will say is that my inability to be faithful was the biggest nail in the coffin of the relationship.

Time and age give you perspective.

One of the hardest parts of growing up is realizing that sometimes you are the person who caused the harm. I compromised my values. Those choices affected the people I loved. And not just my ex. He had been a part of my family for years. I had been a part of his family. Both families had to reorient themselves to the idea that the other person was gone and wrap their heads around the truth of my actions and the devastation they caused.

When I was young and caught up in emotion, it was easy to put consequences on the back burner. Something to face later. But you cannot outrun later. It always catches up with you.

What I did hurt my ex husband. But what I did not realize until years later is that it hurt me too.

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There is a deep damage that comes with betraying your own moral compass. You lose trust in yourself. You have to rebuild that slowly and honestly. And it takes time. In my experience, rebuilding trust with yourself can be harder than rebuilding it in relationships with other people.

Now, I’ve been happily married for almost a decade, and I know with complete certainty that there is not a person or situation that could make me betray my husband’s trust. I also know that my husband had to patiently wait for me to forgive myself. It took longer than I care to admit. If I’m being honest, in the beginning, it almost ruined us. I could not trust myself, so how could I fully give my trust to another?

The woman I was then was not mature. She was not accountable. She was young and caught up in moments she believed meant something.

Ironically, those mistakes gave me an unshakeable moral compass in my 40s. I do not believe in the adage, “Once a cheater, always a cheater.” I was once unfaithful. I will never do that to myself or another person again.

I think part of maturity is being willing to look directly at the parts of your story that make you uncomfortable instead of pretending they never happened. Being able to say, this is me, raw and uncut.

It is hard. It takes time. It takes help. It takes learning how to love yourself enough to become someone you can trust again.

Life is a lot like a book. If you jump into one chapter, you will not understand the whole story. You may walk away with the wrong idea. You have to finish it to fully grasp the meaning. And maybe that is what makes life so beautiful. We are constantly learning there is more to the story than what first meets the eye.

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Including the deeply humbling experience of chemo side effects happening publicly and realizing very quickly that survival is not always graceful. I’ve become the embodiment of “let go laughing” and let me tell you, it’s deeply humbling.

One of the things I continue to come back to, both in writing and in life, is how rarely we talk honestly about the aftermath of difficult experiences. We talk about resilience. We talk about overcoming adversity. But we talk far less about the strange, messy, sometimes absurd realities that exist while you are living through it.

This conversation touched on a lot of that.

Sometimes survival is profound.
Sometimes it’s absurd.
Usually it’s both.

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Women have always been creators. We hold the key to life in our wombs. Even symbolically in the tropes of the maiden, the mother and the crone - society expects us to fit into these boxes. As I entered my mother phase, I quickly learned that my body wouldn’t cooperate.

My first miscarriage happened with my first husband back in 2009. It took us months to get pregnant. Two-week wait after two-week wait nothing happened. And then finally, that faint, light pink line that told me we were pregnant. Shortly after it was confirmed by my doctor, I was pregnant.

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It’s a funny thing to find out you’re pregnant. Hopes and dreams of a life unlived, it all flooded into me and I embodied the idea of motherhood. I imagined my child growing older, pushing them while they squealed on a swing, holding their hand on the first day of school. I put myself straight into this timeline. I was only pregnant for around 8 weeks the first time.

One night, when I was working in the record industry and a band I worked with was playing the rodeo at the New Mexico State Fair, I took my entire family to see my band, meet them, and get a sense of what I did. As we sat listening to Eli Young Band sing Crazy Girl, I felt cramps. I pushed the worry to the back of my mind and continued to try to enjoy the evening. I posed for a photo with my mom, dad, sister and former husband and the band. I faked laughter and my smile while the worry and the pain intensified. The next morning, I woke up in a pool of blood. I’ve desperately wanted something before. But, until that moment, I never knew true desperation. I wanted to pull that little life back to me, I wanted to cradle it and beg it to stay. Don’t leave me, I cried. I called my doctor and they told me to go to the hospital. I sat on the bed, wanting to die, while my ex read the newspaper. I wanted to be comforted. I wanted to be held. I felt completely alone. When we got home I went to bed for the rest of the day numb, devastated, angry, heartbroken.

