Today was my 4th (out of 5–almost done!) expander fills. And it was the hardest one so far. I had a different PA today, and the needle insertions hurt like hell. The expanders are almost full now and are pulling and pinching under my arms and across my ribs. I’m bruised and sore and stiff, and while I’ve been able to go back to work after the last two, I had to spend the day at home today.

When this journey started, I shared that nothing was softening the shock of a cancer diagnosis in the midst of a divorce, and that I was just going to have to surrender and let this experience soften me. And it has. It continues to, and I hope it never stops.

I have never had to walk around in the world feeling this fragile and tender, like a giant exposed nerve ending. I’ve never dealt with pain like this or exhaustion so deeply settled into my bones. It’s changed me, forever, in ways I’m only beginning to grasp. This season brings the gifts of learning to accept love and support, being open and vulnerable, honestly sharing my feelings when they come, drawing hard boundaries in places I’ve needed to for a long time, shifting perspectives, and an overdue intolerance for unacceptable behavior. It’s taught me a more appropriate approach to grace—for myself and others. And it’s taught me a lot of humility and patience and a deeper well of gratitude than I knew was possible. It’s shown me the beauty of my friends’ hearts, near and far. And it’s been a constant, unrelenting reminder that my God is Love, and that Love and God are in the tiniest, most unexpected details.

Last week I was sharing with my therapist that I still feel, most days, like all of this has just been a weird bad dream I will wake up from. And I explained that I have felt so loved and held by my friends and family, but that this all has still felt inexplicably isolating and lonely. She asked me if I had gone to check out the classes and services at Indy’s Little Red Door Cancer Agency. I told her that I still had not, but that I did have several items I needed to drop off for donation there. She made me promise I would register for a class.

When I went in and met the woman working at the front desk, I told her I had actually reached out back in November but then lost the nerve to come in. She asked me why I was hesitant, and I just froze, staring at her. I thought about saying I was busy over the holidays and travelling, and time got away from me—but instead, I just took a deep breath and told her the truth—that there is this weird inner voice I haven’t been able to shake that tells me that my cancer experience wasn’t real enough, that it somehow doesn’t count, that it wasn’t hard enough or serious enough, and that I don’t belong there, taking advantage of their resources or services. We sat down and talked and had a heart to heart. She listened as I cried. She showed me the facilities and walked me through everything they have to offer, to all women who have faced every stage of a diagnosis. We talked about the fucked up version of whatever this is—impostor syndrome of breast cancer?—the “My struggle doesn’t count because so many people have had to endure so much more” something—an issue that is evidently very normal and common.

And look—objectively I know that two truths can co-exist—that what I went through (and will continue to go through for the next 9-12 months) is a special kind of hell I wouldn’t wish on anyone. AND—I can know that I am so so so lucky that mine was found and treated early and that so many women deal with varying degrees of this and so many of their roads and experiences are drastically and profoundly more difficult and complicated than mine. In a logical and rational way, I KNOW both of these things are true…it’s just that FEELING them at the same time is still a struggle. But…

Tomorrow I will go to my first art therapy class and restorative yoga class for women diagnosed with and/or recovering from breast cancer. And I’m nervous…and excited for the opportunity to meet other women who might know a thing or two about this journey.

“Too often, we struggle stubbornly in an attempt to protect ourselves from the friction of being alive, when it is precisely that friction that works our spirit into a seeable gem. We are more malleable than we think, more durable and changeable than all hope…Thin and fragrant petals do not hide from the wind. They survive to die and break ground again. Even within one life, we shred and re-root. We break, bleed, and rearrange into yet another beautiful thing that learns how to reach. Resisting this process doubles our pain. Singing our way through it is the source of wisdom and beauty.”

Excerpt from today’s meditation in “The Book of Awakening” by Mark Nepo

PS—Deck sitting season is making her way back to Indiana, and I can’t wait to sit here and talk and share spicy waters and laughs and Love with so many of you.

Peace. Hugs. Rest. Love.

Good night.