What cancer taught me about the life I want to live

Valentine's Day 2024. Thyroidectomy. A large cancerous nodule removed from my throat. I didn't know yet how far it had spread. Somehow I found a way to be okay with whatever was coming.

I wasn't planning to write about this, yet I find myself compelled to. Maybe it's because the nodule was in my throat, and addressing it feels like part of my healing. Maybe it's about honestly confronting vulnerability, a value I've always talked about and now have the opportunity to fully live. Or perhaps, someday, it will come to me. In the wise words of the Rolling Stones: "You can't always get what you want, but if you try, sometime, you just might find, you get what you need."

Cancer hit me out of nowhere, making me question my own sense of being untouchable and immortal. I found myself cycling through emotions, from restlessness and fear to shame, with moments of hope and faith sprinkled in between. It was the holiday season, so I had to wait, and wait some more.

Understanding the uncertainty of my diagnosis, along with the tumor's invasiveness and aggressive mutation, brought me to the only possible response: allowing myself to fully experience a range of emotions, giving up on trying to control everything, accepting the situation, and taking it one day at a time.

Of course, I worried about my loved ones and got bummed about possibly missing out on the joys and adventures life has to offer, but my biggest fear by far was recognizing how much I still have left to do in this life. An intense need to make a difference and contribute, rather than just achieve or accomplish.

Thankfully, the spread has been minimal, and a round of radiation is up next to hopefully clear out any lingering cancer cells.

A few things I've learned along the way during the last three months:

Sometimes cancer just picks us, and there's no clear reason why. We don't need to know all the answers, or what everything means, why certain things happen, or how things will turn out. It's a different kind of healing when we no longer need to justify it.

The smallest and most mundane joys of life are often the most healing ones. Arthur Brooks says, "The monotony of life contains a reservoir of ways to find relief if we're brave enough to dive in instead of opting out." So laugh with your loved ones, savor your coffee in the morning, breathe in the fresh air, and let the sun shine on your face.

Cancer doesn't shape our identity, and it isn't a battle to be fought. It's something we move through, in our own way, in our own time.

When we open our hearts, healing begins. Only to the extent that we expose ourselves over and over to annihilation can that which is indestructible be found in us.

Keep sharing what is real for you. You never know who is listening and needs to hear it.

We need people and community way more than we think we do. The majority of people are rooting for you. Some may disappoint you, but the majority will pleasantly surprise you. Let them in.

Laughing and crying are both equally healing. Crying cleanses and laughing replenishes.

Living a healthy, mindful life is appealing, but obsessing over it can make us stiff, closed off, and rigid. Flexibility is key.

Slowing down creates space and is sometimes the best way to regroup, focus, and eventually speed up.

Everything is temporary. Everything. The best of it, and the worst of it. We only have so many years to know human love and do human things. Love them all, even the painful ones. There's nothing lost if we learn something from it.

For anyone going through cancer and how it shakes up your world: I see you, I hear you, and I'm with you.

Confronting a tough diagnosis can stir a reflection on the legacy we are trying to build. Mary Oliver's question, "Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?" resonates deeply.

In this one wild and precious life, my deepest passion is the potential within people. The connection between energy, mind, body, and how we show up. Not just for my own growth, but in service of the people I work with. I want to create spaces for honest conversations that invite people to look more closely at themselves, to discover what matters to them, especially as they move through the challenges and changes that come with being alive.

If something in this resonated (whether you are moving through a health diagnosis, a quieter kind of uncertainty, or simply the sense that something needs more honest attention) I would be glad to talk. A first conversation costs nothing and commits you to nothing. Start with a conversation.