Moving forward, one stitch at a time

I still remember the day my world fell apart. Before the big C word took up residence in my vocabulary, I was a whirlwind of productivity. I managed companies, penned books, and secured grants for organizations. I measured my worth purely in achievements, stacking them up like an ever-growing tower. I’d become a complete go-getter with so much ambition and drive.

Then cancer changed my life, pulling the rug out from under me. My career became a casualty, and my self-worth dwindled to almost nothing. I couldn't keep up the frantic pace I once maintained, and the loss of purpose and meaning threatened to drown me. On a scale of capabilities, I’d fallen from a hundred down to zero, where my most incredible—and often sweat-inducing—task of the day might be locating a matching pair of socks or successfully cooking dinner without only making it halfway through.

My point of view, however, recently changed—and in the most unexpected way—after meeting an incredible woman at our local synagogue. She doesn’t just own a yarn store; she practically inspires the whole town to love yarn. She’s a vibrant, perpetually contented woman whose hands are never idle. She’s always armed with knitting meedles, her fingers flying with a serene, near-mythic speed. I've visited her a few times, and we've talked about everything from modern life to ancient religion. During one conversation as I watched her knit a gorgeous sweater, I remembered how much I used to love crocheting with my grandma.

“There’s a knitting and crocheting  group,” the woman said, her eyes twinkling as she wound a skein of gray yarn. “We meet every Sunday.” I wondered what they called themselves and came up with all sorts of silly names in my head: Knotty by Nature club, Hookers by Day, The Loose Ends, Knit Happens!

And so, after years of dismissing crocheting as a hobby I wouldn't enjoy, I finally dusted off an old crochet hook and pulled out some yarn. 

Its been weeks, and now, my youngest daughter, Indy, and I go to the knitting and crochet group together. It’s a weekly expedition into a world I never knew existed, and I’m surprised by what an utterly hilarious and heartwarming adventure this has become.

The group is a mix of ages and backgrounds, held hostage by their mutual love of knots. There’s Mary, who weaves hot pads, and Crystal who makes the best socks in the world. Clarice works at a hospital—and although I've never asked, I heard she’s a doctor who enjoys crocheting the shell stitch in her spare time, following patterns as if she’s sewing up a wound.

Somehow, these ladies, with their needles clacking like frantic chopsticks, reminded me that life isn't about the grand, headline-grabbing achievements I used to crave; it's about connection—offering love and kindness in a world that can be painfully lonely.

Anyway, last Thursday, I visited my friend at her yarn store. I found her feeling out the texture of a new shipment of yarn, and she told me a powerful story about how she went completely blind her senior year of high school, yet she refused to let that loss define her life. 

While attaining her college degree, she learned to knit, relying purely on touch, and eventually opened her business, proving that sight is not a prerequisite for vision. I listened, mesmerized, as she described the initial difficulty—the frustration of failed stitches and uneven rows—and then the flood of passion ahead felt, discovering a new kind of purpose.

“Why do you enjoy it so much?” I asked, nestled into a comfortable love seat at her shop.

But she didn't respond right away, and instead, her fingers traced the delicate pattern of a knit scarf. “It gives me a sense of accomplishment,” she finally said simply, and her words hit home.

I kept thinking about her insight that night, and I felt somehow lighter. Though cancer treatments often make life almost unbearable—and on days it can feel tough to even leave my bed, I realized I can sometimes still crochet, even lying down! This wasn’t a grant proposal or a book launch, but it was just as fulfillling. This felt like a small, quiet win, a piece of worth I could forge for myself, one repetitive loop at a time.

So, I recently finished a cat outfit—my first semi-nice project—and gave it to my oldest daughter, Ruby, for her kitty. Seeing the genuine joy on her face, I felt an overwhelming sense of accomplishment, not because I’d done something to further my own ambitions but because I’d made my daughter happy.

In that moment, my grandmother’s quiet wisdom echoed in my mind: “Everything changes. The trick is to keep looking for what makes life worthwhile.”

Right now, that’s creating small, slightly lopsided gifts for my kids and knowing that I still have a place in this world. We don’t always need huge victories. Sometimes, the greatest accomplishment should simply be that we’re here, still moving forward, one hopeful stitch at a time.

Growing Roots

The simple, lined index card looked brittle with age, a relic kept tucked in the corner of my bedroom. On it, in my grandmother's elegant, slightly shaky cursive, I read something she’d written not long before she passed away: "When all else fails, embrace hope."

