Blog Feed

AS WITHIN, SO WITHOUT

by Maasaisis

My doctors are careful to avoid words like miracle or cure during our monthly appointments. Living with stage 4 cancer that is currently inactive, they tread lightly, cautious not to spark false hope. They reinforce the same quiet disclaimer: for now, you’re doing well.

There are three doctors in rotation at my local clinic, each of whom I leaned on through the peak of my healing crisis. Whoever was on shift became my lifeline that day, meeting me wherever my crisis happened to land.

I will never downplay how profoundly grateful I am to live only five minutes from the hospital. Over time, I came to know most of the oncology nurses, and they came to know me—by name, by story, by the rhythm of my visits. They were always just a phone call away, always prioritizing me when my body went through its strange, frightening eruptions and changes.

This is one of the many blessings of living in a small town: care feels personal, human, and near.

The female doctor is warm and kind, yet she never sugarcoats the truth. She has a practiced way of sliding the tissue box toward me when my eyes well up, speaking plainly about what I’m facing, her soft eyes full of sympathy, even while she knows there is only so much she can do.

The younger male doctor has a bit of doom‑and‑gloom vibe, yet when it mattered most—like the day I reacted badly to the drugs in my IV—he became tender and human. I told him I was scared, and he anchored me with his steady presence, holding my hand and staying by my side until the heavy sedative finally pulled me under.

The doctor I’ve gravitated toward—maybe because he’s also a contractor like my husband and enjoys his band—is light, funny, and warm. He gives me hugs, reinforces what’s working, and encourages me to lean into optimism. He understands how I operate and does his best to support me, even when he doesn’t always agree. He’s a good match for me because, with him, I feel completely at ease to be myself. I’ve even shared some of my more ‘out there’ protocols with him, and although he sometimes raises an eyebrow, he never dismisses or downplays the way I approach my healing.

Each of them, in their own way, does their best to guide me with the wisdom their experience has given them, while staying within the boundaries of their profession—where “best‑case scenarios” are measured by statistics from funded research. But there aren’t many statistics for people like me: riding shotgun with Holy Spirit and focusing on healing the mind because I believe healing must first take place in the mind before the body can follow.

At my last appointment, I wasn’t expecting the young doctor—it was a Thursday, the day my easygoing doc usually works, but he was away. My heart raced a little faster, alerting me that my nerves were picking up the signal: I was uncomfortable. Sitting across from him always feels like breaking the ice. He carries a quiet sadness, as if he spends his days delivering news he’d rather not give, and suddenly I felt anxious—wondering if it had something to do with my blood test results.

As I waited for him to open my chart, I debated whether to ask the question that had been hovering over me—the one about wanting a goalpost for the end of my treatment.

Even with lingering restrictions from scar tissue left by the tumor’s ulceration on my right side and a frozen shoulder on my left, I’m on a mighty comeback—those unruly cells have receded and remembered their true function in a surprisingly short time. But miracle is not a word I can freely use in that room, so I hold it close as my own secret.

My tumor markers have been clear for months. My last two CT scans cautiously describe me as “responding exceptionally to treatment.” Not cancer-free—never that—but exceptional nonetheless. There were tiny nodules detected in my right breast, which could simply be scar tissue puckered into a four-inch seam where the wound finally closed—or it could be residual disease, the inevitable disclaimer.

It’s hard to know without a PET scan, which is more sensitive to metabolic activity and can better distinguish active cancer from scar tissue. But PET scans aren’t handed out lightly—they’re expensive and usually reserved for getting answers that could lead to a new direction in treatment.

Why do I need to know more if I’m responding so well? Because treatment indefinitely feels too permanent for my free spirit. I’d have to advocate for myself and convince my oncologist to get me that Cadillac scan.

“How long do I continue with treatment?” I asked, testing the air, careful not to wander into the dark territory where his answer might trap me.

“You’ll continue until it stops working, until the cancer mutates and we have to try something else.” He looks at me as if I’m a ticking time bomb.

I slammed my shell shut around the pearl of the life I’ve reclaimed—the bright, miraculous reality of surviving what I did and feeling like it’s finally behind me. I ended my line of questioning, course-correcting the trajectory back toward my happy life without disclaimers, where the only ticking is the joyful beat of my heart.

When I leave the clinic, I return to the place where my real processing happens—my canvas. Painting is both a spiritual practice and a mirror, reflecting the oscillation between what I want to release and what I want to embrace. It’s the dance between fear and love, the discomfort of not knowing, and the willingness to reach beyond that uncertainty to explore what is possible.

Facing a blank canvas feels much like facing the uncertainties of my life—grappling with the desire to grasp certainties where none exist, only to find clarity in the ebbs and flows as they come, which then shapes the terrain my mind will inhabit.

I’m not a formally trained painter. I don’t plan ahead; my ideas take shape gradually, layer by layer, percolating beneath the surface—some elements stay, others dissolve into the underpainting. Often, what I see in my mind or feel in my heart doesn’t translate through my hands, which is deeply frustrating. Sometimes, my inner critic is so harsh it makes me want to give up entirely.

This is the darkness that hovers beneath the bright light of my creative inspiration—the same kind of trap the mind sets when it dwells on the thought that this body may never be fully free of disease. It’s easy to get stuck, feeling down and out, if I let it have its way.

A respite from the circling back of my disclaimer came in the form of a woman who had purchased a painting from me. She had worked as a curator at the Tate in London and other prominent art institutions. She is launching a passion project—an advisory and curatorial platform born from her extensive experience in the art world—dedicated to creating space where underrepresented artists’ work is fully appreciated and thoughtfully presented.

She told me she’d been following my work and felt a deep spiritual connection to it—the light within it. She wants to represent me and help bring my art into the world, with plans for exhibitions in LA, New York, and London. I was thankful that I believe in miracles because this definitely felt like one landing right into my inbox.

During our Zoom call, I connected with her instantly. Through her eyes and passion, I saw my work anew. She spoke with sincerity and joy, and I felt the unmistakable stirrings of purpose—that I could extend my love through my creations beyond my little town, with her as an ally. A contract was promised, with her taking only a small commission, and I accepted, allowing myself to rest unguarded in the grace of it all.

But the contract didn’t come. Not the next day. Not the day after. Days stretched into silence. My mind turned violent on itself: She changed her mind. She saw how much of an amateur I am. How foolish to believe I could belong in that world.

Every time I sat at my canvas, my insecurity bled into the colors. My painting became chaos—a mirror of my spiraling thoughts. After four days, I finally sent a gentle reminder via text. Still nothing. I felt small and stupid.

Eventually, my sanity recognized that my ego gripped expectations and outcomes with white knuckles, spinning lies and judgments that made me miserable. I returned to my hourly spiritual practice with renewed vigor. I prayed to release the thoughts I did not want and anchored myself to a new perspective. I sent her love and gratitude for recognizing my light and released her from my expectations. I chose to return to the ample abundance already present in my life. I chose to love everything about my life in that release—and something shifted.

