The Life That Was Still Mine

What cancer taught me about letting go, choosing happiness, and truly living

Everyone else got up and went on with their lives.

I couldn’t.

There were days during my journey with pancreatic cancer when I would lie in bed so weak and sick that I couldn’t even get up to make myself lunch.

Outside that room, life continued.

People went to work. They ran errands. They made plans. They cooked dinner. They worried about ordinary things.

And there I was.

Lying in bed, watching life happen without me.

I had already been on a spiritual journey for nearly twenty years. I knew meditation. I knew prayer. I understood gratitude. I had spent years exploring spirituality, intuition, and the deeper questions of life.

Cancer didn’t begin my spiritual journey.

It broke me open.

Suddenly, everything became more intentional.

Meditation wasn’t simply something I practiced. I needed the stillness.

Prayer wasn’t something I did out of habit. It became a conversation.

Listening to my body became more important than ever before.

And the spiritual ideas I thought I understood were no longer ideas.

I had to live them.

Saying “I Let Go” Is Not Letting Go

Before cancer, I could say the words:

I trust.

I forgive.

I surrender.

I let go.

But there is a difference between saying something and actually living it.

I couldn’t just say I trusted when I had no idea what was going to happen to me.

I couldn’t simply say I was grateful when I was lying in bed unable to care for myself.

And I couldn’t say, “I’ve let go,” while continuing to carry the same anger, fear, hurt, and stories inside of me.

I had to learn how to let go.

That meant looking honestly at myself.

What was I carrying?

What was I still angry about?

What was I waiting for someone else to fix?

What was I giving my energy to?

What was I holding onto that I could no longer change?

That was also when I began understanding accountability in a completely different way.

Not accountability for having cancer.

I don’t believe people become ill because they failed spiritually, held onto the wrong emotion, or didn’t think positively enough.

I’m talking about accountability for the life that was still mine.

I couldn't control everything happening to my body.

I couldn't control tomorrow.

I couldn't control another person.

But I could begin taking responsibility for what I did with today.

Another Day on This Planet

Somewhere during those difficult days, something inside me began to change.

I would open my eyes in the morning and realize:

I have another day on this planet.

Maybe I couldn't get out of bed that day.

Maybe my body wasn't going to cooperate.

Maybe I was afraid.

But I was here.

And this day was still mine.

I began thinking of each day almost like a blank canvas.

How was I going to paint it?

Beautiful or ugly?

Positive or negative?

Would I give the entire canvas to fear?

Or could I find something beautiful somewhere in it?

That is when a mantra began forming inside me:

I will find reasons to be happy.

Not I will be happy when I get better.

Not I will be happy when this is over.

Not I will be happy when my life goes back to normal.

I will find reasons to be happy today.

So I started looking.

And often, the reasons were incredibly small.

Sunlight coming through a window.

A cup of tea.

Fresh air.

Someone I loved walking into the room.

A conversation.

A laugh.

A moment when my body felt a little stronger.

Eventually, getting out of bed.

Making my own lunch.

Walking outside.

Ordinary things I had barely noticed before became extraordinary.

I began realizing that happiness wasn't necessarily something that arrived because my circumstances changed.

Sometimes I had to look for it.

There Can Be Fear and Beauty in the Same Day

I want to be clear about something.

Choosing happiness didn't mean I was happy every minute.

I wasn't.

There were difficult days. There was fear. There was uncertainty. There was sadness.

This wasn't about pretending cancer was beautiful or forcing myself to be positive.

It was about realizing that the hard things didn't have to have all of me.

Fear and gratitude could exist in the same day.

Sadness and beauty could exist in the same day.

Illness and laughter could exist in the same day.

I could be afraid of tomorrow and still notice the sunlight coming through my window today.

That realization changed me.

Letting Go Is a Sacred Act

Today, I sit with people carrying their own stories.

Some are facing illness. Others are carrying grief, anger, resentment, guilt, fear, old wounds,

or relationships that continue to occupy enormous space inside of them.

They want peace.

They want happiness.

They want something in their lives to feel different.

And sometimes I recognize something I understand very well.

They want to feel better, but they are still holding tightly to something that has caused them tremendous suffering.

I understand.

Because I have held on too.

And what I have learned is that letting go is a sacred act.

It doesn't mean what happened was okay.

It doesn't mean forgetting.

It doesn't mean pretending you weren't hurt.

It doesn't mean allowing someone unhealthy back into your life.

And it certainly doesn't mean that letting go will cure a physical illness.

For me, letting go became something much more personal:

I decided I didn't want yesterday to consume all of today.

Sometimes I had to release the same thing again and again.

Sometimes I thought I had let something go only to discover another layer underneath it.

I've come to believe that perhaps letting go isn't one grand moment of surrender.

Sometimes it is a thousand small decisions to put something down again.

Making Room for Life

And something happens when we begin putting things down.

There is room.

Room to breathe.

Room to listen.

Room for peace.

Room for gratitude.

Room for happiness.

Room for life.

My journey eventually became about much more than asking:

How do I get rid of cancer?

Different questions began emerging.

What is my body asking of me?

What am I ready to release?

What deserves my energy?

What really matters now?

How do I want to live today?

Meditation became a place where I listened.

Prayer became a conversation.

I began paying attention to my body instead of simply expecting it to carry me through life.

And gratitude stopped being a beautiful spiritual concept.

It became something I practiced.

Healing Became Bigger Than One Definition

I am deeply grateful for the medical care that was part of my pancreatic cancer journey.

But I also discovered parts of myself that medicine couldn't address for me.

My emotions.

My fears.

My relationships.

My spirituality.

My relationship with my own body.

The way I was living.

Healing became bigger than one definition.

Healing and curing are not always the same thing.

I don't believe illness means someone has failed spiritually, and I don't believe positive thinking guarantees a particular physical outcome.

But I do believe we can participate deeply in how we live while we are here.

For me, that became part of healing too.

The Life That Was Still Mine

Six years later, I'm still practicing.

I don't wake up every morning floating in gratitude.

I'm human.

I still have difficult days.

I still hold onto things longer than I should sometimes.

I still have moments when I forget everything cancer taught me.

And then I remember.

I have another day on this planet.

And I return to the promise I made to myself all those years ago:

I will find reasons to be happy

I look for them in the big things.

But more often, I find them in the small ones.

Morning light.

A conversation.

A meal.

A walk.

A laugh.

Someone I love.

Another breath.

Another sunrise.

Another ordinary day I once might have taken for granted.

Because after lying in that bed watching everyone else go on with their lives, I understand something now that I didn't fully understand before.

An ordinary day isn't ordinary at all.

It is life.

And today, it is still mine.

I am here.

There is still something beautiful to find.

Something to release.

Something to forgive.

Something to love.

And another day waiting to be lived.