I first read that card shortly after receiving the horrendous diagnosis that changed my life. Doctors gave me only a short time to live. Those words, delivered in a quiet room under the sterile fluorescent lights, cracked the foundation of my life. The fear wasn't just cold; it became a living, smothering weight that choked the air from my lungs. Yet, I decided to fight cancer anyway, driven by the need to see my children grow up, find their dream jobs, maybe even witness their own love stories. I've even dared to dream about growing old with my husband, rocking on the porch with him and simply enjoying his presence. But with every grueling treatment, every scan, and each new symptom, the bright, insistent light of hope steadily faded, until I accepted what several doctors said: “This was terminal.”

During the peak of that emotional slump, my husband decided to do something fun to try taking my mind off of things. He meticulously cleaned an avocado pit, stuck three wooden toothpicks into its equator, and nestled it halfway into a clear glass of water. After all of this, he set it on the sunny kitchen windowsill, where the morning light hit it perfectly.

I didn’t understand how any of this would distract me or make me feel better. So, one morning, I finally said, "Nothing is happening.” I’d spent a month, watching as the pit just sat there..

My husband merely smiled, stirring his coffee with an infuriatingly—and yet, completely darling—calmness. “Patience,” he told me. “One day, you’ll just see it start growing roots. The growth happens where you can’t see it.”

His attitude, so steady and unwavering, felt both comforting and irritating. I had tried to embrace patience with every scan, treatment, step forward, and setback. But it still seemed like everything —eating, walking, staying awake—became a desperate, visible battle.

So, the pit continued to sit there for months. The water grew cloudy. Then, after what felt like an eternity, the pit began to change, but not in the way we hoped. It cracked, and a dark, jagged fissure appeared. Then, from the bottom, something pale and fuzzy began to emerge. It looked less like the beginning of life and more like decay—a white piece of mold. A cold shiver ran down my spine. The pit, once a small, silly idea, suddenly felt like a mirror to my own struggle, a visual representation of fighting without any discernible progress.

I had just scheduled another round of out-of-state treatments, a journey that always leaves me feeling exhausted, and the MRI scan loomed nearby too. I decided the pit’s time was up. I wouldn't waste space letting something decay on our counter. I’d throw it away after I got back from the clinic, but somehow that made me feel like I'd begun giving up on hope.

The MRI—something I still struggle with because of claustrophobia—ended quickly, and then all we could do was wait. I dreaded meeting with my oncologist; the usual news always seemed the same: “Melanoma would kill me.” But today, his words were much different, gentle, almost hesitant, as if he himself couldn't quite believe the report in himself.

“Well,” he said, shuffling uncomfortably, “it looks like the cancer treatments are finally starting to work. There’s been significant reduction, and some of the cancer is gone.”

His voice came toward me in a fog, and I suddenly thought about the horrific treatments—the cycles of nausea, the deep bone-aching fatigue, the feverish nights—these same treatments were finally breaking through the barrier of the disease, giving me a chance, an unexpected and precious gift of more time with my family.

I drove home in a daze, the weight that had pressed on my chest for years, lifting. Later that night, when I walked into the kitchen, I got ready to throw the avocado away.

But as I looked at the pit, I didn't see decay; I saw new life. I realized with a sudden, profound shock that the white, fuzzy thing growing on the bottom wasn't mold. It was a root—and not just one root, but two. They stretched together, the newly emerged one, growing deep and resolute from the very fissure that I had thought signified something bad. These roots were thick, tenacious, and determined to plunge far into the water with unyielding determination.

In that single, sunlit moment, my two worlds converged. The cracked, seemingly stagnant avocado pit felt exactly like my own fight. At my darkest point, when I had battled sepsis and felt close to cracking, to giving up entirely, I had no idea that my body had been secretly responding to the treatments. And that's when I finally understood hope, not as a quick fix or a sudden burst of success, but as a daily choice. Hope really is a tough thing to hold onto, but if you are brave enough to face things head-on, it makes things so much easier.

Unspoken Expectations: A Rabbi, A Boulder, and the True Test of Strength

The conversation started innocently, a casual chat with a friend that quickly veered into the deep waters of parental expectations. My friend, a genuinely pure soul, confessed that he’d felt inadequate his entire life, a wound inflicted by a father who seemed to measure masculinity in touchdowns and a wake of heartbroken women. This topic sparked thoughts about society still clinging to the outdated myth of the "tough guy"—the man who never cries, is completely independent, and certainly never watches musicals.