I approached my canvas with a willingness to let go, covering it with a bold layer of glaze. There would be no turning back after this move—I’d have to surrender the small part in the center that I loved and didn’t want to change. The rest was a busy swirl of colors.

Nervous but determined, I washed my canvas with a cool blue and a warm ochre. The chaos stilled instantly, creating a quiet space to begin again—from a different vantage point, this time guided by the eye of my heart. Creativity returned: tender, curious, and flowing.

The release I felt was palpable, and on that very day, the woman wrote back. She apologized—her mother had suffered a medical emergency that had consumed her attention. We can never truly know what others are going through, but what we can know is that everything we experience is a choice, and our choices shape how we perceive life. It was a powerful lesson in how easily the mind can distort reality, and how love and release can restore clarity.

I don’t know what will come of our relationship, and I will not cling to any expectation. What is clear is that painting is crucial medicine for me—a place where I can process and choose to trust that I’ll find a way through the muck in my mind to the purity of joy, peace, and beauty that reveals the essence of my spirit. I’ll keep painting, and I’ll keep finding my way, regardless of where it might lead.

So, I choose not to accept any disclaimers in my life. I choose to trust that I will know when it is time to change course, to glaze over what needs to shift, and that by seeking a better way through love and peace, I will always be shown the way.

LESSON: WHAT I THINK IN MY MIND, IS WHAT SHAPES THE LIFE I LIVE.

Above painting by Maasa: “As Within, So Without” – Inspired by teachings of A Course in Miracles. “Love created me like itself.” When we offer love to fill the space between us, it ripples outward— received by all, for love recognizes only itself.

THE GIFT OF SAYING ‘YES’

by Maasaisis

Being in a position where I regularly faced mortality gave me the gift of valuing what has always been free, yet so easily overlooked. My devotion to love was mostly reserved for my immediate family, nature, and a few very special friends I could probably count on one hand. I’ve never considered myself a particularly social person. Truthfully, I’d much rather hunker down at home—where all my needs are met—than seek out company.

But that part of me has shifted. I’ve come to deeply value what can unfold when I choose to connect and leave space for something new to reveal itself. So when I received an invitation to my cousin’s wedding—a cousin I hadn’t seen in years—I said yes. Even though the timing wasn’t ideal and the airfare would be costly, I recognized it as an opportunity to reconnect with extended family and chose to go.

The matriarchs of our clan—as we fondly call ourselves, being descendants of Scots—are now in their mid-80s and 90s. It’s a rare and precious occasion for all of us to be together, and who knows if there will be another opportunity to connect and celebrate in this way again.

I had once travelled through India with the cousin who now, at 61, was preparing to be married. After being a bachelor for most of his life, it felt like a miracle that he had found his greatest love. I knew I needed to be there—not just for him, but for myself. This precious life is meant to be shared, and my experience has taught me that it’s always worth making the initial effort to connect with others. The gift we give by showing up is also the gift we receive.

It’s been nearly six years since Lump came to mentor me. In that time, I thought I understood so much—yet ultimately, I still understood very little. I’d like to think I’m now closer to gaining a deeper understanding of the biggest question. That question has shifted—from asking why I got cancer to a deeper devotion to how I can stay on a path of love in a world that seems to be growing more loveless by the minute.

How can I nurture connection in a world so divided?
How do I discern whether I’m being guided by an intelligence that knows what’s best for me, rather than the voice in my head that simply wants to be right?

This is how I’ve been gauging my healing: by observing the thoughts that occupy my mind, and by my willingness to examine what’s dominating my mental space—and change it if it’s not in alignment with how I ultimately want to live.

I was at the airport on my way to the wedding when I ran into a friend I’d been thinking about. I had even considered reaching out after hearing she was going through a health crisis. But, like it happens for so many of us, I put it on the back burner—letting other things take priority over the persistent nudge I kept feeling.

The truth is, I was afraid. I was scared of how unwell she might be, and I didn’t want to face it—because it would stir up my own insecurities about my health. Then guilt would follow the avoidance, and denial would mask the act of looking away. This is the typical pattern of our default survival mechanism—and even as I become more aware of it, it still takes conscious effort to break the cycle.

The moment I saw her, I recognized it as my chance for a do-over. But the airport was busy—she was heading outside just as I was going in. I genuinely wanted to connect and told her she’d been on my mind. I could feel the moment slipping away, so I said, “Let’s talk in the waiting room once we’re through security.” There was only one flight into the city, so I knew we’d be on the same plane.

She agreed, and I went in first to clear security. The waiting room was packed, but I managed to find a seat with an open one beside it. I saved it for her, holding onto the hope that we’d get a chance to catch up.

The woman beside me started chatting with me. I’ve come to learn, through A Course in Miracles, that any encounter holds the potential to be a holy encounter—a moment where the barriers between two people dissolve. It is through these connections that we can begin to heal ourselves, each other, and ultimately the world. So I chose to be present and engage with her, even as my eyes continued to scan the room, hoping to spot my friend.

Our conversation came to a natural pause when the woman beside me turned her attention to her phone. I took it as a sign to look for my friend again. I thought about leaving my things on my seat to walk around the waiting room in hopes of finding her—but I noticed an almost anxious energy rising in me as I stood. I sat back down.

That’s when I heard a clear voice in my mind say, “Don’t worry, you’ll sit next to her on the plane.”
What? I responded internally.
Then came the doubt: “Here you go again, thinking you’re hearing the Holy Spirit. You’re just making it up.”
And then—quiet, steady—“You’ll find out. Now let it go.”

So I did. I let it go, sat back in my seat, and relaxed until it was time to board the flight.

I used to always strive to be early, driven by the stress of wanting to get ahead of everyone to save time. But knowing better now, I stayed in my seat until most people had boarded. Just as I leisurely made my way to the line, I spotted my friend doing the same from across the room.

There you are! I said. Too bad we only have a few minutes to catch up while we’re in line.

I asked about her health, and she gave me the shortest version as she pulled out her passport with the boarding pass tucked inside. My eyes caught sight of the seat number peeking out, and suddenly my heart burst open—tears welled up in my eyes.

As soon as the boarding agent cleared us through, I poured my heart out to my friend about how much it meant to me that I’d received the message we’d be sitting together. I didn’t hold back—she was the kind of person who would understand. In fact, she too had been gaining a similar understanding. As she put it, “We are not the ones in charge.”

It wasn’t just that the message turned out to be true. It was the confirmation I needed—that the way I’ve been learning to step aside, to get out of my own way and seek guidance in my healing journey—is the right way. The only way for me. Because the truth is, I’m never making these decisions alone.

