Anonymous Amie

The same Amie, only quiet. I ignore my phone, am detached from social media and the world outside of my home. Staying inside, away from people and allowing only my very small circle in. I needed it.

I needed the break, with my family.

The holidays were the best Christmas I’ve ever had. Christmas, although I have always enjoyed some aspects isn’t a holiday I love. This year was different, it was simple and cozy and filled with chill vibes, instead of stress and chaos. Mikey, the “kids”, Kalvin and I snuggled in to a long winter break. We did puzzles, played games, had snacks and big breakfasts together and binge watched and couch surfed in our matching jammies.

I’ve needed this time away from everything except myself, and my family. This last year and the trauma of this journey caught up with me. The past few months, my main job has been healing and trying to reconcile what happened and what is next.

The oncologist wants chemo pills to be next. I don’t. Chemo nearly killed me, and the lasting side effects are no picnic either. The neuropathy I am experiencing in my hands and feet is debilitating at times and the recent GI scope showed 3 duodenal ulcers and a hernia I didn’t have before. I’m filled with inflammation and sleep has been nothing like I’m used to. Although chemo put me into menopause and the blood work shows I’m “post menopausal”, for some reason, I wake with hot flashes and have trouble sleeping mostly every night. Mikey bought us a mechanical bed which is really nice to be able to sleep upright on the nights heart burn is raging. Elevating my feet I’m certain is good for the swelling. When I’m awake, I listen to podcasts, or meditate, or talk to my body. I feel rested even though sleep looks very strange to me. Mikey and I were sleeping on a grounding sheet until it started electrocuting me. I’m soooo sensitive to energy and aware in my body sensations.

I have also been struggling with the incision site, and the pain from my nipple being pinched. Take a binder clip, clamp it to your nipple and that’ll give you an idea of what it feels like every single day since surgery. To be quite blunt, I feel “standard of care in Ontario” is shit on a stick, and failed me more than it’s helped me. And the part that makes me feel really sick inside is that I knew it wasn’t “for me.” knew it felt like poisoning, cutting and burning and it wasn’t something I wanted. But, I made my choice to go ahead with it anyways and here I am. On the other side of that. Here I am. still dealing with the repercussions of artificial sweetener being mainlined into my body when I’m allergic. I’m picking up the pieces and finding parts of me in the process and I’m coming out of hiding to tell you about it. Thanks for being here 🩷

So much has changed since D-day last January. One year ago, last week my whole world changed. One year ago I sat in the nurse practitioners office, hearing her utter the words that no one ever wants to hear: "the biopsy results are back and they have all tested positive for breast cancer. The lymph node also tested positive for cancer."

It was the moment, frozen in time, etched in my memory where fear, uncertainty, and utter disbelief felt like it shattered me. That day, the diagnosis and the last year have all been traumatic. If I didn’t have my own traumatic incident reduction sessions, I don’t even want to consider where I might be or how I would have survived any of this.

I had no idea how I would navigate this, whether I’d have the strength to get through treatment, and what my future might hold. The path ahead seemed daunting, and I felt vulnerable in ways I never had before but, I knew I had to show up for myself more than ever if I stood a chance.

And, here I am today—one year later—one year that at times feels like 20, looking back with so much reflection, thankfulness and the realization I’m being given the choice to choose again. Since I had residual cancer at surgery, I either need to take chemo pills and stick with “standard of care in Ontario” or follow my own way and see what unfolds. It’s scary as heck.

It hasn’t been an easy road, it’s been icy, dangerous and had no guard rails. But, as I look back it’s been one filled with growth, resilience, stamina, perseverance and an unshakable commitment to my own healing.

If I’ve learned anything this past year, it’s that the journey through cancer isn’t just about surviving the physical challenges—chemotherapy, radiation, surgeries. it’s about learning to thrive emotionally, mentally, and spiritually in the face of those challenges.

It’s learning even more that everything we need, we already are, and continuing to connect to that strength that comes from deep within ourselves, and continues to grow through the smallest acts of courage and pure bold, bad ass-ness.

The diagnosis was scary, no doubt. But what’s scarier is the thought of not giving myself the chance to heal, to evolve, to grow.

Over this past year, I’ve discovered that staying healthy and positive isn’t something that just “happens.” It requires conscious work. Day after day, session after session, choice after choice.

It takes dedication to nurturing my mind, body, and spirit—especially when I feel exhausted, uncertain, or downright defeated.

There were days when I don’t feel strong, when the weight of everything felt too heavy to carry. But on those days, I learned to be kinder to myself. It’s a continual work in progress.

I realized that strength looks different on different days, and sometimes, just getting through the day is enough.

Healing takes work. It’s okay to have days where we feel vulnerable.

That doesn’t mean we are weak. It just means we are human. And in those moments of vulnerability, we have to remember that we are growing within ourselves, that we are healing, and moving forward…. even if it doesn’t feel like it. I choose to believe that even in the worst moments I am right where I am meant to be. And, even though I might not know why, and may never know there has to be a reason. Being anonymous isn’t my calling. Being vulnerable, even through adversity is part of why I’m here. I don’t know why but, I feel it.

So, today, as I reflect on the year behind me, I am filled with gratitude for the lessons I’ve learned, for my kids who have understanding like no other. For my husband, the strongest man I know. For my puppy, Kalvin who follows me everywhere with love and sits with me through the toughest and roughest moments. I am convinced he saved my life a few weeks back in the middle of the night. For Craig, the guy who holds my hand in every session as I find my way. through the trauma. For my beautiful TIR interns who always show up for me and are doing their work, for my friends, Heather and Anne who never let me walk alone, and help me laugh even when nothing is funny. For my girls, Vanessa, Adrienne, Margaret, Patti, Renee, Ashley, Monique, and Tanya. You are light to my soul. For Jaedy for being there for Mikey and for all of the love and support for Doors To Healing. This man sees me, and shares my passion for TIR to spread far and wide. He reminds me that everything always works out, even when it feels a mess. To Sam, for validating my knowing there are other ways and for being a hope dealer. For my family, friends and colleagues who text, send cards, emails, healing baskets, thoughtful gifts and homemade treats. I know I’ve missed people, and then I want to go wipe out this whole section but, I won’t. Instead, I’ll say YOU- thank you. Thank you for loving me and your place in my world.

I am learning to face my fears, to embrace the unknown, and to trust more and more in my body’s ability to heal. I’m learning the incredible value of surrounding myself with support instead of being so super independent. I’ve realized the importance of showing up for myself in every way possible, and in ways I never thought possible.

This journey is far from over.

I know that staying strong, healthy, and positive requires continuous work and commitment to myself.

But I am ready for it.

I am choosing to live one day at a time as fully as possible, to take care of my health, and to celebrate the small gifts along the way.

Here’s to the strength and light we all have inside us. May you continue to shine bright dear friends. And know that you are loved.