PJ Days, Palm Trees, and Pissed-Off Pink

There’s this thing about telling your story—you start strong, you stay grateful, you say all the brave, wise, hopeful things. And then… the day after hits.

Yesterday was full of pink power and silver linings. I nodded through pathology terms I couldn’t pronounce, anchored myself in the fact that the cancer was caught early, and found peace in knowing that thousands of women have paved this road before me.

But then this morning happened. And it sucked.

I woke up mad. Like, throw-something-breakable mad. Like, pack-a-bag-and-disappear-to-Tulum mad. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to be a cancer patient. I don’t want to “persevere” or “fight” or “be strong.”

I want a warm ocean and no story to tell.

Instead, I declared it National Stay In Your PJs Day™ (thank you very much). I nestled into my bed at 1:30 p.m., hair a mess, phone off, and made peace with being pissed. But you know what? Anger takes a lot of energy. So today, I’m just going to be grateful again… with a side of sarcasm.

Grateful that I like pink.
Grateful that Steve models baldness so well.
Grateful that God better be planning to give me the most epic shade of silver hair because if I have to lose mine, I’m not ever coloring it again. Luxury, please.

This is the whole truth, friends. Diagnosis isn’t just about early detection and positive attitudes. It’s exhausting. It’s constant phone calls, medical speak, navigating insurance, and explaining the same story to a dozen people while trying not to break down.

But here’s what’s next:

• MRI breast scan on the 26th – to confirm the cancer hasn’t spread.
• Oncology consult at Overlake on the 27th
• Second opinion with Valley Women’s Clinic (because two minds are better than one)
• Naturopathic magic with my dream team at SageMED—seriously, angels in white coats

Also—side note—if you need to laugh through a hard time, get Let’s Pretend This Never Happened, aka The Mouse Book by Jenny Lawson. I snort-laughed so hard I scared the dog. It’s therapeutic. So is telling the truth.

Some days the pink feels powerful. Some days it feels like a punch to the gut. Both are real. Both belong in the story. And both mean you’re alive—angry, grateful, tired, funny, and ready to fight. (Eventually.)

Letter to Self

Dear Me,
You don’t have to perform strength. You don’t have to be positive 100% of the time. You can have a day to scream into pillows and still be someone who shows up with courage tomorrow. Anger is part of the healing. PJs are a holy garment. And pink? Pink looks damn good on you.
With deep love,
Me