We were both given the gift of a full hour sitting side by side, sharing our stories and the lessons we’d each gathered along our healing journeys—each echoing the same truth, spoken in our own way. There was a deep joy in realizing that we are waking up together—in ways we may not fully understand, but with a quiet faith that something we are seeking is unfolding. And I do believe it’s happening on a collective level.

The crazier the world seems to become, the more I sense a quieter, steadier voice within us all—beckoning us to choose again. To choose alignment with peace. With love. To remember that there is always another way to see—one that brings us closer to wholeness, and closer to each other, no matter who we seem to be on the outside.

The great clan gathering at my cousin’s wedding was the most love-filled icing on the cake. I had many heart-to-heart conversations that affirmed something we all seemed to know deep down: that love is the only answer to help us through the mess of the world. Attacking and dividing only create more of the same. The wise matriarchs of our clan radiated joy, wisdom, and steadfast love—and inspired me to age with that same kind of grace.

My heart swelled seeing my beloved cousin so deeply in love, so alive with excitement to begin this chapter with his bride. My two brothers were there, and I couldn’t help but feel proud to be their sister—two kind, thoughtful, and hard-working men who carry strong family values. I spent precious time with my three cousins, each of whom I’ve shared meaningful chapters of life with, and my favourite witchy aunties—shining gems and radiant examples of joyful, spiritually-rooted living. As an added joy, my beloved friend—and friend of the family—arrived in perfect timing, lighting up the gathering with her bright, beautiful presence.

There was so much love in that intimate gathering, and I silently thanked the Holy Spirit for guiding me there—to receive gifts meant not only for me, but for all of us.

LESSON: EVERY ENCOUNTER IS AN OPPORTUNITY TO CHOOSE LOVE.

UNFORESEEN VISITOR

by Maasaisis

Lately, I’ve had several graphic dreams of giving birth. I wake up wondering what they’re trying to tell me. Maybe it’s about birthing something new—a sign of the life that’s been extended to me—or perhaps it’s my body speaking, mourning the loss of the monthly cycles that abruptly stopped over a year ago when I began hormone therapy. A rhythm that often synced with the full moon and had accompanied me since I was twelve.

I didn’t have the capacity at the time to make sacred the closing of my fertility. I skipped the slow transition and dropped straight into the volatile swings of menopause within a month of starting treatment. Not that I was planning on having another child at this stage of life, but it still felt too soon, too sudden, and too permanent. With my life on the line, it was a sacrifice I didn’t give much credit to—just something I let go of without a proper goodbye.

Life in survival mode barely registered the radical shift from mother to crone. I felt myself aging from the inside—losing weight rapidly, aching joints, thinning hair, a fading sex drive, and dry skin. I couldn’t tell whether it was my body under siege by cancer or the absence of the hormones that had kept me feeling bouncy and womanly. All of it took a back seat to the tremendous effort it took just to keep my mind from cracking under the relentless pain of my lump unraveling over those months.

With my monthly cycle dormant, the familiar waxing and waning of my internal rhythm has shifted into a new tide—one of unpredictable waves, where heat rises without warning and chills follow like a shadow.

My husband and I decided months ago that whatever sleep we could get in separate beds was far more valuable than insisting on sleeping together. At first, it was hard—after twenty-four years of sharing our bed and sleeping within arm’s reach. But now he can snore away without worrying about keeping me awake, and I can thrash around, kicking the blankets on and off, fiddling with the wireless fan all night long. It works for both of us—and yes, date nights still happen, even if I have to talk myself into it. I wasn’t about to let that spark die, even as my body smouldered quietly in the background—my sense of identity rebelling against the slow withdrawal of my sexual desire.

I stopped hormone therapy when my cancer shifted from HER2-negative and hormonally driven to HER2-positive and protein-driven—a mutation I believe was triggered by starving the cancer of its hormonal fuel. At forty-eight, it was unlikely I’d regain fertility, even seven months after stopping the hormone blockers. For someone who once relished deep, uninterrupted sleep and napped regularly, the hormonal upheaval and circadian disruption stole what had been my superpower: sleeping through just about anything. I even became an early riser—for the first time in my life.

Recently, I’ve turned a corner—sleeping better, feeling less discomfort, and no longer riding the thermal rollercoaster. I convinced myself that the initial storm of menopause had run its course, that I’d paid my dues and finally got the hang of being a crone. I even packed on some weight that, just a few months ago, felt impossible no matter how much I ate. I took it as evidence of my body returning to homeostasis—a healthier new normal.

Another vivid dream of blood between my legs—and today I finally understood: these dreams were heralds of a reckoning with what was lost. At first, I was baffled. Then I burst out laughing, holding the evidence on toilet paper, and announced to my family, ‘No way—I got my period!’ Suddenly it all made sense: the weight gain, the return of vitality, the longer nights of deep sleep, my tender breasts. My womb has resurrected to it’s normal function—and it’s shedding what’s left of my eggs! I’m giddy, even as the familiar cramping and bloating return—sensations I haven’t felt in so long. My body is staging its own comeback, offering me a gentler, more natural transition into cronehood—a redo of what was taken too soon.

I’m amazed by the intelligence of the body—how it can pick up where it left off, even after everything in between. I carry a map of scars, proof of my undoing and remaking. To reclaim what was lost feels like a quiet miracle. This return reaches far beyond a biological comeback—It’s a homecoming to myself, and a reminder that what was once lost can be found again.

LESSON: WHAT WAS LOST MAY RETURN IN ITS OWN MYSTERIOUS TIMING.






ANGELS AMONG US

by Maasaisis

Mama loves to shop. What used to annoy me now brings me joy, as I’ve learned to nurture our relationship by appreciating what lights her up. Our closeness was forged in the volatile years when my cancer dominated our lives — years that taught us both to drop our armour and revealed the gift of holding each other in our vulnerability.

I finally feel that the gap between us is nearly closed — the gap that perhaps began the day I was cut out of her belly and taken away. The gap that widened during the three long days it took to return to the familiar sound of her heartbeat.

I used to yearn for her to hold me in a way that made me feel loved — not through the gifts she showered on me, but through presence. For a long time, love felt disguised in things. But now I know better. I understand that her love was always there, potent in its truth no matter how it was given.

I was happy to be on an outing in the next town over, where we planned to have lunch and visit Canadian Tire — a store that would satiate most of her shopping needs. Knowing her particular taste for good food, I chose a Thai restaurant that I knew would meet her high standards, hoping to nourish her well before setting her free in the aisles of that giant store.

She hadn’t had an episode of her debilitating stomach issue in months — the kind of attack that would double her over in pain and cold sweat. They were frightening to witness. Every time Da and I tried to convince her to get it checked out, she recovered soon after and brushed it off. Deep down, I knew something serious was going on. But I also knew I couldn’t force her to look inside — not when I was well aware of the scanxiety that comes with medical screenings.

