This Body is Bullshit

A few months ago, I started listening to Hidden Brain. Not because I was trying to reinvent myself or “do the work” (I’ve been doing the work against my will for about five years now), but because I needed something steady in my ears that didn’t involve murder, cults, or politics. It started to make a lot of sense and I was hooked. It didn’t change my life overnight or fix anything, but it did help me put language to things I’ve been living for a long time. The way trauma rewires your brain. The way grief lives in your body. The way we chase worthiness like it’s a moving target instead of something we already have. If you haven’t listened, I actually recommend checking it out. There are all kinds of topics, not just heavy stuff, and it has a way of gently explaining why we are the way we are without making you feel broken.

Then today, New Year’s Eve, a close friend posted something beautiful about standing still as the year turned. Breathing. No resolutions. No new version of herself. Just choosing to stay exactly where she is.

And it hit me, because this blog—This Body Is Bullshit—has never been about one rough year. It’s about the last five. It’s my therapy, and honestly, I’m sorry you’re reading this sometimes pity party. Five years of cancer diagnoses, surgeries, recurrence, reconstruction that didn’t go the way I hoped, and learning how to live in a body I didn’t trust anymore. Five years of grief stacked on grief—losing my mom, watching my dad slowly disappear, friends getting sick, dying. Five years of being reshaped by things I didn’t ask for and couldn’t control.

Here’s the part that feels important to say out loud though:
I actually have a good life.

Matt and I have a good life. We love each other. We laugh. We have enough. We are safe. I know that. I’m grateful for that. I don’t sit around wishing it away. But also? I want more. Not more stuff. Not more success. Not more productivity. I want space. I want to travel. I want to relax in the sun. I want to be near water. I want to be in nature. I want to see other parts of the world and remember that life exists outside of hospitals, waiting rooms, work, other people’s problems and calendar alerts. I want to learn about other cultures—maybe not all the food (I know who I am), but the way people live, slow down, and exist differently.

That doesn’t mean I’m ungrateful.
It means I’m alive.

And then there’s Grace. I am so proud of her it almost hurts. She is a genuinely good human. She worked her ass off for her degrees and is putting them to use in a way that actually matters—doing work that helps people and contributes to a better world. That didn’t happen by accident. And because I’m her mother, I can hold two truths at once. I want more joy for her. More confidence. More connection. Less isolation. Less hiding. Less pot smoking and more believing in herself the way I believe in her. I want her to feel solid in who she is—not just capable. Happy, not just functioning. Loving your adult child is a strange mix of pride, hope, fear, and knowing when to shut up and trust that they’re finding their own way. I’m working on that part.

I am absolutely exhausted by Christmas. Like, crawl-into-January-on-my-hands-and-knees exhausted. And yet I love it. I genuinely love Christmas. I love giving gifts. Not in a healthy, budget-conscious way. More like a mild condition. If something makes me think of someone, I buy it. Immediately. I don’t wait for birthdays or holidays. I see it, I think them, and suddenly my card is out. This is why December sometimes rolls around and I’m like, Huh. Interesting. I appear to have no money. And I just hope, truly hope, that people remember that random Tuesday in March when I gave them something because it reminded me of them. Because that counts. That should absolutely count. That’s how I love. Even if my bank account would strongly prefer I express affection in literally any other way.

FTD is a fucking bitch. It is mind-blowing and incomprehensible. There are no answers, no explanation for what’s happening to him, no clarity on why he’s acting this way, no roadmap for what’s coming, no real guidance on how to help Kathy, no certainty about anything at all. Just confusion, heartbreak, and the slow loss of someone you love while they’re still standing in front of you. Zero stars. Do not recommend. I hate it. I hate how unfair it is. I hate how depressing and frustrating it is. I hate how powerless it makes everyone involved. It’s exhausting and heartbreaking and such absolute bullshit.

And yet I still get up. I still show up. I still love fiercely. I still laugh. I still want beauty and warmth and water and rest.

What Hidden Brain helped me understand is that when trauma and loss stretch on for years, your brain becomes very good at survival and very bad at rest. You don’t stop wanting joy, you just don’t trust it. You brace. You scan. You wait for the next shoe to drop. And then you judge yourself for being tired or reactive when, honestly, your nervous system has been running emergency drills for half a decade.

And I need to say this plainly, because I tend to minimize it: I live with pain, fatigue, and brain fog constantly. Not occasionally. Not dramatically. Just always. It’s the kind that doesn’t look impressive from the outside but quietly dictates how much energy I have, how clearly I can think, how far I can push before my body reminds me who’s actually in charge. Some days I feel sharp and capable. Other days I lose words mid-sentence and forget why I walked into a room. It’s humbling. It’s frustrating. It’s real. And I’m tired of pretending that surviving well means pretending this part doesn’t exist. For a long time, I thought healing meant getting back to who I was before all of this. Before cancer. Before grief. Before pain rewired my body and loss rewired my brain. That version of me is gone. And chasing her nearly broke me.

So as another year turns, I don’t want a “new me.” I’ve already been remade too many times and none of it was optional.

What I want now is simpler and harder:
to stay in my body without apologizing for it
to hold gratitude and longing at the same time
to stop treating worthiness like something I earn after surviving well enough

No resolutions.
No reinvention.
No pretending the last five years didn’t change me.

Just me.
Feet on the ground.
Hand on my heart.
Breathing through whatever comes next.

And honestly?
That’s enough.