An Anchor in the Storm

 Feeling so sick today, it was difficult even getting to my cancer treatments. In the middle of the drive from Idaho to Utah, I remembered something my grandma used to say about the importance of remaining anchored—finding a firm foundation to avoid being buffeted by the winds of life. For a long time, I understood that only intellectually, but today a memory brought her words into sharp focus.

I remember being on a small boat far out in open water. The captain desperately hoped that we'd see something spectacular, but the wind surged, unforgiving. Every time he tried to stop, the current and gusts ripped us away from the spot. I watched him struggle at the helm, growing exhausted and frustrated. Finally, peering at the white caps, he exhaled and decided it would be easier to head toward a buoy where he could tie off.

The moment he secured the line, everything changed. He finally relaxed, opened a beer, and looked out over the ocean, happy and content. That’s exactly when it happened. In that stillness, we spotted a flash of silver—a school of fish—and then the magnificent breach of a whale.

Looking back, I realize that beauty only revealed itself once we stopped fighting the waves. I thought about that boat before treatments—and after—while snuggling into Mike’s arms as we watched TV. He is my buoy—the anchor that holds me steady through the swells of life.

I don’t think my family always realizes how much they do, just by being there, but my grandmother was right: with a firm foundation, we can endure so much more than we ever could alone. When the world feels like a gale-force wind threatening to pull me out to sea, my family and friends help hold the line.

The Fiddle, the Five-Year Fight, and Jack’s Brother

I heard a song again today that’s soul-crushingly bad. It’s one of those bar anthems with a melody so repetitive it feels like a brain glitch. As someone who’s picked out tunes on the violin and piano since I was a kid, my head already feels like an overcrowded apartment of melodies—and I don’t have the mental real estate for a song this annoying.

But music has a mind of its own. It dragged me back over a decade, right into the middle of a smoky room with a band called Jack’s Brother. Here’s the kicker: The lead guitarist WAS the brother, but I didn’t meet Jack for years!

Anyway, playing gigs in a bar felt like total culture shock because, being raised religious, I practically expected a lightning bolt to hit my Bud Light. I used to fiddle, watch the crowd, and wonder, “Why are these people here?” But I was no different. “Why was ‘I’ there?”

My kids had visited my ex for the weekend, and I reached a "dangerously productive" phase of loneliness, baking enough loaves of bread to feed a small village. I even remember sitting in front of a computer, singing holiday songs in a thick Boston accent—just to pass the time. That seemed like an all-time low!

So, I joined a band. Why not get paid to sing and play the violin? Plus, quite frankly, I needed the cash.

But, looking back, I didn’t realize this would turn into more than just "fiddling" for groceries.  In fact, so much of my past looks different since I’ve been fighting for my life, trying to keep the cancer at bay. It’s been incredibly difficult. And let me tell you, cancer is an unwanted guest that has overstayed. It’s been exhausting, grueling, and…zero stars—would not recommend.

But here's where life gets ironic: Two of the people from that band have become my godsends through this journey. A decade ago, I thought they were just my "bar friends." Now, they’re like guardian angels. I saw them a couple of weeks ago, and my family and I gave them hugs so tight because they haven't just looked out for me; they've been heroes to my family.

It’s hilarious, really. I went into a bar looking for a paycheck and a distraction from my baking addiction, and I walked out with some of the key people who'd eventually help carry me through a five-year war.

My grandma used to say everything works out in the end. Looking at these "strange links" from my past, I realize she was right. Life does have a funny way of planting the seeds for your survival long before you know you're in a fight. So, listening to that terribly nostalgic melody the other day, I decided it turns out, that song isn't so awful after all.

The Harvest of Joy: Choosing to Breathe When the Air is Thin

A friend of mine, currently in the thick of his own battle with cancer, said something recently that gave me pause. We sat in a heavy silence that often follows a round of hard truths, when he confessed his belief that we are each allotted a certain, finite amount of happiness in this life.

With a hollow sort of nostalgia, he described a day from his past—a day so perfectly saturated with light and ease—that he knew he’d never reach that peak again. Now, two years into his grueling diagnosis, my friend remains convinced he’s drained his “happiness account.” 

“The best is behind me,” he said. “I’ve used up my share, and now it’s time to let go.”

I balked because to someone like me, who’s been fighting stage four cancer since 2020, his words felt like lead. They held the heavy kind of pain medicine can’t touch. I looked at him and felt a desperate need to challenge his theory. So, I told him that joy and contentment are not like money in a bank; they aren’t finite resources we spend until the vault is empty.

Joy is more like air. We have to open up and accept it into our lives.

However, there is a vital distinction to be made between happiness and joy. Happiness comes and goes—often based on our reactions to circumstances. But joy? Joy requires perseverance. It is a deliberate choice, a practiced way of living that persists even when the "happiness" of our situation has evaporated.

My life has changed drastically since 2020. I am nearly always exhausted. The version of me that could sit at a desk for hours and write is gone for now. I’ve had to pivot, learning to navigate in a world that feels increasingly out of reach. I use talk-to-text now, and I rely on apps to read to me when I am too weak to even sit upright. These are different kinds of wins than the ones I used to celebrate, but they are wins nonetheless. They are the small, stubborn fires I light to keep the dark at bay.

My friend studied me after hearing this speech, his eyes searching mine. “You’ve been doing this for five years,” he asked. “How do YOU still find joy?”

I stayed quiet for a moment, then thought of my grandmother. She used to say that perseverance wasn’t just a personality trait; it was a virtue—a muscle you build through the sheer repetition of not giving up.

“It is getting harder,” I admitted. I didn’t want to give him a platitude. The longer this lasts, the more pieces of myself I seem to lose. It is aggravating, depressing, and sometimes profoundly lonely. Just last month, a dear friend of mine chose to stop her treatments. Her departure nearly broke me. Yet, even in the wreckage of that loss, there was a sliver of light. It wasn’t in her death, but in the immense privilege of having known her at all. I found a strange, grounding strength in her example—the courage it took for her to know exactly when it was time to stop.

I looked at my friend, leaning into the reality of my own timeline. “The doctors gave me two years to live back in 2020,” I said. “It’s 2026 now. I am living on borrowed time, in the 'extra' chapters of my book. If I don’t find the joy in these bonus days, wouldn’t they just be a waste?”

He nodded slowly, and in that moment, I realized that talking to him had woken me up from my own creeping slump of self-pity. We aren’t owed a single breath, let alone a perfect day. But what tips the scales in our favor is the fact that we are allowed as much joy as we can harvest, regardless of our situation.