I convinced myself the homemade probiotic yogurt I’d been making for her had healed her. Every week, I’d buy organic half-and-half, carefully heat it to pasteurize, then combine Lactobacillus reuteri and Lactobacillus casei Shirota — probiotic strains known for supporting gut health and promoting restful sleep. I fermented the mixture for thirty-six hours in the SousVide I’d invested in to make our medicine. Because of the heavy use of antibiotics I’d taken over time to treat chronic infections from my ulcerating tumor, I’d become susceptible to colitis. I was determined to heal my gut — which I did — and I truly thought Mama’s had healed too… until she ate that spring roll.

She took two bites and gave me that unmistakable “uh-oh” look, instinctively clutching her gut. A wave of foreboding settled into my own stomach. Not here, not now, I thought. Our red curry was still on its way, but even as I tried to distract her with conversation, we both knew it wouldn’t be wise to fuel more heat into her already-agitated system. I took a few bites and asked to have it packed to go while Mama visited the washroom for the second time.

“Maybe we should just go home,” I suggested.
“No, I’m fine,” she said, slowly getting to her feet.

The best medicine was only a few blocks away, where she could tick off everything on her shopping list. Torn between my fear and my better judgment, I decided to let her lead, trusting she knew what was best for her.

She leaned heavily on the shopping cart, pausing and wincing between aisles. Breathing through her pain, she still managed to find the best deals for what she was after. I was impressed, but I still feared that if she escalated to the level I’d witnessed before, we’d be in serious trouble. I rubbed the small of her back, feeling the heat radiating through her shirt, beads of sweat collecting at her brow.

We still had to pick up my car from the detailers yet another town over, which meant we wouldn’t be home for at least a couple more hours — including the stop we had planned at our favourite discount grocery store. She was adamant we stick to the plan, even as it became clear the digestive meds from the drugstore had done absolutely nothing.

Our ride home was cloaked in her quiet endurance, punctuated by sharp breaths over the bumpy roads. Da was already deep into teaching a four-hour seminar online by the time I got her home. I still had the morphine I’d relied on to manage my acute pain for so long, and we’d used this strategy before — a small dose had taken the edge off, and she’d usually be fine by the next day. I practically had to carry her to bed. After setting her up with a heating pad, I gave her the opiate. Let’s wait and see was our family’s go-to plan, always reluctant to face the ordeal of going to emergency.

I’d just settled back at home when my phone rang — Mama on the other end, asking if she could take another pill. Without hesitation, I got back into my car and drove the short distance to her house. I could hear Da’s voice, still presenting in Japanese, coming from the basement. He couldn’t have known that his wife was upstairs, grimacing against the pain that was stealing her breath away. The moment I saw her — her hair plastered to her sweaty, pale, crumpled face — I made the decision. “I’m taking you to emergency, now,” I said, switching to Japanese so she would really hear me. She did not have the strength to argue.

I’m convinced that angels were watching over us, especially after what Mama shared with me a few days later, following her emergency open surgery. Had I not taken her in that moment, had she not been seen quickly in the ER, had I not pushed for a CT scan so adamantly, we may have lost her. She had ruptured her intestinal lining due to an infection that even a strong dose of IV antibiotics couldn’t tame. A severe case of diverticulitis had her ambulanced to a bigger hospital where a surgeon was waiting to assess her.

The connection between thought, feeling, and experience became painfully clear as I battled my fear, clinging to the lessons I’d learned throughout my own healing journey. What was supposed to be a two-hour surgery was now stretching into four. What had the surgeon found once he opened her up? How bad was it? Could she die? My belief in the worst-case scenario truly tested my faith in what cannot be taken away.

I finally got the call I’d been waiting for.
“She’s out. She’s okay,” Da said.
“I’ll be there tomorrow morning,” I replied with a huge exhale.

The surgeon had told Da she could have died without the emergency operation. He’d removed a large section of her badly perforated sigmoid colon and attached a temporary ostomy bag. A long line of bulky staples was etched down her belly where the incision had been made.

When I saw her the next day, I knew — both in what I felt and what I saw — that she had touched something otherworldly.

“There are angels everywhere, Maasa,” she said.
“What? You can see them?” I asked.
“Yes. I can’t see their faces, but they’re like flowing, transparent curtains — and there are so many of them. They’re rushing to help the nurses, helping the people here.”

Her eyes glassed over with emotion as she spoke. “One of them came to me and whispered in my ear.”

She couldn’t understand what was said, but she was completely assured that everything — no matter what — would be okay. And then, she told me, Jichan and Bachan — her parents who had long since passed — came to let her know that there is nothing to fear on the other side. That they are all there — the ones who passed.

I’ve rarely seen my mother cry, but these were tears I recognized — the same kind I’d shed when I felt closest to God during my own brush with death. Goosebumps rose on my arms; I knew she was telling the truth.
“I also saw you with the angels,” she said. “But you weren’t transparent. You walked right by my room, looking for me, and I kept calling out to you.”

I hadn’t been to that hospital until then, but she accurately described the hat I’d worn the day before. I believe prayer can override the laws of the physical world. Somehow, as I clung to faith that my prayers were being heard, I had found my way to be close to Mama.

“Then the strangest thing happened,” she continued. “I found myself hanging upside down… among smoked kippers. And I was completely at peace.”

“Kippers? Like herring?” I asked, puzzled.

I didn’t connect the dots — until Da did. His father had spent much of his life working in a kipper smokehouse in Scotland. Mama felt his presence watching over her in that very place, as if he had come to reassure her himself — confirming what she’d already been told: there is nothing to fear beyond this life.

After a week in the hospital, Mama came home. She’d lost her voice from the tube that had helped her breathe during the long hours of surgery. It feels like she still has one foot in the world where angels abide. Something has shifted in her — a quiet certainty born of what she experienced, which only deepens the ground where I’ve placed my own faith.

LESSON: “God’s angels hover near and all about. His Love surrounds you, and of this be sure; that I will never leave you comfortless.”- Complete and Annotated Edition (CE) of A Course in Miracles.

NOW WHAT?

by Maasaisis

The acute phase of survival has since passed, and in its place, a gap has opened—space that wants to be filled. I feel the aftershock in residual tremors, my footing seeks traction in the space ahead. Now, life back to somewhat normal pulls me into the trap of restlessness—as if I need to make up for what I’ve been through by becoming someone of more value.

It’s ridiculous, but even after all this, it still comes to get me. I’m still getting duped by the habit of assigning value to what I do, instead of resting in the quiet grace of all that’s been given to me. Even as my intellect understands that I’m already at home base, the self I’ve constructed keeps me running—from the perfection of how I was created.

I feel the pressure to do something significant in return for the extension of my life. I thought I was done with the rhetoric of that harsh inner voice—the one that drives me to do more, to be better. But ego is loud, convincing, and insistent—sending me out in search, while I forget that I’ve already been claimed by an inherent happiness that asks for nothing in return.

