January 15, 2019

I Joined a Gym, Sprained My Spirit & Planted a Dream

It started like a Rocky montage and ended with me flat on my back, whispering sweet nothings to my heating pad.

So…I joined a gym. Three weeks before major surgery. Because I’m the kind of person who believes a few rounds on the elliptical and a couple reps with 30-pound dumbbells will have me body-sculpted and tumor-resistant by Tuesday.

It felt amazing at first. I glided around that gym like I was 25, with Beyoncé-level confidence and the body of a pre-menopausal goddess. I kept pushing that little weight peg lower and lower like I was auditioning for American Ninja Warrior: Breast Cancer Edition. I left sweaty and giddy and invincible.

Then Saturday arrived. And with it, the wrath of my spine.

I woke up with a back that basically staged a protest. “You want to adult today? TOO BAD.” Cue the muscle spasms. The only thing lifting that day was my ego off the floor. I could barely move. Sunday? 3,000 pitiful steps. Monday? A mercy mission to my naturopath, Dr. Bhandari, who worked his magic with adjustments, electro-magnetic therapy, and a script for muscle relaxers.

Lesson learned. Sort of.

Tuesday rolled around and I limped into physical therapy where we talked about post-mastectomy care and the long list of things I can no longer do. Like get my blood pressure taken on my left arm. Ever again. Or play tennis right away. (That one stung.)

But in the midst of back spasms and physical therapy revelations, a new hope is blooming: The For the Love Farm. That’s right—Steve and I are planning to turn our backyard into a magical potager garden. Think Paris meets Pinterest: herbs, veggies, wildflowers, artful trellises, whimsy tucked between tomatoes. Right now, we’re killing the lawn with cardboard and tarps (so glamorous) but come March? It’s Raise the Bed party time. You’re invited.

So yes, my back gave up, my body is still full of cancer, and I’m holding onto every sick day like it’s golden currency. But there’s joy here too. There’s a garden to grow. There’s tennis to return to. There’s a farm to birth in our backyard. And there’s deep, marrow-level gratitude for every bit of it.

Sometimes your back goes out to slow your roll. Sometimes that gym win isn’t strength—it’s surrender. It’s trusting that rest is just as holy as hustle. That prepping your spirit matters as much as prepping your muscles. And that a garden sketch can be just as healing as a workout.

Letter to Self

Dear Me,
You are not broken because your back gave out. You’re not lazy because you needed rest. You’re preparing—for battle, for rebirth, for whatever this beautiful mess of a year has in store. The workouts will return. The tennis will call again. But for now, rest. Dream of cucumbers and cosmos. Nest. Heal. You are doing just fine.
Love,
Me