Law school flicked the off switch to my writer’s mind. It forced me to see writing as an equation. Issue + rule + analysis = holding. Flowery words were considered fat on the steak — to be trimmed off immediately. The punishment for using the word “was” in a sentence? Death by hanging. Be brief. Be concise. But most of all, be right.

As you can imagine, these high expectations permeate beyond the four corners of the page, and the four walls of law school. Once the legal mind has fully consumed the writer’s mind with one big *gulp,* the equation becomes a way of being…

.

Instead of staring into an abyss of Colorado mountains and seeing stoic peaks with melting ice cream on top, where sunlight makes the snow twinkle like slow falling sequins, I would see “a snowy mountain range.” Instead of looking into a Manhattan crowd and seeing people for their stories, wondering what happened to the woman whose eyebrows are sewn together with fury before she arrived at the crosswalk; I would see “a crowd.” My mind would be so focused on myself that I’d forget to be present and let my creative mind explore. My shallow eyes could see, but they weren’t truly seeing.

Now that I’ve graduated from law school and its intellectual confinements, I’ve begun to read for pleasure instead of for testing purposes. I’ve turned my creativity switch back on, and it feels like a reunion with my soul. Slowly but surely the buzzing flurry of technicolor words come rushing back. Finally, I am home in my own mind again.

As a child, I remember seeing the world through a kaleidoscope lens. I made tiny forts for invisible fairies out of moss and twigs. I dreamt of tree fortresses high in the canopies of sweating, breathing jungles. I studied my alphabet animal books and imagined creatures made of the aspects of dozens of different animals morphed together. Most of all, I turned to my pencil and leather-bound journals for answers. I turned inward when I felt lost or questioned the world.

This gravitational pull towards creativity cannot be not taught in the classroom. Somewhere deep within my being, where the answer spreads its roots, a tiny heartbeat sings it’s incessant song: I must write. I must write. I must write. Against all odds, against the wishes of my family, the demands of my environment, my financial security, my emotional stability, against everything — I must oil the untethered machine that is my writer’s mind.

I must write.

I’m not talking about the way the overcast sky reflects color on this summer evening. I’m not talking about the fact that my entire outfit is blue, although the irony makes me sigh. I’m talking about the blue lens that filters this country.

The sadness. The loss. The grief. The misconception of the facts. The jumping to conclusions and picking sides based on passions. The noise and clutter that’s soiling a perfect opportunity for meaningful conversation, change, and growth.

I wish I could erase all the blue. I wish everyone could see the world from ALL angles, and not just a few camera angles. But this lens is seemingly permanent. Or should I say permeating… through generations and generations of grudges.

What does either side truly want? What do you need? Although I may never truly understand, what can I do to see you better? To help? Where are the leaders to guide us to a full spectrum of color?

You see, we’re all stuck here seeing the world in just one color.

Blue.

I hope you show them your pain. Show them how to release their emotions instead of bottling them inside. Tell them it’s ok to hurt. It’s ok to feel.

Let them see your scars in all of their radiant light. Paint pictures of your past and plaster them to the walls of your home. But then, give them the paintbrush. Let them know they are a part of your story, but they are not confined to it.

If you are proud, tell them. If you are disappointed, tell them. Most importantly: never tell them they can’t. Words burn deeper than fists.

Be a reflection of the values you preach. If family matters, don’t gossip about Grandma. If honesty matters, don’t hide things from Daddy. If integrity matters, stand up for yourself and proudly defend your beliefs.

Teach them about boundaries. Ask them how things make them feel instead of telling them how things should make them feel. Tell them it’s ok to say “no.”

When they come, I hope you feel relief. You can and you will be better than the last. Trust your instincts. You were born for this.

How much time will you waste staring at this screen? Will you throw it in front of their faces instead of reading to them, singing with them, playing with them outside?

Time is a privilege. Our egos waste it chasing some far-off “dream,” when the reality is, we are already living it. Deep down you know this, but you have forgotten along the way.

I am here to remind you.

I cry until my eyes run dry,

And I’m weightless.

.

Releasing something deeper

Than I could ever understand.

.

A hundred lifetimes of abandonment.

.

A gaping hole in my heart I’ve been

Filling with objects and people and vices.

.

Failing to realize the abundance

In my hot blood, my sweet honey smile,

My living and breathing vessel.

.

All along that love I thought eluded me,

Pumped within me, soul-deep.

So, while it may be true that my latest PET scan shows, “no evidence of metastatic disease,” I am still living in that first moment. Because once cancer becomes a part of your life, it can never be a memory. It is always with you, in fact, it is quite literally a part of your DNA. You are the cancer. You just have to find a way to control it. Forever.

It bothers me when I see messages like, “Cancer is only a chapter, not my whole story.”

No. Sorry. I disagree completely. I bet you the sorry sap who wrote that didn’t even have cancer. The reality is that no one truly understands what it is like to have this disease, unless they actually have it.

I thought I knew what to expect in the beginning. Boy was I wrong. Sure, I was prepared for the thinning hair and lack of eyelashes, the burning sensation in my throat every time I swallow, the peeling skin on my hands and feet, the gut-wrenching abdominal pains, the running to the bathroom at 3am, endless throbbing headaches, and ceaseless fatigue. I could start a large bonfire with the amount of paperwork I have that addresses my chemo side effects.

However, there is another side to cancer that no pamphlet could have prepared me for. My father explains it in two words: “Emotional rollercoaster.”

The images from my social media outlets paint a beautiful, strong image of woman battling cancer head on, with a smile on her face. In truth, most days the tears outweigh the smiles. On the morning of treatment, it’s hard to find the will to rise from bed. I will look into the mirror and ask myself, who even am I, anymore? Who is this sick girl staring back at me? Will this ever end? What am I fighting for? Does anyone even care, anymore?

I guess you could say that I begin to feel like a memory. On those mornings, I start to feel like my story isn’t worth being heard, that my voice is too weak, that I am too weak. This is a feeling that I’ve never known. I have always felt strong in my passions, my desires, my goals. Cancer — chemo, rather, was sucking the drive and hope out of me. That’s a side effect that no doctor will tell you about.

Despite these ups and downs of my emotional state; I wouldn’t trade my cancer for anything. It’s given me more than a fresh set of eyes to see the world from — it’s given me a fresh start at life. Every day, I find myself smiling at the birds, the trees, the life around me. I have a newfound trust in the Universe that cannot be measured or probably understood by most humans. Most importantly, I have this new feeling of intention in my life that I’ve never felt before.

I feel freaking alive.

So… At what point does a moment become a memory? When will my moment, my story, become just a memory in your mind?

…

I’ll tell you when: Never.

I’ll never stop educating the world through my posts. I’ll never stop fighting this deadly part of me through nutrition and health. But most importantly, I’ll never hear those three little words again:

“You have cancer.”