Cancer takes up so much space—not just as an all-encompassing distraction, but as something that gave meaning through the effort to survive. The biological malfunction that became my greatest challenge also cracked me open, allowing light to come in. Now that I have a relationship with that light, I’m on alert for what blocks its shine.

I feel the tension of knowing that my scramble for purpose is rooted in fear—the fear that if I don’t fill the gap with what I make of myself, the disease might return and do it for me. So the focus shifts to the next problem—whether it’s the volatile state of the world, the financial pressure we’re all facing, or the endless causes I feel helpless to do anything about. It’s all an outward projection of the same thing: I’m still trying to fix it from the outside, instead of settling back in.

As I sit here after my quiet morning contemplation, I’m reminded that ego will have me seek but will make sure I never find. It distracts me with a sense of urgency to do something, anything for an illusion of a fix of what can’t be fixed from the same level where the problem was created.

I’m finally free of that horrendous pain that once felt like it would never end. But the gift of coming out of it is so easily forgotten as I latched onto the next mountain to climb.

The unsettling sense that I needed to do something should have been my cue to pause and examine the root of that urgency. Instead, I convinced myself that I could be of value by helping my husband, a developer, and jumped into a path entirely outside my norm—just as I was beginning to come up for air. The idea felt so far removed from my usual operating system that I mistook it for clear guidance. So I enrolled in a university-level course to become a licensed realtor, with the intention of selling the units he built.

It only took ten days of misery—battling my brain to retain information I had no desire to keep—before I could admit I’d made a mistake. The choice came from fear of the open space that was actually meant for my happiness. I’m still on the mend, still receiving ongoing treatment, and still hold my breath when I click open my blood test results every three weeks. My gratitude for my health had been misplaced in what I could do with it instead of simply basking in it.

I’m of value because I’m still here, doing my best to live and share what I’m learning. Even though I don’t fully understand how, I trust I’m doing my part for the healing of the collective. This is what I return to when I find myself spinning out of orbit. To come back home to happiness and shine out.

LESSON: MIND IS STILL ENOUGH TO RECEIVE THE ANSWER THAT IS NOT ENTAILED IN THE QUESTION. -A Course In Miracles

It’s important to mention that much of what I write is inspired by my ongoing study of A Course in Miracles. That said, studying it doesn’t mean I fully understand it. It continues to meet me exactly where I am, gently guiding me to live to love.

Above painting by maasa.ca

Hold Fast

by Maasaisis

We are wired to problem-solve, but what happens when the problem affects everyone, yet the solutions feel different for each of us? How do we navigate the collective terror of impending doom—the world vibrating with angst and division?

Fear reigns over what we cannot control, convincing us that we can escape it or defeat it. But how can we “win” if we’re operating from the same mindset that created the problem? Chaos persists because everyone has their own truth to defend. As long as there’s someone or something on the other side of the battlefield, any victory will be short-lived. A Course in Miracles teaches that we must leave the battlefield entirely, beyond the mind that believes in the battle.

So, where do we find our security? At the root of my dis-ease lies scarcity, loss, pain, and death. It’s where I land when the reality I created feels like it’s crumbling into nothing. How can peace be found in what we cannot control? No amount of running, hiding, or fighting against the manifestations of fear will bring lasting assurance. True safety can’t be found through opposition. As long as we fight to protect what we inevitably can’t keep, we lose—like sand slipping through our fingers.

Why do we seek love, happiness, and joy? Because these are the essence of our making, and we long to return to them. Yet, we perceive them as fleeting—things that can be taken or lost.

Often, our gains come at the expense of someone else’s loss. For example, I may celebrate my health by comparing it to someone else’s suffering. This is how ego tries to make me feel safe, but it’s a sham. It convinces me that I’ve escaped a similar fate, while instilling the fear that it could still happen to me. What kind of assurance is that?

But what if the truth is that we already have all we need? What if our inheritance cannot be lost? If the body is what separates us and our identification with it is the source of all our problems, can we look past it? In that understanding, we would no longer be bound by our mortal predicament.

My survival instincts peaked during my own battles with fear. No amount of effort could overcome its formidable force as long as I believed what it was trying to convince me of. What was it trying to tell me? That I am a speck of dust in the grand scheme of things, destined to suffer and fade into being forgotten—with that being the end. But what if the thought that believed I was a speck changed?

All problems originate in the human mind, shaped by a survival-based perspective. Even billionaires feel they need more to secure their existence, just as those struggling for their next meal or seeking escape from unbearable circumstances. The form may differ, but the underlying fear remains the same.

I’m learning to anchor myself in what cannot be shaken—in the intangible realm beyond the part of my mind that feels threatened. It exists in a space where no imaginable worst-case scenario can affect it, untouched by forces I could ever conjure. This requires faith.

I keep holding fast to what I can’t fully understand, yet it miraculously keeps my light lit. I’ve learned that everything I long for is just a thought away—if only I can grasp it. If I succumb to the fear of the possibility of cancer coming to get me again, if I believed I was ‘incurable,’ life would just be a ticking time bomb. That’s no life at all.

There is a way out of nightmares if I recognize that I’m in one and choose to open my eyes. The evidence of this in my life inspires me to keep trusting, even without knowing where it’s leading me. All I know is that this is the only way I know how to do this—whatever this is. My only job is to leave the battleground within myself and bridge the divides in my everyday life, however they appear.

Anything I hold against myself or others only brings pain, even if it’s unconscious. Perhaps the helplessness of witnessing the chaos in our world can only be healed by seeing it for what it truly is—a beast born from the errors of our thinking, and therefore, something that can be undone. Each time we catch ourselves in attack mode and respond with loving forgiveness for what we’ve forgotten, we create an opportunity for change—a change that serves us all, starting with each mind choosing peace.

Does this mean I roll over and don’t take a stand? No, but I can take a stand while holding fast to what can’t be changed in a world dominated by change. A radical shift is necessary in these unprecedented times, which amplify our collective fear. Isn’t it time to try something different to break this cycle of division? I trust in a mighty force that works through each and every one of us when we remember what can’t be taken.

If every interaction reflected the larger whole, and we had the choice to mend the divide—regardless of how things appeared on the surface—would it be a practice worth engaging in? If we viewed conflict as an expression of fear and a desire for safety, recognizing that, in this way, we are all the same- would it shift our perspective on how to approach it? Wouldn’t we help each other from that place? If we are truly connected, then human relationships become the mirror through which we see our relationship with ourselves at the deepest level—and an opportune place to heal from.

