Lessons From Holding Your Breath

May 3, 2022. I almost didn’t write this. Because how do you wrap words around the fear that creeps in uninvited? How do you explain what it’s like when the cancer that’s supposed to be in your rearview suddenly feels like it’s riding shotgun again?

Hello lovies. It’s been a minute. Life has been beautiful and bonkers. And while daily treatment is behind me, cancer is never completely gone. It lurks in corners like a ghost you’ve learned to live with. Every three months, I hold my breath in oncology until they grant me another 90-day reprieve. It’s a tiny price to pay for life, but whew—it adds up.

Four weeks ago, I found a small jellyfish-shaped lump in my right breast. At first, I told no one. I held my breath (again) and tried to wish it away. But by Monday morning, it was still there.

My oncologist felt it too. “Two centimeters,” she said. The room went thick. Words like “scans” and “biopsies” floated around, followed by the classic, “I’m sure it’s nothing.” Meanwhile, my brain was already calculating how long it had taken to grow my hair back.

It took a week to get me into the Carol Milgard Breast Center in Tacoma—a place that wraps you in empathy the moment you walk in. I showed up in full flamingo flair for luck. Mammogram. Ultrasound. They don’t let survivors leave without answers. Steve came in just as I was bracing myself. “There’s nothing significant,” the radiologist said. I blinked. What? But I can feel it. Since previous tumors were mammogram-hiding ninjas, they booked me for an MRI.

It was the longest week. I cleaned, gardened, distracted myself every way I could. Flamingo slippers arrived just in time to join me for the MRI.

Inside that floral-pink MRI suite, I prayed like mad and tried not to spiral. My wedding ring wouldn’t come off from gardening-swollen fingers, but the techs waved it off. Seventy minutes later, I emerged a puddle of nerves.

The call came the next day. “No sign of malignancy in either breast.”

I made her say it twice. A weight I didn’t know I’d been carrying evaporated. The cancer plans I’d been quietly making? Gone. Just like that. Life hit pause for three weeks—and her words let me press play again.

Since then, something strange has happened. With the veil lifted, I saw my life in a new light. Cancer will never completely leave me. But weirdly, that’s okay. It keeps me honest. Focused. I’m reevaluating what brings me joy and what drains me. Spoiler: I’m Marie Kondo-ing the toxicity out of my life. Bye-bye to what doesn’t spark joy—or peace.

Also: WE BOUGHT A HOUSE. A beautiful place in Arizona, on a golf course, with a pool. There are palm trees and flamingo floaties and country music every night. It’s a new chapter. A good one. The kind with wide-open spaces and mountains to climb.

This summer, I’ll be sweeping the corners of my life. Letting go of what no longer serves me. No more holding my breath. It’s time to laugh louder, dance barefoot, and live this life out loud.

Letter to Self

Dear Me,

You survived the thing that tried to take everything. And even when fear comes knocking again, you keep showing up. Keep choosing life, flamingo slippers and all. Keep checking, keep breathing, keep dancing. This is your one wild and precious life. Live it.

With flamingo flair,

Me