This Body is Bullshit

I wasn’t scared when I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Not because I didn’t understand how serious it was—but because I believed I’d beat it. I trusted my body, my doctors, and my strength. And honestly? I still do.

Not all of my doctors failed me. Dr. Hansen—my breast surgeon—was one of the good ones. She was sharp, compassionate, and steady. I felt safe in her hands. I’ll always be grateful for that.

But everything after that? That’s where the damage really began.

After my mastectomy, I developed sepsis. My reconstruction failed. My body was falling apart—and so was the care I was receiving.

Dr. John Kim, my reconstructive plastic surgeon, was fine at first. But as soon as complications showed up, he completely distanced himself. He ignored me. Avoided me. Treated me like a nuisance. He once told me not to use my arms for two months and to board my dogs. BOARD MY DOGS. It was so out of touch, so absurd, and so unhelpful. He couldn’t handle the complications, and instead of staying to help, he disappeared.

Dr. Gradishar—my oncologist at the time—was no better. I found a lump. It looked like a pimple or a mosquito bite. I believed it was a cyst, because that’s what they told me. But how does an oncologist or a surgeon leave a lump—any lump—on a breast cancer patient and not pursue it further?

Gradishar sent me for a mammogram and an ultrasound. The results were inconclusive. And that’s where they left it. That’s where they stopped.

No biopsy. No second opinion. Just brushed off. As if I hadn’t already had cancer once. As if I didn’t deserve to be taken seriously.

And that lump? It was cancer. Again.

Dr. Fine—my new reconstructive plastic surgeon—took one look at it and knew. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t gaslight. He didn’t minimize it. He got it checked, and he was right. I had been walking around with undiagnosed, untreated cancer in my body for two years. Two years of missed opportunity. Two years where those cells could spread—and likely did.

Do you know what that means?

It means I now live with the knowledge that my cancer has had time to move. That it might come back. Somewhere. In ten years, maybe twenty. Or sooner. That kind of damage doesn’t just vanish. And I wasn’t given the option of radiation the first time—should I have been? Should someone have caught this before it became again?

I tried to hold them accountable. I even spoke to an attorney. But I was told I don’t have a case—because I eventually got diagnosed. Because I’m still here.

What kind of broken system is that?

Dr. Kim and Dr. Gradishar were negligent. They dismissed me. They failed me. I want that on record. I want to scream it. Because if they did it to me, they’ve done it to someone else—or they will.

But thank God for Dr. Fine. When I was at my worst—physically and emotionally—he showed up. He helped rebuild what someone else ruined. He made me feel seen, worthy, human.

And thank God for Dr. Undevia, my current oncologist. He’s sharp, current, and careful. He’s doing what should’ve been done years ago: monitoring, asking the right questions, and keeping me on the right medication.

I’m still angry. I probably always will be. But I’m also deeply grateful for the doctors who actually did their jobs. Who took me seriously. Who helped save my life.

To the ones who didn’t: I see you. And I hope someday, someone finally holds you accountable.

Over the weekend, my husband lost a friend. A good man—kind, private, and strong—who fought cancer quietly. He didn’t let many people in on just how bad it was until about a year ago. He lived across the country, which made it hard for his friends to be physically present. They tried. But he kept most of it to himself. That was just his way.

It’s heartbreaking. He’d already lost his wife to leukemia over a decade ago. And now, their daughter—barely in her twenties—has lost both of her parents to cancer. That’s the part that guts me the most. No one should have to carry that kind of grief so young.

This group of guys—my husband and his closest friends—are all just past 50 now. And this loss has shaken them. They’ve reached that stage of life where things start to shift. Where health isn’t guaranteed and friends become family. Just as they’re grieving one friend, another is on the edge. One of their friends’ wives is in hospice now, also battling cancer. The grief is overlapping. There’s no space to process one loss before another wave crashes in.

And then today, someone from work came by—a guy who’s been out on leave. Someone I’ve gotten to know well. He didn’t come to talk business. He came to say goodbye. He’s tired. He’s choosing hospice. And he wanted to see everyone one last time while he still could.

