Walking Back Through The Doors

Today I walked back into Pvolve.

I was given permission by my physical therapist to try private training again. To see what my body is ready for. To see what it’s capable of.

And I would be lying if I didn’t say I have all the feels.

Excited.
Nervous.
Aware that this is not my first restart.

I’m not starting from zero.
I’ve paused before.

The first time was surgery.
The second was recovery.

Those pauses made sense. They were part of the plan.

This back saga? That wasn’t on the itinerary.

And when a different part of your body starts giving you trouble after you already navigated cancer and reconstruction, it messes with your head in a different way.

Last time, even with surgery and my “girls” replaced, I knew my body was still strong.

This time felt shakier.

Because backs are different.
They hold everything.

But I’ve been doing the work.
Physical therapy.
Loosening the joints before movement.
The tart cherry supplements my oncologist suggested.
The patience.

So today, I walked through the doors.

And the first thing I did was hug Abeer and Jalila.

I’ve had breaks before, but this one felt different.
This one wasn’t planned.
This one wasn’t expected.

I got there early. Opened the private training room door.

And there it was.

My studio sign. The one they made when I began this journey.

I felt seen. Welcomed back. Remembered.

I snapped a picture because I could feel myself getting emotional.

Then I did my PT stretches.
I’ve learned my joints need to wake up before I do.

And then we started.

At one point, Jalila asked me to repeat an exercise we had literally just done.

I stared at her and started laughing.

“I have zero recollection of what we just did.”

She laughed too. “But we just did it.”

I was so in my head about whether I was capable, whether I was overdoing it, whether something would flare… I literally forgot what my body was doing.

Those same thoughts from my first-ever session crept back in:

Is my body really capable?
Can I actually do this?

The difference is that now I know those thoughts are part of the process.

So I stayed present.
I completed the movements.
I didn’t negotiate with myself.

And when it was over?

It felt good.

I felt a sense of accomplishment.

I felt proud and maybe even a little surprised that I still had it in me!

From cancer doctors to surgeons to oncologists to physical therapists… who knew I would need permission from so many people to trust my body again and again?

But here I am.

Still moving.
Still rebuilding.
Still willing to walk back through the doors.

I already scheduled my next session.

There will be another short medical pause at the end of next week for my “cherries on top” nipple tattoos (yes, we can call them that).

Another forced week of letting my body settle.

But this time the pause feels different.

This time I know I’m not starting over.

I’m just continuing.

As March approaches — one year since diagnosis and another birthday — I’m not thinking about loss.

I’m thinking about trust.

Trusting that my body remembers.
Trusting that strength doesn’t disappear.
And trusting that I don’t need permission forever.