The Other Side

I thought I'd feel different by now

I haven’t written in a while.

I sat down to write this a few times after my March 28th reflection… and the thoughts weren’t forming.

My birthday was three days later.

Then life.

Then I went back to Florida with Sienna for her spring break.

And somewhere in all of that, I think I’ve been trying to reflect and process this year’s birthday… but not really stopping long enough to actually do it.

And now I’m finally sitting down.

My birthday was March 31st, and I kept thinking I’d write something — some reflection, some beautiful summation of the year — and it just never came.

I was away with my son for part of his spring break, then home, then away again with my daughter for hers.

And somewhere in all of that, my birthday came and went. It’s not that I didn’t celebrate…I just haven’t silenced my thoughts long enough to process everything.

In fact, I celebrated early with my parents, then on my actual birthday, then again when I visited my parents a second time with my daughter.

Because you can never have too many birthday candles to blow out.

And this year, “happy birthday” felt different. Really different.

Three days before my birthday last year, I found out I had breast cancer.

What’s also strange is that this “one-year mark” isn’t even one thing.
It’s been a year since I heard the words “you have breast cancer.”
A year since my birthday.
But not a year since my mastectomy.

Not a year since the cancer was actually out of my body.

That one-year mark is still coming.

So all of these milestones… they’re big, but they all feel different.

This year, I got to celebrate my birthday being cancer-free.

On the other side of my mastectomy, my reconstruction, my nipple tattoos — the cherries on top. I got to blow out those candles knowing I made it cancer-free.

So I did what felt right.

I repeated my birthday from last year, intentionally. Same massage therapist. Rumble Boxing class. Different instructor this time. Last year, when I walked into that class, I only wanted to be on the bag side. I didn’t want to switch, didn’t want the floor work. I just wanted to hit the shit out of something because I had so much anger and fear and frustration that needed somewhere to go. That photo from that class became my signature photo for my entire journey. That’s where These Girls are for Fighting was born.

This year, I completed the whole class.

When I finished, I went up to the instructor and told her this was my first class back. I asked her to take a photo with me, took one with the bag. And it just felt different. Quieter, maybe. Stronger.

After my massage, I took a long walk. The weather cooperated for late March on the East Coast.

I went to one of my favorite restaurants for lunch and sat alone to eat…just breathing and enjoying that quiet moment.

Then walked some more, came home, and got ready for my dinner celebration with Brad and the kids.

Birthdays have always been a big deal to me.

I’ve always believed they’re worth celebrating — not just another number, but proof of another year of living and doing and getting through it.

And this one? This one had everything to celebrate.

And this part… I don’t think anyone really prepares you for.

After the celebration, after the cancer-free and the surgeries done, and the photos taken and the candles blown out…that’s when it actually hits.

That’s when you get to stop. And breathe. And feel it all.

Not in the middle of it, not while you’re in survival mode and moving from appointment to appointment and managing side effects and pushing through.

After. In the quiet. That’s when the deeper processing starts, and it’s messy.

I’ve been anxious. Unsettled in a way I can’t fully explain. I get flustered more easily, frustrated more easily. My patience is shorter. Even walking into my exercise class yesterday, I felt on edge.

That shortness of breath, that feeling of everything being just slightly too much. That’s not me. Or at least it’s not who I was before.

I don’t know if it’s turning 49.

I don’t know if it’s the one-year mark hitting differently than I expected.

I don’t know if it’s grief because yes, there is grief in this.

Grief for the year that wasn’t what I planned, grief for the body I had before, grief for the version of normal I thought I’d get back to.

Because you don’t get back to normal. You move forward. And forward means managing things that are different now.

Looking in the mirror now, I’m not scared. But I am honest. I’m 49. I haven’t been able to work out consistently in a year. I don’t feel as strong as I want to feel yet.

And I don’t fully recognize myself yet either.
Not physically. Not mentally.
And that’s uncomfortable.

I don’t even know what to call this.

I just know I don’t like how I feel right now. At all.

I’m on the other side. I know that.

I just don’t feel how I thought I would.

And I keep trying to make sense of it… and I can’t yet.

So I don’t know.

This is just where I am right now.

On the other side, but still in the messiness of it.
Still getting to know myself again.