It’s all too much. So much loss. So much sadness. And still, everyone keeps going. Keeps trying to show up. Keeps trying to smile. To hold space for each other. But it hurts.

There was some good news this week. And honestly, I’ll take the silver linings wherever I can find them. My dear, sweetest friend—who was told she had a tumor in her ear—was instead diagnosed with Ménière’s disease. That comes with vertigo, hearing loss, and other issues, but it’s a hell of a lot better than the original diagnosis, which included brain damage or paralysis of half her face. That’s a win. Now we just need to keep her out of the damn sun so she stops getting carved up for skin cancer—because I fully plan on growing old with her. She’s my spirit animal and moon phase goddess.

Also, my sister’s sister-in-law—another one in the fight—got promising news. Her treatment seems to be working. And that gives us all a little hope.

I don’t have any profound thoughts or clean takeaways here. Just this overwhelming urge to hug the people I love and never let go.

Cancer fucking sucks.
I hate it.

We had just gotten back from a weekend at our happy place—one of those rare weekends where your cup is full, your soul feels lighter, and you’re still carrying the good vibes from being with your favorite people. I was feeling calm, recharged, even a little joyful.

Then I pulled into the driveway and waved at my neighbor across the street. We’ve always had a friendly, casual relationship—shared drinks, pool days, laughter, neighborly favors. She once walked my 170-pound mastiff Gus when I was recovering from surgery. I thought we were good. But when I smiled and said, “Hey, happy Memorial Day!” she just stared at me like I had five heads.

And that’s when things started to get…weird.

She began ignoring me entirely. Then came the yelling inside the house—full-blown screaming at her husband. Doors slamming. Things breaking. One day the back storm door was on the curb broken. She plays music in the yard so loud it’s become a neighborhood issue. She’s cursed at people walking their dogs. She accused new neighbors of gossiping and called the rest of us “cocksuckers.” Charming, really.

It was escalating fast. One day, I went out to grab the garbage cans, and she approached me like nothing had happened. She asked if I’d been having trouble with my phone or internet. I said no. Then she told me she’s on her third phone because the others were “bugged.” That her husband has wired the house and is trying to make her crazy. And that my voice has been tormenting her through her speakers for months.

You read that right. She believes I’m somehow living in her walls, using AI to harass her.

I was stunned. It was hard to keep a straight face, not because it was funny (okay, maybe a little) but because it was deeply bizarre and unsettling. I got inside and immediately called our other neighbor, Teri, who’s also had some strange encounters with her. Apparently, she told Teri the same thing—voices in the house—and even accused her of using her job at NASA to move satellites to mess with their electricity. Teri said she shut off the power for two hours to try and track down the source.

There’s a part of me that feels awful—she’s clearly in crisis. She needs help. But there’s also a part of me that’s annoyed. Unnerved. Frankly creeped out. And I think that’s valid too.

Because now she sits outside every night in a chair facing our house. Just…sits there. No book. No phone. Just staring. A few times during dinner, she’s come into the parkway with her hands on her hips, watching us through the windows. My dad was over once and we had to ask him to stop looking back at her because it felt like we were in some suburban standoff. It’s deeply uncomfortable.

At a friend’s urging, Matt and I went to the police station—not to get her in trouble, but to get something on record in case things escalate. The officer we spoke to was kind. He told us this wasn’t the first time something had been reported. And thankfully, our town now has a social worker on staff. She’s been referred.

I hope she gets help. I do. I don’t wish her harm. But I also need to feel safe in my own home, and right now, I don’t. I’m tired of looking over my shoulder. I’m tired of wondering if I’ll be accused of something I can’t possibly explain. I’m tired of trying to feel both compassionate and protected at the same time.

This isn’t just quirky behavior. It’s unsettling. And it’s exhausting.

And for the record: I’m not in her walls.

Subtitle: A love letter to sleep, guilt, and getting through the damn day

Some mornings, it takes dynamite to get me out of bed.