Perhaps miracles happen when we step onto a playing field where no one needs to win and fear cannot enter. But first, we must allow the possibility of such a place to exist in our minds. I believe that as we shift from fear to the safety of love, the ripple will spread—benefiting us all. What I’m certain of is that the paradigm of pointing fingers only repeats the same patterns. A Course in Miracles is gently guiding and inspiring me to question the dominance of fear. That’s where the real healing is taking place, and I believe it’s extending outward and beyond.

LESSON: I’m eternally grateful for the community of mighty companions studying the Course alongside me—teachers and friends who dedicate their lives to making these teachings accessible for all of us. I’ve never truly felt like I belonged until I found the Course. It has literally saved my life. There are study groups happening all over, all the time. This is not a profit-based organization but one that genuinely seeks to contribute to the healing of the world. Here’s the link if you feel a tug. https://circleofa.org/

MIRACLE SHIFT

by Maasaisis

“Your CT scan shows that you’ve responded exceptionally well to treatment,” my oncologist said excitedly over the phone. “There doesn’t appear to be any tumours in either breast although, It’s hard to assess the right one due to extensive scar tissue from the ulceration. What spread into your chest wall has receded, the thickening in your upper sternum is stable, and your lymph nodes look clear.”

I was surprised by how calmly I received the wonderful news—perhaps because it simply confirmed the profound shift I’ve been feeling lately.

Three months ago, my CT scan showed disease progression from my right breast into my chest wall, in the sternum, and in my lymph nodes. The tumor in my left breast was also evident. Due to my chronic infections, I was able to forgo the chemotherapy portion, which would have depleted my immune response, and instead gave my body the chance to fight back against the infections. With stage four metastatic breast cancer, the recommended treatment was aggressive. My unique situation gave me the chance to stumble upon a miracle.

After two targeted immunotherapy treatments with minimal side effects, all four of my tumor markers dropped below the normal range for the first time in five and a half years. I requested a CT scan after my third treatment, knowing I’d likely be recommended to add chemotherapy for the following round since my infections had cleared. I needed to know if my insides reflected how I was feeling—and they did! My doctors believe that the targeted immunotherapy was solely responsible for this miraculous turn of events. I have my own belief, which I attribute to a higher order I’d placed my bet on.

“I still advise you to do chemo and take advantage of this window to clear out whatever may be left of the cancer,” my oncologist continued. I’m incredibly grateful to have been matched with an oncologist who respects my decision-making process. For now, I declined the chemo, as my body is relishing the vitality that had been absent for so long. The thought of compromising my entire system, just as it was moving towards homeostasis, felt more like a risk than a benefit. However, I’m careful not to cling, as I need to remain open to pivot when necessary.

The only “barometer” I’ve put my faith in is the level of peace I feel in the choices I make. I’m talking about the kind of peace that can’t be manufactured for safety’s sake—the kind that is all-encompassing, a ‘yes!’ that I can fall into and feel held by. That’s what I felt after I declined chemo for my next round.

I’m learning that the only power worth giving is the Power I lovingly surrender to. Time and time again, I’ve been shown that when I do this, I’m being taken care of. I know when I’m not doing this because I feel a tightening around the reality I want to control. So, when I notice, I let go again and again, praying to be shown the way. The way has at times been scary, painful, confusing, and messy- it’s only from this vantage point that I can see the meaning in all of those experiences. This is what I need to trust as I keep following the way. This is what Da calls a miracle shift.

I hadn’t disclosed to my doctors the other ‘therapies’ I believe contributed to my ‘exceptional response.’ A fringe protocol, showing great promise as a cancer cure, came onto my radar last year. I began it as a last-ditch effort to make a difference on my own before seeking help from the conventional system. However, I didn’t use it long enough to give it a fair trial. The use of repurposed drugs—existing drugs originally developed for one condition but used to treat another—was gaining momentum and showing great promise for healing even the most aggressive and untreatable cancers.

The research I’ve done has given me enough confidence to test these therapies on myself, especially since, based on what I’ve gathered, they won’t interfere with the efficacy of my treatment and are relatively harmless. I’ve also been taking Artemisinin, derived from the sweet wormwood plant, often referred to as ‘herbal chemo’ due to its potent anticancer properties. Alongside this, I’ve maintained a steady regimen of herbal tinctures, teas, vitamins, high doses of anti-inflammatory supplements, and antioxidants to neutralize free radicals.

I also take time for my daily ritual of forest bathing and prioritize having meaningful, heartful connections. I can feel the power of the prayers from those who pray for me. I’m sure all of these have contributed significantly to my current state, but what I give the most credit to has nothing to do with what I put into my body.

My day begins with aligning my will with the greater will of God. It is only from this place that I can live fully and flourish, even with this disease. I need to recalibrate throughout the day because it’s so easy to get lost in our mortal predicament. So, I keep coming back, and I keep placing my faith in what I can never fully understand but can trust. I trust because I keep finding my way.

LESSON: PEACE IS THE CONDITION OF ALL MIRACLES- ACIM

Banner painting “Of The Same” by Maasa. In the spirit of our Sameness, we celebrate what can’t be threatened or taken away. What we thought we forgot is redeemed in the remembrance that was never lost. More of my art mine may be seen @ http://www.maasa.ca

DON’T ASSUME ANYTHING

by Maasaisis

As I sauntered into the frigid water amidst the flurry of screams, splashes, and gooseflesh, I was reminded of the simple yet profound lesson: don’t assume anything. The annual polar bear dip in the lake has become the only real symbolic tradition our family shares.

It began during the debaucherous phase of my husband and my early courtship over two decades ago. Still thoroughly inebriated from the epic party of New Year’s Eve, we impulsively jumped into the bone-chilling glacial waters of Kootenay Lake, desperate for a cure from our horrible hangovers.

Unbeknownst to us at the time, this impulsive act would evolve into something far more meaningful. What started as a way to rid the debris of toxicity transformed into a symbolic ritual—clearing the slate for a fresh start each new year. I had so much to release from the most challenging year of my life.

Leading up to the grand event, I was still pleading for respite from the debilitating pain induced by my chronically infected wound. It was outrageous to even consider jumping into a lake already laden with bacteria, made worse by a slew of people transforming it into a cesspit of infection-loving agents. Not to mention, I was on standby for a palliative mastectomy, which wasn’t for a curative cause but rather a necessary step, with its own unknowns, in order to proceed to the next phase of treatment that would hopefully nuke the cancer.

I had reached—or so I thought—a stalemate with my eight-month ordeal of enduring the gruesome ulceration of my tumour. Only in hindsight can I see the blessings hidden within periods of doubt, suffering and fear. I wouldn’t have been eligible for surgery if not for the recurring infections. I wouldn’t have started the new treatment had my cancer not mutated into a different kind. I was ready to let go, my hands open.

