I didn’t sign up for this — but here I am.

There are plenty of days when I am optimistic, hopeful — maybe even happy? — and I’m zenning the fuck out of this. But there are days when my tears fill my body, threatening to overflow at any given moment. My emotions overcome me in a way that I can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel. It’s like a dark sheet has been thrown over me, and I’m just trying to navigate my day through the dark.

The worst — and most annoying — times are when I feel sorry for myself. I run through a list in my head of everything I miss from my “old” life. How did I somehow end up with this life I never signed up for? I got snatched off the path I thought I was supposed to be on for the rest of my life. Where is my mane of red hair, and who okayed me being bald? Who approved trading my 5 a.m. CrossFit classes for five-hour chemo infusions, five days in a row? Who signed off on me moving states away — away from my fiancé, my dogs, my cat, my bed, my house, my life? I know I didn’t. No one consulted me before flipping my life upside down.

I miss Saturday mornings on the couch drinking coffee with Zac. I miss watching the sunset over the field behind our home. I miss date nights and new restaurants. I miss wine nights. I miss sweating the small stuff — what a luxury that was. I miss when my biggest medical concern was whether or not I had scheduled my next dental cleaning.

These self-pitying thoughts play like a movie in my mind during the dark moments. Or maybe it’s more like a devil on my shoulder whispering in my ear. But somewhere deep in my soul, I still believe that if I wish hard enough, if I give up all my vices to the gods, if I pray hard enough or promise to donate more, somehow I’ll be able to go back to my “normal” life. And right there in the darkness, I often hear: This is your path.

I wrestle with that thought. I am often so deep in my own despair that the words fuse into my body like a truth I don’t want to hear. Is my path really managing all the symptoms from the life-saving poison poured inside me? Is my path really trading my familiar, happy life for one spent in hospital beds and playing Tetris with appointments? How is anyone supposed to accept a path they never wanted?

But this is your path is lined with so much love and healing. It’s only when I can pull off the dark sheet and let in the light that I’m able to see the bigger picture beyond the dark thoughts. A quote I’ve held close for many years always finds its way back to me in these moments — it resonates with this dark vs. light fight. It brings me hope in the hard times and promises light. Maybe not right now, maybe not today — but maybe tomorrow:
“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” — Rumi

This path might have more light to it than meets the eye. It’s an opportunity — an opportunity to reexamine my life. What do I need to let go of that no longer serves me? Is my lifelong anxiety battle just a pattern of thought I can finally heal? Am I really taking care of my body, mind, and spirit the way I should? Am I treating people with love and gratitude? Am I doing what I came here to do? Am I cherishing the small moments? Am I giving myself and others grace?

Maybe that’s the hidden gift in all of this — the invitation to slow down, to strip everything back to its rawest form, to face every ugly, uncomfortable question and see what survives.

The truth is, I don’t have all the answers. Some days, I don’t even want to look for them. But other days — the better days — I realize that even though I didn’t choose this path, I can choose how I walk it.

I can choose to cling to hope, even when it feels paper-thin. I can choose to find peace in the smallest of moments — a deep breath, a kind word, the quiet pride of making it through another round of treatment. I can choose to keep showing up, even when I feel like I’m stumbling in the dark.

This isn’t the life I pictured. It’s messier, harder, lonelier in ways I never imagined — but maybe, just maybe, it’s also carving out space for me to become someone braver, softer, more awake than I’ve ever been. Someone who knows the weight of grief, and the wild, fierce beauty of still choosing joy.

And maybe, for now, that’s enough.