I’m not being dramatic. I mean that slow, heavy, body-aching kind of dread where you stare at the ceiling and try to bargain with time. Just five more minutes. Just ten. Just enough for the aches to fade or the weight to lift—but they never quite do. Eventually, I peel myself out of bed and start moving, but it feels like dragging a body that isn’t mine. A body that’s stiff, sore, bloated, tired, and—let’s just call it what it is—depressed.

I don’t always want to say that word out loud, but it’s probably true. Or at least, it feels true. Because the idea of going to work, putting on the face, managing emotions, problem-solving, navigating people all day—it’s just… a lot.

Here’s the hard part: I love my job. I really do. I waited a long time for this position. I’m good at it. I love the employees. I love being able to help people, advocate for them, connect with them. I’ve worked hard to be someone they trust. But the past year? It changed me.

Before my last surgeries, before the deepest part of the fatigue set in, I was doing it all. Staying late, checking my phone at night, responding on weekends, always on. And even then, my review said I was just “meeting expectations.” Let that sink in. I was working well beyond the 40 hours, giving more than I had to give, and somehow that was considered average.

Now? I work 40 hours. I show up. I do the job. I’m still running between buildings, still helping people. And yet I carry this quiet shame, like I’m not doing enough, even though enough has always been a moving target.

I know what it looks like from the outside—“She’s doing fine.” But inside, I’m worn out. Burned out. Over it. Not over the work, just over the weight of it.

I tell myself I’ll go for a three-mile walk after work. That I’ll get back to Pilates. That I’ll feel better if I just move. But by the time I get home, I’m toast. I’m not rested. I’m just done. And I’m stuck in this tug-of-war between exercise and sleep. I know movement is important. But I also hear that sleep is the most important. So which one wins? Because I don’t have the energy for both.

I want to be healthy. I want to feel good. I want to get up in the morning and not feel like I need a winch to lift me from the mattress. I want to move through my day without resentment, without dragging myself through the motions.

But right now, that’s not my reality.

Right now, I’m just getting through it.
Right now, I’m surviving mornings like they’re marathons.
Right now, I’m still here, even if I’m tired of being here this way.

And maybe that’s enough.
For today.

---

Matt met me when my life was already in full swing—messy, busy, loud, and packed with baggage. I was a single mom raising a daughter. I had trauma I hadn’t unpacked. Chaos was the default setting. But he didn’t flinch. He didn’t try to fix me or make me easier to love. He just stepped in and stood beside me, quietly, patiently, without needing to be the hero.

He still does.

Matt does the laundry. He takes care of the yard. He vacuums the floors. He does more than his share, and he does it without complaint or needing to be noticed. That kind of consistency? That’s love in action. Not grand gestures—just the steady stuff that makes life easier and feels like safety.

He’s more emotional and sensitive than I am, which balances me in ways I didn’t know I needed. He doesn’t always say things out loud—words aren’t his default—but just by being who he is, he’s helped me unlearn the habit of pretending I’m fine when I’m clearly not. He makes me laugh constantly. He’s kind, steady, and, annoyingly, unfairly good-looking. And yeah, I’ve (reluctantly) learned to enjoy the Grateful Dead and watch golf. That’s true commitment.

He goes to bed early, wakes up early, and has somehow turned into the guy who doesn’t need much—just a good cup of coffee, a dog nearby, and me, ideally not losing my shit over nothing. He tells dad jokes that I pretend to groan at but secretly love. He’s calm when I’m spinning out. He shows up for the hard parts, even when I don’t know how to let him in.

But here’s the honest part I don’t say out loud enough: everything I’ve been through—cancer, sepsis, surgeries, scars, chronic illness, exhaustion—it’s changed me. And it’s changed us, especially in the quiet, intimate ways. I miss how easy it all used to feel. I miss the spontaneity. I miss feeling confident and carefree.