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I remember feeling like my ex moved on more quickly than me. And, it made sense. He hadn’t felt the changes like I had, the nausea, the soreness in my breasts, the elation of a desire fulfilled. There was a moment, I think he wanted to make me feel better - he said, “Technically, it wasn’t a fetus yet. It was a zygote.” I googled it, not only was it not true - the sentiment didn’t help. Looking back, these moments became the beginning of the end for me.

Later I went to lunch with a friend and she said, “I had a miscarriage years ago and I just don’t remember being this sad about it.” I wanted to scream. I wanted to shake people and ask them what the actual hell was wrong with them. Everyone responds to grief and loss differently, and I’d wanted that baby with every cell in my body. Alone in the shower I cried, and begged my body to cooperate, I begged her to keep my child enveloped in the safety of my womb the next time.

We saw a fertility specialist in NM who did a D&C to help identify what was going on inside my uterus. From start to finish it was a horrible day. They don’t prescribe pain meds for procedures like these. So I grinned and bore it as they dilated my cervix and scraped the inside of my uterus. Women’s medicine is archaic sometimes. If a man had to go through it - they would make it more comfortable. But that was not my reality, so I bit my lip and cried through the entire procedure. The physician, whose name I’ve permanently blocked from memory, was an older man. He looked up at one point and saw me crying. “Well, aren’t you a delicate flower,” he said. I told him it hurt and he brushed it off and said that it was a fast procedure and to suck it up. I did. I was angry, bleeding and cramping, feeling gaslit and violated when we went to check out. His final jab: “I guess you won’t be sending me a Christmas card.” That was the first time I experienced the deep disconnect between women’s healthcare and women’s feelings.

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As we drove home to the soundtrack of my tears, I felt the life I wanted slipping further and further away.

This started the long road of fertility issues and the helplessness and pain that accompanies them. I had another two or three miscarriages with my first husband. The pain sent me down a path of self-sabotage. I was drinking too much, I wasn’t invested in my marriage, I was deeply depressed. And eventually, the misalignment led to divorce.

When I moved to Austin I finally got diagnosed with Endometriosis. This diagnosis explained so much. It gave me a sense of validation, I felt seen. I had one more miscarriage after my first endometriosis surgery. We weren’t trying to get pregnant... but, we weren’t preventing it. I was in my swimming laps phase, and as I swam, lost in thought, I felt the familiar flutter in my abdomen, the tickle of new life. Could it be? I scheduled a doctor’s appointment and went in for a blood test. In the meantime, life went on.

The thing about fertility issues and pregnancy loss - hopes aren’t as high after the first loss. Doubt creeps in and feelings get protected. Excitement is overshadowed by reality.

The following weekend I was putting out signs for my open house and I felt the cramping.

No, I can’t do this again.

I was on the phone with a friend. She told me not to get too far ahead of myself and to wait to see what the blood test said. When I got home, I was bleeding. This time, it hit differently and in a way more deeply. I was in a loving, successful relationship. I wanted to make him a father. I wanted to raise his child with him. And I could feel it all slipping away again.

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We had plans that day, and I couldn’t face them. Patrick called me on his way to the pool party we were supposed to attend. I told him I couldn’t do it, the idea of being fake when I was breaking was too much to bear.

I’d just gotten off the phone with the on-call physician at my OB-Gyn’s office and she’d confirmed I’d been pregnant. They called me in meds to help with the pain and I scheduled an appointment for Monday knowing that there wouldn’t be a pregnancy when I got to the office. My heart had been through this too much and I didn’t want to go through it again. Especially not now, knowing that this child, this was the one that was supposed to be here, this one was supposed to make it.

I curled into a tiny ball and wept.

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Oh, to be a woman. What a beautifully complicated thing.

Not only because of the obvious things. The cycles. The hormones. The expectations (sometimes self-imposed). The invisible emotional labor that somehow follows us into every relationship we have.

But also because loving people comes with risk.

Over the years, I’ve lost several close friendships. Some slowly. Some all at once. All of them heartbreaking in their own way.

There are friendships that simply fade.

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The calls become less frequent.
Texts go unanswered a little longer.
Life gets busier.
People move.
Relationships shift.
And eventually you realize you no longer know the small details of each other’s lives.
Then one day you wake up and realize you haven’t spoken in over a year, and now it feels too awkward to pick up the phone. Too much time has passed. Too many things have changed.

The friendship didn’t explode.
There wasn’t any drama.
It just quietly slipped away like a rock sinking into the water after skipping over the surface.

Other friendships end differently.

