Tag: trusting the process

It’s Come To This

by Maasaisis

I’d trained myself out of “scanxiety.” For me, this meant not only the anxious waiting for scan results, but also the fear of the potential long-term effects of radiation from regular screening. Once I accepted that consistent monitoring was necessary for my current condition, the next step was letting go of my resistance. That resistance had been the driver of how I navigated so much of my healing journey. It strengthened my judgment toward conventional medicine through my need to prove that my way was right, that there was an alternative I would find. When life is on the line, it can inspire minds to change. My closed mind is healing into an open one.

I didn’t feel anxious, right up until the phone rang.

I’d been anticipating a call from my oncologist to go over the report from my latest PET scan. Over time, my screening appointments had become a kind of ceremony, an entry into a portal of light, the high-tech tunnel that would reveal truth. This reframing was the only way I could reconcile my discomfort with the radioactive process that now happens every six months. It’s how I can get real with the facts I have to face.

The last scan was in Aug. It confirmed there was still cancer activity, but it was mostly localized in my breast and appeared stable under the treatment I was on. There was a suspicious spot on my T4 vertebra that my oncologist wanted to monitor, but compared to the previous PET scan taken in the thick of my healing crisis the year before, I was doing much better. There was no cancer activity in my vital organs, and that was something I truly celebrated.

My life had reached a place where cancer no longer took up center stage. I’d been tolerating my treatment, a cocktail of two receptor-blocking drugs that were meant to work as a trifecta alongside chemotherapy. At the time, though, I was too weak to take the chemo, a divine intervention that saved me from facing one of my greatest fears when I felt I had no other choice. Only when I finally surrendered was I given the grace of not having to take it. Whether it was the blockers or the natural closure of the ulceration process of my tumour that restored my vitality, I’ll never know.

Since last September, I’ve been rebuilding my strength. I joined an intimate workout program where my coach encourages me to explore the edges of my physical capacity. I healed my frozen shoulder and regained mobility on my right side, which had been bound up by scar tissue from the trauma of my tumor’s breakdown. I finally healed the plantar fasciitis in both feet that had plagued me for months by being encouraged to exercise barefoot, strengthening my feet instead of babying them with sophisticated, padded shoes.

I found my edge, and that edge kept expanding. In six months, I was in the best shape I’d been in since my twenties. I felt strong, energized, and deeply alive.

Feeling confident in my health, I finally allowed myself to fulfill a long-held dream of studying flamenco in Seville. I took the leap and bought my ticket for this summer. From there, I planned to continue on my solo journey to Toulouse to study with my Dhrupad teacher, a classical Indian vocal tradition that dates back over a thousand years and is practiced as a spiritual discipline to calm the mind through devotional sound.

I booked my entire trip.
And now, it has come to this.

I knew something was wrong the moment my oncologist said hello.

“I’m so sorry. Your cancer has spread. It’s such a shock, as you look so vibrant.” She genuinely sounded upset.

A stillness came over me as I felt Al’s hand tighten around my thigh. He was there, hoping we’d receive and share good news together. I was surprised by how calm my voice sounded.

“What came up?”

It must be so hard to be the bearer of bad news, I thought, as I took in what she was saying. The spot on my T4 had grown. The cancer activity in my breast had progressed. More lymph nodes were now involved, and there was a new lesion in my sternum that hadn’t been present on the last scan.

“But the good news,” she said, “is that your organs are still clear.”

Fuck.

I was confused, because how I felt didn’t echo what she was telling me. I was acutely aware of Al’s breathing quickening beside me. He had just had shoulder surgery and couldn’t use his dominant arm, with a long healing process ahead. For someone so active, it was a big decision to trade time, patience, and willingness now for a hopeful future without restrictions. It had already been such an adjustment. And now this- with me.

“So, what now?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer. It was the one I’d successfully avoided since the day I was diagnosed six and a half years ago. My healing journey had been defined by carving an alternative path, one of discovery, challenge, and growth, that ultimately led me here, to finally accept chemotherapy as my choice.

It had come to this.
To face my fear.
To allow it to become my medicine.

I couldn’t shake the certainty that this was my next step, and in that certainty, I could see just how much healing I had really done.

My voice was steady. There was no frantic searching for escape routes in my mind, no more alternative therapies to seek out. Fear was present, but my strength was greater now, strong enough to alchemize it by saying yes.

I write to continue the ceremony of alchemy as I prepare for chemo tomorrow. I am finally here. It took me this long to say yes, not from a place of being cornered, but from willingness and the space in my mind to choose differently this time. From trusting the truest part of me, the solid, unchanging light can only exist free from fear.

What I also know is this. I am not canceling my dream.

My experience has taught me to trust what surfaces moment to moment, to follow rather than assume, and to release resistance instead of bracing against life. I’ve learned to move where energy flows. For now, that means adding an elixir of healing to my life, not subtracting from it. My life will remain what I make of it. I will know when I know.

I could be angry. After all this, finally getting my life back, finally getting my wild, thick curls back after losing my hair, returning to work and rebuilding my massage clientele, only to consciously choose a treatment that may take it all away again.

Yes, it’s easy to become a victim of circumstances that feel unfair. But I always have a choice in how I perceive my life. If I accept this as my curriculum, if I believe everything happens for my benefit when I respond with peace and seek love in every situation, then that is what my life will be centered around. Not the effects of what appears on the outside.

Everything is happening at the level of my mind. The way I choose to live with what’s happening is the ticket to staying free. It’s the only way to do this. It’s the only way to keep going.

My latest painting was guiding me toward this choice. Without realizing it, I painted myself embracing my beloved, who also represented my shadow self. Sometimes the only thing we can offer another is to truly see them beneath the veil of suffering and in turn we do that for ourselves too. To see the perfect, invulnerable creations of love that we are, no matter what’s happening on the surface. To remember for them when they can’t.

The figure I’m holding also represents what needed healing, my fears, my past, the fragmented parts of me longing to be seen, held, and made whole. Within the embrace, they both return home to what cannot change.

This is exactly how I feel now. Safe in my decision. Knowing I’m cutting the cord of an old loop that kept returning. Now it’s cut. I’m breaking free.

I go with peace.
I go with gratitude.
I’m surrounded by love.

And that is the medicine I will receive.

“I See You”- Painting by Maasa

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.