I don’t pull away when he touches me—I want to be close—but I worry. I worry that he doesn’t look at me the same. That he sees the pain and fatigue and all the ways my body isn’t what it used to be. That maybe he misses the old me, too.

He’s never made me feel broken. But I feel broken sometimes. And I hate that he’s had to carry so much of the weight while I figure out how to feel whole again.

I want to give him everything. The spark. The ease. The version of me that didn’t second-guess everything or feel like her body was betraying her. I’m working on it. We’re working on it.

I don’t know if I believe in fate. But I believe in timing. And Matt showed up exactly when I needed someone steady. Someone soft. Someone who wouldn’t run when things got messy.

He is home. He’s always been home.

And I hope he knows—every day—how much I love him, how lucky I feel, and how deeply I see everything he does… even when I forget to say it out loud.

I hear it a lot:
“I miss the old Molly.”

Well, I don’t.
She was exhausted.

People say it like I’ve slipped away somewhere and they’re just waiting for me to bounce back with glittery party invites and an armful of Jell-O shots. But the truth is, the old Molly doesn’t exist anymore. And if I’m being really honest, I’m not sure she ever did—not the way everyone remembers her.

Yeah, she was fun. Loud. The ringleader of whatever chaos was unfolding. She threw the parties, rallied the group, made everyone laugh until they cried. But she was also quietly carrying a hell of a lot. Always holding it together. Always smiling. Always on.

I’ve been through some shit.
And no, not just breast cancer—though that’s part of it.

Before that, it was loss. Single parenting. Bankruptcy. Chronic illness. Burnout. Exhaustion so deep it’s hard to explain. And then more loss. Life didn’t just knock me down; it chipped away at me piece by piece. And somehow, I’m still here—just not the same.

These days, I like different things. I like quiet. I like staying home with my dogs and husband, doing… not much. I’m a brunch bitch now. A 3 p.m. cocktail kind of gal. I still love a dinner out—good food, great conversation, a glass of wine—but then? I want to go home and put on sweatpants. I like being in my house. I like knowing where the snacks are and who’s snuggling next to me.

Honestly, I don’t really drink much anymore.
Partly for my health.
Mostly because it takes so damn much to feel a buzz, it’s just not worth it. Like—am I trying to have a good time or poison myself?

I’ll still get buzzed up and dance—who knows where, who knows when. That glimpse of “fun, annoying drunk Molly” might pop in unexpectedly. But don’t count on her too often—she’s mostly retired.

When I do go out, I’d rather head to a restaurant or somewhere with a vibe—a place with an experience. I’ll go to someone’s house, sure, but even when I love the person, part of me is thinking, “Why am I here when I could be on the couch with my dogs?” That makes me sound antisocial, but I swear I’m not. I just value comfort differently now.

Maybe that’s why I prefer hosting over being a guest. I haven’t done it much lately—money’s tight, the house needs work. It’s a little worn in these days. I’m not embarrassed—I’m proud of our home. My husband worked his ass off for it. But I still catch myself wondering what people think of our old bathroom or side-eyeing the fact that our dogs rule the house. They sleep in our bed. They’re allowed on the couch. We don’t just love them—they’re our weird little furry roommates.

Still, I miss throwing theme parties. The silly ones. The “wear something ridiculous and eat too much dip” kind. I want to bring those back.
Actually—I am bringing them back.
Be on the lookout for Muumuus and Margs.

And when I do show up—when I’m at the party and I’m not being loud or the center of attention—it doesn’t mean I’m not happy. It means I’m sitting back, watching my people laugh and dance and just be, and soaking in the joy like sunshine. That’s my sweet spot now. That’s contentment. I don’t need to be the spotlight anymore. I just want to be in the room, heart full, grateful to witness the good stuff.

I know some of this might sound weird. Like I’ve gone soft. Or boring. Or changed.

And yeah—I have.

But not because I gave up.
Because I finally let go of trying to be everything to everyone.

Now it’s presence over performance.
It’s naps and boundaries and saying no without guilt.
It’s leaving when I’m tired.
It’s listening more than talking.
It’s knowing I can still love my people without always needing to be “on.”