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A disagreement.
A betrayal.
A misunderstanding that hardens instead of softens.
Harsh words said in anger. You can’t take those back. The old adage about sticks and stones isn’t true. Words do wound. Sometimes irreparably.

I think friendship breakups can be especially painful because there is rarely closure. No one sends sympathy cards when you lose a best friend. There’s no acknowledged grieving period for the person who once knew every private part of your life and has now faded into the background.

And every time it’s happened, I turn inward.

What is it about me that makes it hard to be my friend?

Could I have handled things differently?
Been softer?
More patient?
Less reactive?
Should I have kept my opinion to myself?
Should I have shared less?
Could we have bridged the gap if I had tried harder?

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I think many women carry these questions after friendships end. Especially the friendships where you bared your soul. Women show up for each other in friendship differently than men do. That’s not to say that one is deeper or more impactful than the other. As a woman, I ache for community, and I find solace and comfort in my close female friendships.

The sad part for me is the breadcrumbs that never fade.
The inside jokes that die alongside the friendship.
The silly texts with random thoughts.
The random Sunday phone calls while folding laundry or calling from the gym parking lot because you’re feeling fat today, and you need the encouragement to go in.

There’s something deeply unsettling about realizing someone who once held the most vulnerable pieces of you in their heart no longer has access to your life at all. To bare one’s soul is to know that you’ll never get it fully back.

The term unconditional love has always been difficult for me. I don’t buy it. I’ve never experienced it.

And, if I’m being honest, I don’t believe in it.

Because all relationships have conditions, don’t they?

I love you.
But there’s a line which must not be crossed.

I love you.
But not at the expense of my own well-being.

I love you.
But love alone cannot sustain a relationship without respect, accountability, trust, or reciprocity.

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My lack of faith in unconditional love used to make me feel cynical. Now I prefer to think it makes me human. And honestly, it makes me honor the relationships I value so much more deeply. I love you, I respect you, we choose each other. And we make that choice again and again.

Boundaries do not negate love.
They are evidence of it.

Still, I think there’s a particular ache attached to the loss of close female friendships because women so often place pieces of themselves inside one another like treasures we carry in our souls. We become witnesses to each other’s lives. We hold secrets. The parts of ourselves we don’t always share with husbands, boyfriends, or the rest of the world. We hold fears. We hold insecurities. We hold bad habits. We hold long-lost rituals. We hold identities that the outside world doesn’t get to see. That’s why friendship is such a gift.

And when those friendships end, it can feel less like losing a person and more like losing a home that once knew your name by heart. Like losing a piece of yourself.

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They’re the aftermath.

The moments after the decision has been made.
After the treatment ends.
After the career changes.
After you lose a loved one.
After everyone else thinks the hard part is over.

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That’s when the silence sinks in. The reality hits. And it’s often not like you thought it would be.

My divorce was probably the first time I experienced this in a way I could put words to.

I knew pretty quickly after getting married that it wasn’t the right fit for me. We were not aligned in the ways that matter long term. I’m outgoing. Social. I love people, storytelling, conversation, energy. I spent my early career as a radio personality. I genuinely enjoy being around people and, truthfully, I don’t mind being the center of attention sometimes. I love speaking in public. That’s literally some people’s worst fear.

I think he loved the idea of me more than the reality of me. I remember coming home from parties or social engagements and being told that I needed to apologize for my “behavior,” only to call the person later and have them be completely confused as to why I was apologizing. In my first marriage, I often felt embarrassed of who I was and tried to be more meek. More acceptable. More wifely. Or at least his version of that.

When the marriage ended, I expected relief because I knew leaving was the right decision. I knew I couldn’t spend the rest of my life unhappy.

Instead, I felt disoriented.

I was embarrassed.
I felt judged.
I felt like I had somehow failed.
Even though I knew leaving was the right choice, I still felt heartbroken. I spent long nights clock-watching and waiting for the sun to come up. Waiting for the darkness to subside. It took a long time to see light again.

I lost my house and my dogs.

But the hardest part of all was losing friendships I thought would last forever. That part surprised me more than the divorce itself. Some relationships are deeply tied to seasons, environments, careers, or proximity. They can still be real and meaningful while also being circumstantial. But realizing that took a wisdom beyond the 30 years I possessed at the time. When those seasons end, it can feel shocking how quickly connections disappear with them.

There I was. Thirty and divorced. I felt like I was walking around with a visible mark on me that everyone else could somehow see. I carried a shame I couldn’t shake. I remember breaking down sobbing at the Breaking Bad car wash in Albuquerque. If you know, you know. I remember thinking: who would want this washed up person, how would I move on, could I support myself, would this ever end, would I be alone forever.

