Dear Cancer,

Hi there, I’m Kristin, although you probably already know that because you have apparently taken residence in my right breast. I’ve been hiding from you but I see you now, and I know you see me. I can’t say that I’m glad you’re here, but I guess I’m not that surprised either. Perhaps at a very deep level, I always knew you would come.

I was the one in the back of the classroom with my eyes down, avoiding eye contact so you wouldn’t pick me. Please, please don’t pick me. I’ve winced at the mere thought of you ever since I can remember. I have structured my entire life around avoiding you. Seriously, I don’t understand. I’ve done all the right things. Ask anyone.

Just a few examples: I don’t have a microwave in my kitchen because radiation freaks me out. I stopped chewing gum years ago because aspertame is a proven carcinogen. I don’t drink soda, never have. I gave up meat in order to avoid hormones and antibiotics. I eat organic vegetables, lots of them. I drink green smoothies. I buy BPA-free plastic. I make a good faith effort to buy products where I recognize every single ingredient—the fewer (ingredients) the better. I don’t eat much sugar or gluten. I don’t drink coffee. I pay very close attention to everything I put in my body. I do yoga and meditate every day. So what the f*#k? Why me?

Maybe that’s my answer. I try too damn hard.

The filter of my life—the lens through which I see almost everything—is health and wellness. Some people judge things based on their image or how they will look to others. Others by money and success. Still more by intelligence or competence. I judge them by health. So now what does this mean? Am I no longer healthy because you’re visiting? I have a problem with that, I gotta tell you.

Of course I wonder why you’re here. I have lots of questions that I hope you will help me answer. Did I do something to invite you in? Did my thoughts or habituated patterns create you? Or is it something bigger… did my soul invite you in to facilitate a big change that couldn’t have happened any other way?

I don’t get the feeling that you’re here to kill me. You have a reputation as being big and scary and mean, but I don’t see you that way. I see you as a messenger, a teacher.

I have something to learn from you, otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.

The ever-vigilant student in me wants to understand your message right away. What do I need to do to learn this particular lesson? How can I figure this out? But as I write this, I realize you’ve just taught me your first lesson. Maybe there’s nothing I need to do. Maybe this is more about receiving, allowing, softening. Ok, I’m with you so far. I hear you.

No matter what happens, cancer, I want you to know that I consider myself your faithful student. You have my full attention. I have moved to the front of the classroom. I am looking up, making eye contact and listening to you with my whole body.

My commitment to you is that I will respect you and your wise teachings. I trust that you will teach me what I need to learn in your own time, in your own way. I will do my best to allow your message to soak into my being and change me for the better.

I have a request of you as well. I ask that you share what you need me to know fully and completely so we can respectfully part ways forever.

Sincerely,

Kristin

BETTER ME vs. REAL ME

Ok, I admit it. Sometimes I desperately want to be better than I am.

I’m kind of a striver that way.

I pursue mind/body integration and personal growth with an intense vigor. Because BETTER ME is always on the horizon. I can see her.

Maybe that guru over there can help me become her. No really. This time, I just know I can achieve the ideal version of me. Just this one more seminar.

BETTER ME manages her emotions in the healthiest way possible. BETTER ME is funny and cool and always has a witty comeback. She is generous and kind. She puts herself out there without fear. She is always concious and present and deeply connected to her highest, authentic self. She’s in tune, dude. Enlightened, even.

BETTER ME is infinitely patient. She treats her family members with respect at all times. Without ever losing her cool. Or being moody. Or throwing a tantrum like her four-year old.

BETTER ME is a vast ocean of deep peace.

I pretend to be BETTER ME a lot. I am willing to protect BETTER ME with a fierceness you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley. When my husband points out something about me that drives him crazy (say, for instance, that I’m too emotional), I defend BETTER ME with a vengeance. I cling to the notion that as BETTER ME, I manage my emotions without blowing up. So as I’m clinging and grasping and protecting and defending BETTER ME, I yell, “I am NOT too emotional” (while all steamed over something completely inconsequential). I might even slam a door or two. Kinda like a tantrum.

The funny thing is that REAL ME knows I’m too emotional. And moody. And I sometimes throw a rousing tantrum. And REAL ME is okay with all of that. So there’s nothing to defend. If I’m accused of being too emotional, REAL ME owns it: Yep, you gotta a point there. And you’re still here. Cool.

What about you? Is BETTER YOU smarter than REAL YOU? More productive? More competent? Less messed up?

Imagine how much easier life would be if you dropped the need to defend BETTER YOU and embraced REAL YOU.



Photo by Cyril Breton

Dark Night of the Soul

Today is the two-year anniversary of my nephew TJ’s death. He died of a neurological disorder at 14 months of age. When I talked to my sister this morning, I could hear her smile as she quoted Elton John’s lyrics with all kinds of implied irony and understatement, “it’s a sad, sad situation.” And it is a sad, sad situation. But as with most sad situations, there is usually an unexpected gift, a learning, a new perspective, a release, and a certain sweetness that comes with letting go of the life we wanted in order to accept the life we were dealt.

My sister and her husband are still in their “dark night of the soul” (more than three years of trauma and grieving), so it’s hard to see the gift in their son’s passing. I have seen them endure despair that was so strong, I wondered if they would make it to see another day. Their loss took them from parents to… what? What do you call parents with no living children? They have had to grapple with some of the hardest questions a human can face, like: What happens after we die? Why us? Did we do something to bring this on? Will we ever be happy again?

I believe, though, that when we heal the wounds from our darkest hours, we become more whole than when we began. We learn how to hold space for dark emotions. We learn how to be present for others in their dark times. We get in touch with our soul’s real mission in life. We eventually pass along our knowledge to help others heal. We raise the consciousness of the planet, one tear at a time.

There is more healing yet to do. But on this anniversary of TJ’s angel day, I want to honor his parents’ gifts as they have navigated this sad situation:

• Extraordinary honesty, vulnerability, grace and dignity.

• Willingness to confront their deepest fears.

• Courage to face another day.

• Commitment to feel their feelings, to lean into the pain instead of away from it.

• Their ability to ask for help, get support, and give themselves compassion.

• My sister’s inspirational writings that beautifully communicate TJ’s message.

• Their ability to laugh in spite of it all.

• The beautiful bond between them that continues to get stronger.

Carole and Troy, I love you both beyond words.



Photo by TLA Studio