So no, I’m not the old Molly.

She’s gone.
She burned out.
She evolved.

And honestly?
I like this version better.

My dad is a character. Capital C.

My dad grew up as a farmer in a super small town in Central Illinois that no one’s ever heard of. His dad was a state representative and farmer, and his mom was a teacher. He wrestled at Southern Illinois University, flew little planes, sold designer suits, and had a best friend who was a NASCAR champion. The man has stories. He tells them slow, and they’re getting slower—but he loves making people laugh, even if he’s told you the same one six times.

He’s always been a wild one. A total badass back in the day—riding Harleys, getting into fights (the kind that end with broken noses), and the time he straight-up made a citizen’s arrest of an attorney he thought screwed him over. Handcuffed the guy, put him in his car, and drove him all the way from Carbondale to Chicago. Made the front page of the Sun-Times. My mom was horrified. Tried to keep it a secret. But I wasn’t surprised—he told me he was going to do it weeks before. That’s who he was: unpredictable, wild, and absolutely sure he was in the right.

These days, he’s softer. Slower. Still funny, still trying to make everyone laugh, but different. Smaller, somehow—though his mustache and eyebrows are still enormous. 2eyebrows.and.a.mustache on Insta.

He’s slipping.

He knows it, sort of. He admits he has memory issues. He’ll tell you flat-out that he forgets things. But the minute you try to talk about how bad it’s getting, he shuts down—or gets mad. I’ve tried to talk to him about getting turned around while driving, or about the time he got lost walking the dog in the woods. But he won’t have it. He insists it didn’t happen or blames it on bad directions, or construction, or “someone else’s fault.” I try to use softer words—say “turned around” instead of “lost”—but it doesn’t help. He gets agitated, and I get scared. Because it’s getting worse. Maybe not day to day, but definitely week to week.

It’s terrifying not knowing how far this will go. I just want him to understand what’s happening so we can help him. I’m anxious to get him in for more testing and follow-up with the neurologist. I’m hopeful, but I’m also heartbroken. I hope there’s never a day he doesn’t know who I am.

And I feel helpless watching my stepmom, Kathy, carry so much of this alone. She’s his whole world—he’s obsessed with her, in the sweetest and most exhausting way. He’s completely dependent on her, and while it’s beautiful how much he loves her, it’s also a lot. For her. For us. I try to help, but I don’t live with it every day like she does.

Despite everything, he’s still him. He carries dog treats in his pockets everywhere he goes—like a dog whisperer on patrol. He’ll light up when he sees you, like you haven’t seen each other in years, even if you were just there last week. He’s still a hardcore Democrat and lives to rant about how much he hates Donald Trump. Some things, at least, haven’t changed.

But this slow fade? It’s crushing. Watching someone who once seemed larger than life shrink in this quiet, relentless way—it breaks your heart in real time.

And I don’t know what to do except write it down. Try to hold onto him while I still can. And hope he keeps holding onto me too.

I left him when she was two years old.
I didn’t leave because I suddenly found my strength—I left because she deserved better.

There was a time when I didn’t recognize myself. I was hollowed out by a relationship that chipped away at me little by little. The damage he caused went beyond words. It left marks no one could see. The kind that linger in your body long after you’ve left. The kind that make you flinch even when no one’s raising their voice.

I don’t talk about all of it—some things I’ve kept quiet. But trust me when I say, it was dark. And getting out was the bravest thing I’ve ever done… until I had to rebuild myself with a toddler on my hip.

Even after I left, I still tried. I wanted her to have a dad. I wanted her to have some version of a family. So I gave him chance after chance. We tried. She tried. But he kept doing the same damage. He made her feel small. Scared. Unworthy. And one day, she just… stopped. She cut ties. She chose herself.

It’s been over ten years since they’ve spoken. I fully support her choice. She knew what she needed long before most adults do.

She’s always been like that—intuitive. Emotionally sharp. Fiercely self-protective, even when it hurt.

