Seasons changing always makes me reflective and introspective. Looking back, looking forward, trying to give grace and find hope. This time last year, there were so many unknowns for me. Newly diagnosed with cancer, waiting on test results and pathology reports, navigating surgery. It was hard to find hope amidst pain, despair, and the uncertainty of the unknowns.
This year, in remission, cancer-free, and stepping into survivorship, though I’m still learning to trust my body again and grieving many losses. The journey of reclaiming my body, of learning to feel safe within it after everything it has endured, is ongoing. Still, this year, the world, not just my world, but the world as a whole, feels more on fire than ever. War, attacks on bodily autonomy, book bans, the rise of fascism, and the relentless stripping away of human rights. So many unknowns, so many fears, so many people losing their rights, living in fear. It is hard to hold space for joy and survivorship when the world feels so hard.
Every day, my nervous system is met with news that requires deep processing. I hold space for folks who no longer want to be here because the weight of it all feels unbearable. In these moments, I recognize the truth that grief, trauma, and hope often coexist. They are not separate; they are intertwined.
As we move into spring, Ostara, Easter, a season of rebirth and new beginnings, I am trying to see a path forward. I am trying to remember that my ancestors have been here before. They too walked through suffering, resistance, and rebirth. I remember the resilience in their bones and how they kept moving despite the weight of the world. I remember that grief and joy, like breath, cannot exist without one another, like the moment I sat in my doctor's office hearing the words “cancer-free” while still feeling the weight of everything I had lost. The relief and sorrow, the gratitude and grief, all existing at once. This is the messiness of healing. This is the power of embracing the full spectrum of our emotions, of our experiences, even when it feels impossible.
It is hard to fully trust in healing when the world feels relentless. But, even in the darkest of times, there is still warmth in the sun. There are still moments of connection, of community, of laughter, of shared breath. These are the moments I hold on to. These are the moments that remind me: despite everything, there is always something to keep going for.
I do not have answers. I do not have a foolproof roadmap to navigate this time of grief and joy, of hope and despair, of personal healing and collective struggle. But I have this moment. I have my breath. I have community. I have the reminder that joy is not an act of denial, but an act of resistance. It’s an act of showing up for ourselves, for each other, for the world, even when it feels overwhelming.
And for now, that is enough.