But my hands gripped, white knuckled in the darkness. At night, my trust waned, smashing against fears and contradictions of my own making. My heart raced with the terror of losing parts of myself. What security was there in what I was willing to give? My mind fought, freaked, and froze around runaway thoughts that I could not control. Would I regain mobility in my already compromised arm? Would I be left with a Frankenstein version of my current wound, along with a donor site that might not heal properly? Would my cancer run rampant? Death lurked close by, and faith was but a whisper in my shallow breath.

With a new day and along with the light, I pray to strengthen my trust in letting go. The more I release the need to control and arrange the world around me to feel safe, the freer I become to recognize the path unfolding for me. I’m learning to trust this way because I feel at peace with the next step—only as it unfolds. When I analyze and weigh my options, mingling them with combative emotions, all that happens is that I go around in vicious circles. Decision making brings only anxiety and uncertainty. I cannot be trusted operating from this place.

In my right-mindedness, I see how my perceived safety net is hooked onto anchors that aren’t secured deeply. My constant attempts to rearrange and stay on top of what I’m trying to control only make the net tremble, precariously holding everything together.

This is why A Course in Miracles teaches me to let go of what I think I know and offer my free will for guidance—to see beyond the mind I have constructed and trust in what I don’t yet have the capacity to understand. It’s a big ask, one I often meet with resistance: to take responsibility for all that I don’t want to feel, while finding empowerment in giving up what I’ve given power to.

The help I’ve received has come in ways I could never have planned or imagined for myself. My nemesis, the staph infections that prevented me from getting chemo, instead allowed me to receive the gentler targeted therapy portion of the IV cocktail.

I never would have imagined that one treatment of the targeted therapy would reroute me into the lake. By the time the surgeon called me back just after Christmas, my wound had transformed from an angry, oozing mess into something that actually looked like it was healing. Before I could share this update, he gravely explained that I would need invasive surgery to remove my breast, cut into my pectoral muscle, and go deeper into the chest wall. This would be followed by extensive reconstructive surgery requiring specialists. I’d have to carve out parts of myself to remake what had been taken away—all with the looming risk of poor healing or the cancer compromising me further.

He was surprised and excited when I told him that my wound looked better than it ever had—that it actually seemed to be closing with healthy tissue. For the first time in over a year, I no longer needed morphine to manage my pain! He agreed that the best path forward was to get on with treatment as soon as possible.

My path continues to twist and turn in surprising ways, reminding me that a higher working order is in play when I choose to trust. The onslaught of antibiotics for my infection had concerning repercussions on my gut. When another three weeks passed, I received the same unorthodox treatment without the harsh chemotherapy. Truth be told, I’m still terribly afraid of chemo. Even though the infection and gut issues looked horrible from the outside, on the inside, I felt as though I was being gently guided to not be afraid.

The genetic testing result I’d been waiting for over two months might be ready before the next round of treatment. Knowing I have a good match would give me the courage to shift my perspective and fully accept chemo as medicine, not poison. I’m placing my trust in divine timing and also leaving room to have no set plan in place.

My practice is to remember to stay open, even when I feel the urge to close tightly around all that is precious to me in an attempt to protect it. There is a paradox in handing it all over, where freedom intertwines with the terror of letting go, until the moment both hands open. I keep coming up for air on a regular basis. I forget, and then, by the grace of God, I remember that life cannot be truly lived while fearing the loss of what we love. A Course In Miracles teaches that Love is the absence of fear.

I’d triple-secured waterproofing over what was left of the open wound—an upside-down heart-shaped opening where my breast used to curve. Below it, a bridge of healthy tissue between another meaty section that’s shaped like a semicolon. The deep, long and narrow bottom of the crevice, prone to infection- hidden for months, had finally widened and risen to the surface to dry out. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d fully submerged in water.

Albeit the middle of a Canadian winter, the beach was devoid of snow. While the weather was milder than in other years, I still hopped between my bare feet, stripped down to my bathing suit. A sizable crowd had gathered, many of whom I recognized as seasoned veterans, shrieking with excitement. Da danced around in his bathing knickers, my husband hollered, Mama was, as always, ready to document with camera in hand, and my teenage daughter grimaced against the cold. Together, we prepared for the plunge, my family by my side.

This was it—we all needed to press the reset button, and this time, I would do it with focused intention. For the first time, I didn’t rush in and out. I took in every step of the way into whatever comes next, and found my way back to shore.

LESSON: WHAT I THINK I KNOW DOESN’T PROVIDE THE KIND OF SECURITY THAT I SEEK.

WAILING THERAPY

by Maasaisis

I’ve been waiting for my husband and daughter to leave for the day. The house is still, amplifying the sound of my pacing feet. I feel as though I’m going mad, squeezed by a vise grip made of my own flesh. My shallow breath crashes against the tight wall of my chest with nowhere to go. Anxious and writhing in pain, I feel that something is going to snap. I don’t feel right inhabiting this tight and torqued body. The urgency of something needing to happen overwhelms me. I don’t know what—until I open my mouth.

At first, I’m stunned by the sound. It comes from the deepest, darkest cavern of my being. Every ounce of my energy is behind it, driving it out from a place that has been dormant. Once the channel to the exit is open, it moves with force. The ceaseless sound of anguish reverberates against the vaulted ceilings as waves of crying, wailing, howling, and screaming crash against the walls around me. It’s a cathartic symphony, raw and primal.

Somehow, my fur kids, Apollo and Tuzzo, instinctively keep their distance, as if sensing this for what it is—an animal release. The vocal purging eventually stops, followed by a silence broken only by my panting breath. From this untamed ceremony, I’ve discovered newfound space within the constriction of my body—a respite from something other than the focus on my suffering. A gift from chaos.

This is yet another edge I have to find my way around, through or over. No matter what it looks like on the outside, energy needs to move.

I’ve been sounding out what I’m up against—my wailing therapy is not just about release; it’s a reaching toward life. I must keep moving toward life, even as the intensity of these last few weeks tries to pull me away. Even through hardship, I’m visited by angels always close by.

They have been showing up through people and moments that remind me I’m still here—precious and deeply loved. People are pouring their prayers over me, bringing me beautiful meals, offering meaningful gifts, sending fortifying messages, giving me deep heart-to-heart touch and soulful conversations. I hold fast to the life and love that make this wild ride bearable.

My heart has cracked open through adversity, creating space for love to funnel through. It tends to the sharp edges, where tears of agony alchemize into beams of light. My heart is wildly awake, with an incredible capacity to feel it all—the mix bag of everything—and still keep pumping for life.

I’ve never felt closer to my family and friends. I prioritize to be free of grievances and the trivial things that used to bother me. I no longer feel intimidated by beautiful, powerful women—I want to draw them in and shine their beauty back to them. I’m drawn to elders to hold me in their wisdom. I give myself permission to present myself as I am. I don’t avoid talking to people I don’t know. I cherish taking time to do just about anything, giving value to what I can do, and doing my best to let go of what I can’t. I’m learning to forgive…mostly myself. I’m not afraid to express that I’m scared and to claim that I don’t know anything, which fortifies my faith in God.