People see her now—Grace, with her master’s degree in forensic psychology, her job in trauma prevention, her independence—and they say, “You must be so proud.” And I am. God, I am. But we didn’t get here on a straight path. It was jagged, messy, and lonely. It was cereal for dinner and quiet crying in the bathroom. It was holding things together with duct tape and dark humor.

We were a team. I was 23, barely more than a kid myself, but I had her—and that gave me purpose. We didn’t have much, but we made it work. Road trips in shitty cars. Nights in watching Disney movies and eating popcorn. The kind of closeness that’s born out of survival.

I always overcompensated on her birthdays—made sure the whole family was there, spent more than I had just to make it fun and memorable. I needed her to feel loved. To know she was loved. Because I never wanted her to feel like she came second to anyone.

She’s still healing. She recently had her heart broken by someone I never saw the magic in. I won’t pretend I was upset when it ended—but watching it break her was brutal. She told me she never wants to date again. I get it. But I still hope she finds someone one day who truly sees her, respects her, and loves her for exactly who she is.

I carry guilt about what I couldn’t give her. The money. The calm. The two-parent stability. But she got something else. She got fight. She got honesty. She got a love so big it spilled over, even when I had nothing left to give.

And somehow, she turned that into power. She’s self-sufficient. Fierce. Kind. She doesn’t rely on me financially, even though I wish I could do more. She’s out there doing real work—helping people in under-resourced, traumatized communities break cycles most of us can’t even imagine.

I still worry about her, of course. I worry that she’s internalized more than she lets on. That she inherited my anxiety. That she carries invisible weight. But I’m in awe of her. She’s healing out loud in ways I never knew how to.

And if I’m being honest, she saved me. Not with a grand gesture. Just with her being. She gave me the push I needed to leave. To try. To believe I could be more than someone’s shadow.

So no, I didn’t do this alone. Not cancer. Not motherhood. Not any of it.

She saved me first.

Let me say the quiet part out loud: breast cancer is practically a rite of passage now. It’s everywhere. A dime a dozen. There are ribbons, walkathons, hashtags. It’s so common that people have actually said to me, “Well, if you’re going to get cancer, that’s the one to get.”

And honestly? Some days, I weirdly agree.

Not because it wasn’t awful. It was—and it still is. But I’ve watched other people go through things that are so much worse, and sometimes I think, Maybe I got the easier version of hell.

My cousin’s sister—my aunt and uncle’s daughter—died from a rare genetic disease. She was young. It was awful and heartbreaking and long. My aunt, who has been one of my biggest caregivers during all of this, lost her daughter—and still showed up for me. That kind of strength is hard to describe. Then there’s my stepsister and her husband, who lost their son. Another rare genetic disease. And now, my stepsister’s sister-in-law—only a few years younger than me—was diagnosed with a rare, terrifying cancer. The kind where they don’t really have a treatment plan, just clinical trials and prayers. My poor brother-in-law(step) in his grief and worry.

So yeah… breast cancer? Kind of basic by comparison. It comes with protocols and statistics. There are plans. Medications. Support groups. T-shirts. You get what I mean.

Some days, I feel guilty for surviving it. Other days, I feel lucky that it was something the world actually has words for. So many others don’t get that.

But that doesn’t mean it didn’t wreck me. It did. I’ve had seven surgeries. Sepsis. Radiation. A recurrence that was missed for two years. I feel like shit most of the time. But I got through it. And the only reason I could get through it is because of the people around me.

I have the kind of support system that makes you laugh and cry at the same time. My family and friends are incredible. They show up. They send meals. They help pay bills. They plan outings when I look like I might be circling the drain emotionally. They’ve been doing that since before cancer—when I was a single mom just trying to survive one bill, one bottle, one emotional breakdown at a time.

I sometimes think, How do I ever pay them back? And the truth is, I probably can’t. I just try to live in a way that honors how much I’ve been carried. That might sound cheesy, but it’s true.

