This Body is Bullshit

This blog started because I needed somewhere to put things.
Not to teach.
Not to inspire.
Not to brand myself.

Just to survive my own head.

If you’ve read the last 41 entries, you already know this isn’t a highlight reel. It’s a running log of grief, exhaustion, dark humor, tenderness, medical appointments, family chaos, work stress, joy, and the occasional moment where I realize I’m still standing.

This blog is therapy.
Whoever reads it is a mystery to me.
And that’s exactly how I want it.

When I look back at the earliest entries, I can see how angry I was. Not loud, explosive anger—but sharp, brittle, always-on-edge anger. Truth be told, I would choose violence if I could. The kind that comes from being overwhelmed, grieving multiple things at once, and having no room to set anything down.

I was surviving on adrenaline and obligation. Everything felt urgent. Everything felt heavy. I didn’t trust rest. I didn’t trust stillness.
I’m still negotiating both.

Somewhere along the way, that shifted.

I’m less angry now.
Still tired. Still frustrated. Still grieving.
But less reactive. Less jagged.
Don’t get me wrong—I’d still pop someone in the mouth if they needed it.

I’ve become more intentional with my time, mostly because I no longer have the energy to waste it. I’m choosier about where I show up, who I show up for, and what I say yes to. I’m learning (slowly, imperfectly) that doing less doesn’t mean I care less—it means I’m trying to stay functional.

A lot of these entries are about my body. Cancer. Meds. Pain. Fatigue. Brain fog. Scars. Side effects that linger. This body is bullshit sometimes—but it’s also carried me through more than I ever expected. I don’t romanticize survival anymore. I just acknowledge it and keep going.

I’ve learned there’s a word for this phase: survivorship. You’re not “done,” you’re not healed, and you’re definitely not back to who you were. You’re rebuilding. Or adapting. Or just trying to feel like yourself again. If that sounds familiar, you’re not broken. You’re responding normally to something that changed you forever.

Family runs through every part of this blog—the love and the complicated parts. My mom’s absence. My dad’s decline. Caregiving without a roadmap. The strange grief of losing someone in pieces instead of all at once. Trying to protect everyone while quietly unraveling myself. Learning, very slowly, that I can’t control outcomes no matter how vigilant I am.

Matt is here too—steady, loyal, sometimes annoying, always showing up. We’ve changed together. Not in a shiny, rom-com way, but in the real way people do when life keeps handing them shit they didn’t ask for. We’re still learning how to meet each other where we are, not where we used to be.

And Grace—my daughter, my heart, my mirror. She’s grown now, which is both beautiful and brutal. Watching her navigate her own emotions, choices, and struggles has forced me to loosen my grip and trust that I did enough. That she’s strong. That she’ll find her way. That part is still hard.

There’s also joy here. Real joy.
Friends who show up.
Dogs who anchor me.
Shared meals. Traditions. Laughter.
Moments that don’t fix anything—but soften it.

If there’s a theme to the last 41 entries, it’s this:
I’m learning how to live inside the mess without trying to outrun it.

I want more texture in my life now. More depth. More curiosity. Less noise. I want to travel—not to escape, but to stretch. I want to learn. To see how other people live. To gather stories and perspectives instead of just responsibilities. That takes time. And money. And space. All things I’m still looking for.

I don’t want a bigger life.
I want a truer one.

So this is the 2026 version of me:
Less angry.
More aware.
Still sarcastic.
Still tired.
Still showing up.

This blog will keep being what it’s always been—a place where I tell the truth as I understand it in the moment. No tidy conclusions. No takeaways. Just honest documentation of a life that keeps changing, whether I’m ready or not.

If you’re reading along, welcome.
But mostly—this is for my own sanity.