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Thursday, 28 May 2026
On this day of your life
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I believe God wants you to know ... ... that it is
better to do now what you will have to do eventually. You know, right
now, what you will have to do eventually. Your
stomach is telling you right now. You just don't want
to have to listen to it; don't want to believe it. Believe it. The tummy knows. How many times in your life must you
prove this to yourself? You will not have
to think but a second to know exactly why you
received this message today. |
Fascia Freedom and Release (OM)
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The Unspoken, Invisible Things Cancer Takes Away.
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Cancer doesn’t only take away what shows up on scans or lab reports.
It takes things quietly, intangibly, often without witnesses.
These are the losses no one prepares you for, because they don’t fit neatly into treatment plans or survivorship statistics.
One of the first things cancer takes is your ability to relate to a so-called “normal” life. While others stress about traffic or minor inconveniences, you are navigating mortality. The gap between those realities widens over time, until ordinary conversations begin to feel strangely distant. You’re not detached, you’re simply living in a different register of consequence.
Cancer takes your sense of time. Life is no longer measured in seasons, but in scan dates, lab results, and waiting rooms. The future becomes conditional. You stop speaking in certainty and start speaking in “ifs” while still remaining hopeful.
It takes your innocence. Once you learn the language of disease: recurrence, progression, remission, HER2 status, OncoDX, (the list goes on and on), you can’t return to the person who believed bad things happened elsewhere, to someone else.
Cancer takes your trust in your body. Every ache feels suspicious. Your body becomes something you monitor rather than inhabit. You find yourself surrendering. It’s almost robotic how you continue to go through the motions while moving forward, plowing through treatment and sometimes, life itself.
It takes your privacy. Your body is examined, discussed, and altered, often while you lie quietly in the room.
It takes your spontaneity. Plans become tentative. Energy is rationed. Everything depends on how you feel, how your lab counts look, how your body is responding to treatments, and whether or not you got adequate sleep and rest.
Cancer also takes your patience for superficiality. Small talk feels hollow when you’re carrying something this heavy. You crave honesty, depth, and meaning. Not because you’re bitter, but because you no longer have the luxury of pretending.
In a good way, this forces clarity and deepens connection.
And perhaps most quietly, cancer takes your sense of being fully understood. People try. “Cancer Ghosting” may even happen. Most mean well, but unless they’ve lived here in this New World, there is a distance that always remains.
If there is a lesson in all of this, I’ve learned it isn’t poetic. It’s practical.
As long as you are upright and able, you keep moving forward. Cancer forces you across every kind of terrain: solid ground, rocky paths, loose scree, and stretches that feel like your leadened legs are wading through quicksand.
You quickly learn that you don’t get to choose the landscape, and you no longer need bravery or clarity because you simply take the next step: one foot in front of the other.
~
One True Thing: a Simple Practice for when the World feels Heavy.
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There is a particular kind of heaviness that has been settling over a lot of people lately.
You wake up, reach for your phone before you’re even fully conscious, and within minutes something has taken over.
The anger arrives fast. The dread is slower but it stays longer. And then you carry it into your morning, into your conversations, into the way you look at the person across the breakfast table who said the wrong thing at the wrong moment and is now absorbing something they didn’t cause.
This is not weakness. This is not you being too sensitive or too online or too political. This is what chronic exposure to crisis does to a nervous system that was never designed to hold this much, this consistently.
What’s Actually Happening in our Brain
Our brain has a filter. It’s running all the time, deciding what gets through and what gets edited out—our own nose disappears from our field of vision because our brain decided it wasn’t important enough to show us. The feeling of our clothes against our skin. The sound of the refrigerator humming. Gone, because our brain chose what mattered.
It does this with more than just sensory input. It does it with meaning. With expectation. With what we believe is coming next.
When we’ve absorbed enough bad news—enough evidence that things are broken, that people are cruel, that the ground keeps shifting—our brain starts filtering reality through that lens. It finds confirmation everywhere. It stops seeing what’s steady because it’s been trained to scan for what’s falling apart. This is called negativity bias, and it kept our ancestors alive.
It is currently making a lot of us miserable.
The cruel part is that it doesn’t feel like a filter. It feels like clarity. It feels like you’re finally seeing things as they really are. And maybe some of it is. But not all of it. Not even most of it.
What it Cost Me
I came out of a hard winter this year. Some things went south on me. And I noticed that left on its own, my mind stopped going anywhere good.
I’d see something in the news and it would take over—not for a few minutes but for hours. The anger would bleed into everything. I’d find myself short with people I loved, heavy in rooms where nothing heavy was actually happening, braced for something that hadn’t arrived yet.
I wasn’t just reacting to the world. I was rehearsing it. Over and over, my brain was practicing looking for what was wrong, and getting very good at it.
I know I’m not alone in this. I talk to people every day who are exhausted not just by what’s happening but by what their own minds are doing with it. The anger that won’t turn off. The inability to be present because the background noise is too loud. The way a single headline can flatten an entire afternoon.
The Practice that isn’t Toxic Positivity
I want to be clear about something, because this is where people check out: finding one good thing is not the same as pretending nothing is wrong. It is not spiritual bypassing. It is not looking away.
The world is what it is right now. Some of it is genuinely terrible.
You are allowed to be angry.
You are allowed to grieve what feels lost.
None of that is up for debate.
But here is what I know from working with nervous systems for years: you cannot sustain the kind of fight that matters from a place of chronic activation. You cannot think clearly, act wisely, love well, or stay in it for the long haul when your brain is running on permanent high alert.
The anger that never gets to rest doesn’t make you more effective. It makes you more depleted. And depleted people take it out on each other instead of directing it where it belongs.
Finding one good thing is not surrender. It is maintenance. It is how you stay in the game without burning out before it matters.
What it Actually Looks Like
Not a gratitude list. Not five things you’re thankful for written in a journal with a nice pen. Just one thing. However small. However hard it was to find.
Last week, it was the purr of my cat while I sat with the weight of the news. He didn’t know what was happening in the world. He just climbed into my lap and ran his engine and for a minute that was the only sound that mattered.
Another day it was a moment with my mom. She told me that after I leave from visiting her, she waits until I call to let her know I’m home before she calls my sister. Then she paused, looked at me, and added: and then I wait some more. She didn’t mean it as a joke. But the pause, the look—we just started cracking up. Nothing was fixed. The world was still the world. But that moment existed, and we were both there for it, and I was glad.
That’s it. That’s the whole practice.
When you find it—even reluctantly, even skeptically—your brain does something it doesn’t always get the chance to do. It looks for something good and finds it. And the more you practice that, the more it does it on its own. Not because life gets easier. Not because the news gets better. Because your brain slowly learns that there is something else worth looking for.
That’s not naive. That’s neuroscience.
Why This Matters Right Now
The world needs people who can stay present, clear, and connected to each other. It does not need more people burned out on outrage, snapping at their families, doom-scrolling at midnight, too depleted to act on anything that matters.
One good thing a day is not a political statement. It is not complacency. It is the quiet, stubborn act of keeping your own light on when everything around you is trying to convince you there’s no point.
You don’t have to feel better about the state of the world. You just have to find one thing—one true thing—that existed today that you’re glad existed.
That’s enough to start. And starting is what keeps you in it.
~
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