A few months later, a friend told me something I’ve never forgotten.

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He told me that watching me leave my marriage gave him the courage to leave his.

I remember sitting there dumbfounded by the statement because I had never once viewed myself as courageous in that situation. If anything, I saw myself through the lens of the people who judged me without fully understanding the story. I saw someone who left their husband. A quitter. Someone who had already failed at life.

It had never occurred to me that leaving also takes courage.

That experience would not be the last time I felt emotionally uprooted after surviving something difficult.

Career changes can leave you feeling disoriented too.

Over the years, I’ve lived several completely different lives professionally. I’ve been a radio personality in Albuquerque and Rochester, worked for record labels with artists like Eli Young Band and The Band Perry, started my own business, worked in real estate, and eventually became a COO. From the outside, those shifts can sound exciting or adaptive.

But changing careers changes more than your job title.

It changes your identity.
Your routines.
Your geographical location.
Your relationships.
Your sense of belonging.
Your knowledge base.

Every version of your life introduces you to a different version of yourself. And every time one season ends, there is often a strange grieving process for the person you were inside it. Even when you love where you are now, you may still grieve parts of who you were before.

Cancer brought that feeling back in an entirely different way. This wasn’t a choice. It was a fight.

Diagnosis.
Treatment.
Side effects.
Appointments.

I wasn’t prepared for it in my own life. I’d walked alongside friends through it in theirs, and through their parents’ and grandparents’ experiences. But not in my own.

But I made it through.

And then came the aftermath.

Almost no one prepares you for the strange emotional reality of surviving.

Survival is treated like the finish line.

When treatment ends, everyone expects you to feel relief. And part of you does, but you also quietly feel disconnected from your own life. You grieve for the people who didn’t survive. You wonder if the cancer will come back. You no longer feel like the same person, even as the people around you expect everything to return to normal.

I’ve learned recently that grief has a version of this too.

The world resumes surprisingly quickly after loss. Meanwhile, you’re left standing in the middle of a life that looks externally familiar but is forever altered. People stop checking in, but the pain doesn’t leave. You’re standing in a crowded room full of people trying to keep the tears at bay. Trying to stay engaged. Quietly losing it.

I think we talk a lot about survival in our culture. There are songs about it.
Fighting.
Pushing through.
Overcoming.
There’s this idea that we can charge through and everything will be okay.

We talk far less about reintegration.

About the strange emotional space between surviving something and fully reconnecting to yourself afterward.

Maybe that’s why so many people quietly believe something is wrong with them after major life changes.

Not because they failed to survive them.

But because nobody prepared them for what comes after.

And I know far more people experience this than we openly acknowledge.

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Love is patient. Love is kind. Love never fails.

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I knew it. I could recite it. I had it engraved on a wooden sign that hung in my first home. I understood what it meant to give that kind of love to other people.

And I did.

I show up for the people in my life.
I have patience for them.
Grace.
Understanding.
Even on their worst days.
Even through their worst mistakes.

But cancer had a way of turning everything inward.

There were days during treatment when I didn’t recognize myself.
My body ached. I felt disconnected from it.
More days than not, I didn’t want to deal with anything or anyone. Isolation became the norm.

And in those moments, I had to remind myself that I was in a fight.
That I was in the middle of something big.
And I was the only one who could carry it.

One day, I came across that verse.
And this time, I read it differently.

I wasn’t being patient.
I wasn’t being kind.
I wasn’t offering myself the same understanding I give so freely to everyone else.

I expected more from myself.
I wanted to get through it faster.

I sat there and silently judged myself.

Why did I eat that when I knew I was going to be chemo sick today?
Why can’t I just get up and move?
Why? Why? Why?

As if I didn’t deserve the very thing I believe matters most…

Love.

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The road to remission has forced me to see that.

Love isn’t just something you offer outward.
It has to exist inward, too. Even when it’s uncomfortable.

And if I truly believe what that passage says, then I don’t get to be the exception.

Not on the hard days.
Not when I feel off.
Not when I fall short of who I think I should be.

Especially then.

So I’m learning to meet myself with the same patience and grace I give to those I love.
To appreciate my body for carrying me through the hardest days.
For working with the treatment.
For getting me to remission.

Because the kind of love that “bears all things… endures all things” has to include me, too.

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