Being a single mom was its own kind of war zone. Grace and I made a life out of scraps—tight budgets, late-night cereal dinners, and homemade birthday magic. I had help, thank God. But still, it was hard. And even though I’ve always felt guilty for not being able to give her more, she’s become someone extraordinary.

Grace has a master’s in forensic psychology. She has her own apartment, her own job, her own car. I don’t support her financially in any way (though I would if I could), and I’m so fucking proud of her for that. Her work focuses on violence prevention and trauma recovery for neglected communities. And yeah—it’s no coincidence she chose that line of work. She lived some of it. Her dad was a disaster. Emotionally abusive. Volatile. He made her feel unsafe. And even though I tried for years to maintain that relationship for her sake, she was the one who ultimately decided to cut ties—and I supported her 100%.

She hasn’t seen or spoken to him in over ten years. It was a heartbreaking choice—but a brave one. And if I’m being honest, she probably saved me, too. I left him when she was two. I was a shell of myself, but she gave me something to fight for.

So yeah—some days I feel lucky to have had breast cancer. Not because it was easy, but because I already knew what it was like to crawl through something with nothing but grit and borrowed strength. I already knew how to survive hard things.

This wasn’t my first round.

And even now, when I hate this body—this stitched-up, scarred, aching, bullshit body—I still love her. Because she’s still here.

So am I.

There’s this weird space you land in after you’ve survived something big. People look at you like you’re a warrior, a fighter, a walking inspiration—and yeah, I’ve earned some of that. But what they don’t see is how exhausting it is to keep surviving. Every day. Quietly. Without falling apart.

I’m still in pain. All the time.

I don’t say that for sympathy—it’s just the truth. My joints ache. My body feels tight and inflamed. My skin pulls in places it didn’t before. My chest feels foreign, like someone else’s body stitched onto mine. I wake up tired. I go to bed tired. I’ve been through seven breast-related surgeries, plus a hysterectomy, gallbladder removal, abdominal incisions, drains, infections, radiation, hormone treatments—and that’s just the highlight reel. My body is beat up. It doesn’t work the way it used to, and it certainly doesn’t feel good.

But I keep going.

I think a lot of people assume I must feel better by now. That I’m “on the other side” of all this. That I’m lucky it wasn’t worse. And yes—I am lucky in some ways. I’m alive. I’m still here. But that doesn’t mean I’m okay.

It’s hard to explain the mental whiplash of being so grateful to wake up every day… and also being kind of mad that waking up still hurts. That I still have to take medications that mess with my energy, my mood, my bones. That I still live with the very real possibility that my cancer will come back in 10 or 20 years because I unknowingly carried it for two years post-mastectomy. That even on “good” days, my body feels like it’s asking me to lie down.

And somehow, in the middle of all this, life just keeps demanding more.

There’s work. And bills. And texts to answer. And people to comfort. And relationships to maintain. I love my life, I do—but it’s a lot. I work hard, probably too hard. I shop when I’m anxious, I laugh when I’m hurting, I try to be the one who lifts the room. But it’s all a delicate balance, and some days I don’t have the energy for any of it.

I’m also still grieving. My mom died in 2021, during the thick of everything—right after I had sepsis, in the middle of all the rest of the bullshit. That same year, I lost my dog Gus, who had been with me through so much. My grandmother, who was truly my anchor, passed away years before that. I’m constantly processing one kind of heartbreak or another, and yet I show up. I smile. I keep going.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m too positive. If I’ve made it look too easy. If I’ve become so good at pretending I’m okay that people stopped asking how I really am. Maybe that’s on me. Maybe I don’t know how to let people see me when I’m not “on.” Maybe I feel like I have to keep being the strong one because everyone else is just barely holding it together.

But I’m tired.

I want life to be easier. I want to feel good in my body again. I want to spend money on experiences and fixing my house, not just retail therapy to distract myself. I want peace in my bones. I want softness. I want to stop living like I’m running out of time, even though a part of me still believes I am.

I don’t need to be a beacon of anything. I just want to be me again—whatever that looks like now.