It’s 4am and I am awake. My joints are throbbing, my bones ache, and my mouth is drier than the Sahara. As I lie in bed, I listen to the sounds of my family sleeping. Deep sighs, mumbled words, and peace surrounds me. My heart rate ticks up a bit as I get angry over the fact that I am not sleeping and that I’m still hurting. I contemplate getting up to grab some more medication to numb the pain and drown out the world for a few more hours. Responsibility weighs heavy on my mind and I choose to power through the discomfort as we have a lot to take care of in the morning and I need to be present. Checks need to be written for various school activities, a culturally and historically appropriate outfit needs to be curated for the Immigration Simulation, and general hygiene reminders need to be given, as they are every. single. morning. I sigh, turn over in bed, and attempt to sleep.

It’s funny, even now – after all of the scans and appointments and treatments, when I say out loud that I have cancer, it still doesn’t seem real. I look in the mirror at my baldness and puffiness from my last treatment and I don’t think cancer. I think, ohmygosh, is that a new wrinkle? Should I try an anti-inflammatory diet? Priorities, amiright?

My diagnosis hits me when getting out of bed, I can’t walk. When I need to be present for the girls and have to decide between my own comfort or getting shit done. When I get mad at the sun for shining because that means that I’m wasting a beautiful day away sleeping.

But it hits me especially when I don’t manage my own expectations. Sometimes we create our own heartbreak by failing to do so.

Here’s what I’m working on.

I am using this as a reminder. A reminder that the “proximity” of death should propel us to live with radical aliveness. That, even as we fight for life, life is happening still. The pain, the discomfort, the responsibilities are proof that you are still HERE. It might not be pretty, it might be a down right mess, but I’ll be damned if I let it get away.

What does your radical aliveness look like?

Love and Light, always 

WE MADE IT! Last day of chemo!!!!

I am stupidly emotional and I’ve been flipping between laughing and crying. Because of this, I am not terribly eloquent so please forgive the brevity of my words.

But…

This expression right here is how I feel about round 4 today. Determined, anxious, tired, and a little irritated, if I’m being completely honest. The last round kicked my 🍑 and I’ve been a nervous mess all weekend. Although, this marks the halfway point!!!!! And the last of the “red devil” drug combo. Send me your positive universe vibes, I could use them today 💜 Love and light, always 💜

Sparks of light, in a dark so dark, it resembles the murky depths of the bottom of the ocean.

A gasp of sweet, sweet air at the exact moment where one might think of just letting go.

Water for a plant, wilting under the burden of staying alive in arid conditions.

I have no energy to think or type. I shall leave you with this, though.

The air I breathe is made of hope, allowing the tiniest flicker of light to ignite in the darkness.

Love and light, always 

This is me. Raw and real.

This is what post chemo exhaustion looks like. This is me, completely bald, as my hair finally made its way out after a shower the other day.

I have this whole idea of leaning in with grace. Leaning into the discomfort. Leaning into the pain. Leaning into the frustration, the exhaustion, the tears, the loss of my outward identity, the sheer bullshit that this whole thing is.

Leaning in means that you allow those emotions to exist, you live in them and give them their due course.

Grace allows you to recognize them for what they are and accept them. Grace allows you to see the sun shining, to hear the laughter of your babies, to see the love of people jumping in to help or offer support.

Grace allows you to exist beyond the pain, discomfort, and all of the other shit.

Thank God for grace.

Love and light, always 💜