I’ve changed my mind about many things, allowing me to bend with what’s happening. These are profound gifts bestowed upon me during the most challenging of times.

This post has come together in fits and starts, mirroring the rhythm of my days lately. My daughter and husband shaved off my hair as I declared my readiness for chemo, only to find out the day before that I had another bout of a nasty staph/strep infection that postponed it. It turned out my body had become resistant to the last round of antibiotics. The persistence of this infection is what needs to be addressed before the nuking of cancer cells. This deep-seated inflammation surely contributed to the maddening pain.

This chronically festering open wound poses a challenge for chemo, as the treatment will wipe out my immune system, leaving me dangerously vulnerable to the effects of this recurrent infection. I had to laugh at the irony of my premature hair shave in the middle of winter. Still, I’ll offer it up as a symbol of my readiness—a gesture of my willingness to do whatever it takes. I was able to proceed with the immunotherapy portion of my treatment, and a meeting with a surgeon was quickly arranged to discuss the possibility of debridement or a “palliative mastectomy.”

The word “palliative” has come up a couple of times now. I’ve deflected it, swatting it away like a bee that wants to sting me. This word has the power to make me retract from life if I let it. So, I am choosing to see it as I would the word “may”—a word that leaves room for possibilities, for this or that, and everything in between.

Now, as we approach the time of the birth of Christ, I search for the light of Christ within—the light we all carry, the light that connects us to each other and to this crazy, beautiful life. What else can I do but seek and follow this light? What else can I do but keep reaching for love and life? Though I may not know where I’m going, I keep finding jewels in the most unlikely places. That tells me I’m on the right path. That tells me to just keep going.

I close this year celebrating what I’ve gained through what I’ve endured and what I’ve let go of. I’m doing what I can and accepting a whole lot of unknowns. I’m learning, making mistakes, getting real messy, while striving to keep my heart open. I don’t want to leave anything important unsaid. I hold ambition and inspiration in keeping my dreams alive.

I move toward a new year by placing one foot in front of the other, step by step and breath by breath. I send my deepest gratitude for all the love and support I’ve been given. I believe in the power of love as the most potent medicine to do this dance of life. We’re all dancin’ in our unique ways, but we’re doin’ it together. And when the music shifts, breaks, and stops as it naturally does, may we remember to keep dancing—however we may, even if it is only on the inside.

LESSON: KEEP DANCING

THE FALLEN NIPPLE

by Maasaisis

I’m examining a part of myself that has been with me all my life, now detached and between the tips of my tweezers. It’s surreal that this blackened, shrivelled raisin of a thing once served as my daughter’s comfort and source of nourishment, nurturing her growth for over two years.

“Should we say something?” my husband asks. My stomach churns in a strange brew of fascination, disbelief, and horror. My nipple has fallen off and it is no longer a part of me.

There have been so many levels of letting go. A year ago, I was finally ready for a mastectomy only to learn I wasn’t eligible. For the last six months, my body has been breaking down this fist-sized ball of unruly cells in a painful, gruesome process—my body’s own way of giving me a mastectomy.

The fleshy crevice is nearly closed, and the sheer force of tissue pulling together brings the most intense pain, surpassing even the avulsion fracture in my left humerus from my recent fall. After my third staph infection due to this open wound and low immunity, I’ve accepted antibiotics as part of my treatment plan. Once my foe, antibiotics are now my ally—a testament to the softening of my once-rigid way of thinking.

The right side of my torso and arm feels like it’s rusting—heavy, creaky, and persistently achy. It’s a diversion from the new lump growing in my other breast. This unwelcome newcomer has a genetic twist, playing by a different set of rules from the other side. I’m not sure if experience has lessened the shock of another cancer or if I’ve simply become immune to adversity. Either way, there’s nowhere to go but toward acceptance, mustering the fortitude to keep going.

“Thank you for being a part of me. Go in peace,” I say. I package up my nipple to be buried with our son, whom I miscarried years ago. What I’m sharing may seem like tragedy and hardship, but I’m seeing it differently. I’m recognizing how much I’ve let go of, which has helped me grow in ways I may not have otherwise. I’m finding confirmation of this in how I navigate these experiences.

There are only two ways of being. In this cocoon of metamorphosis, I can be trapped in darkness or held in light, depending on how I perceive my experience. I’ve started simplifying my approach to life: whatever is not of peace must be examined, and it’s my work to practice finding my way back to peace if it’s absent.

Some days, I crumble under the weight of it all. In the catharsis of unyielding pain and exhaustion, I cry out for mercy. There are thoughts I dare not voice—because if I say them aloud, they might become real. My mind swings like a pendulum between what I have gained and what I have lost. Tonight, I mourned the loss of what was once my perky pink nipple. Tomorrow, I hope to gain something that will illuminate my way forward.

I’m managing my pain while readying myself for the next stage of treatment. There are many moving parts, and they can only be organized from an eagle-eye perspective. Looking back over the last five years, I see that my milestones of growth have come through loosening my grip on what I think I know, acceptance, and my willingness to see things differently—to choose a perspective that doesn’t trap me with nowhere to go.

Now I’m waiting to have my sternum biopsied. We need to determine if the metastasis there is related to the hormone-driven cancer or the new one. If it’s connected to the original cancer and the other is contained without spread, surgery may be recommended. If there is spread, I’ll need to consider systemic treatment for both. The thought of surgery no longer terrifies me. My attachment to appearance no longer enslaves me. Accepting help no longer feels like defeat.

I’ve decided to be proactive and use the remaining funds that this incredible community raised for me towards genetic testing. If I’m to have faith in conventional treatment, knowing that guesswork is minimized would be helpful. FoundationOne, an FDA-approved lab, uses biopsied tissue to identify mutations, amplifications, and other alterations to match targeted treatments. Though it’s unfortunately not covered by our healthcare system and comes at a high cost, this step feels essential for my peace of mind and the best way forward.

I didn’t want to fight to get my oncologist’s sign-off on this or to help me apply for the grant. Her support is essential in moving forward and incorporating this information into my treatment plan. After a four-hour drive and praying for a smooth meeting, I was met with warmth and her full support.

I’m not the same person who once held strong judgments and rigid beliefs. Reflecting on who I was, I see how much I’ve softened the boundaries of what I thought I knew. On a good day, I as Spirit feel more real than I as body. In surrendering my attachments—to appearances, outcomes, and certainty—I’ve discovered that guidance often arrive in the most unexpected and affirming ways. I yearn for connection, to bridge the gap of differences, and to find refuge in the love that unites us all. In this way, I feel closer to God and all of creation, and in this connection, I find my peace.

LESSON: I AM WILLING TO SEE THIS DIFFERENTLY- I CHOOSE PEACE INSTEAD.

-Teaching from ACIM