I recounted a story to my friend. It’s often attributed to the Talmudic era, around 200 C.E. This wasn't just a quaint historical anecdote; it’s a profound illustration of how much our values have changed in two millennia. Wise men back then understood that true strength shouldn’t be reflected in the size of someone’s biceps but rather in the size of their character.

Just elaborating on this story made me smile. I could almost see it: the scene of a bustling building, filled with the scent of aged parchment and bright oil lamps. The protagonist is a revered rabbi, known as the greatest theologian of his time. He has a reputation for turning away even the most brilliant minds if they lack qualities he found most impressive….

Anyway, a young man appeared at the rabbi’s door one afternoon. Let's call him Dave. Despite his scant years on earth, Dave had already conquered everything that came his way. He stood so physically powerful that he could push a boulder up an entire mountain! His mind remained equally formidable, and the young man could’ve excelled in any high-ranking position, from rich merchant to military strategist.

Yet, here he stood, hands scrubbed clean, clothes meticulously neat, with only one request: “Please, rabbi, let me be your student. I seek wisdom.”

The older man looked beyond Dave’s strong arms and clever eyes, and after a long moment, with a twinkle of mischief, the rabbi said, “If you truly want to learn from me, you must pass a test.” He paused. “So, tell me, Dave: What makes a man?”

Dave’s mind, usually swift and logical, seized up. He thought of strength, loyalty, wealth, piety, and courage. He could easily recite the traditional virtues. Yet, something told him the great rabbi wanted something more.

He thought for a long time, the silence stretching into uncomfortable minutes. Finally, he shook his head, a gesture of intellectual defeat rare for him. “I can’t do that, rabbi,” he admitted. “If I were to show you what makes a real man, it would defeat the entire purpose of what I embody and who I try to be.”

The rabbi’s eyes widened with intrigue. “Come back tomorrow at sunset,” he said. So, the young man bowed and left, shoulders slumped in frustration. 

But Dave didn’t realize that the rabbi, a surprisingly spry ol’ fellow, followed him that night. The older man had no intention of waiting for more pleas; he wanted to see what this seemingly perfect young man would do when he thought no one was watching.

The following morning, well before dawn, Dave woke up. He didn't head to flirt with women, waste his money on trivialities, or boast about his exploits. Instead, Dave quietly, almost furtively slipped coins into the pockets of the destitute—not bothering to wait for a "thank you." He anonymously left a basket of fresh fruit and bread at the door of a widow who was too proud to ask for help. He spent an hour fixing a broken door for an elderly neighbor whose back had become frail and brittle.

In short, he performed countless acts of kindness selflessly and altruistically. Dave appeared driven by a profound, internal sense of duty and compassion. He was just genuinely…good.

As requested, the young man met with the rabbi at sunset.

“Why couldn’t you show me what makes a man?” the rabbi asked, his expression unreadable.

Dave’s authentic answer came out boldly: “Because the type of person I want to be is kind, gentle, and thoughtful. I should be that way without demanding recognition or asking for anything in return—not even the approval of the world’s greatest scholar. It’s not something you do for an audience. It’s simply a way of being.”

Dave understood that the moment he demonstrated kindness as proof of his masculinity, it would cease to be genuine and become a performance—a selfish egotistical act.

A knowing smile spread across the rabbi’s wrinkled face because he now saw a man not defined by societal expectations but by humility and self-control. He immediately took Dave as his student, knowing he’d found a young man who would retain the lessons he wanted to teach.

Whether this story is historically accurate or just a fable (that I’ve definitely taken liberties with), its lesson is timeless. The moral shows that strength lies in kindness. We often mistake gentleness for weakness, forgetting that it takes incredible internal fortitude to remain compassionate when it could be much easier to turn cynical, bitter, or aggressive. It takes immense self-mastery to choose goodness when succumbing to our animalistic, self-serving impulses could be our natural reaction.

For my friend and anyone struggling with the burden of toxic expectations, the message is clear. What makes a man is not how tough or manly he can appear. What makes a man is the kindness he practices when no one is watching. Ultimately, gentle, thoughtful power makes any person exceptional, regardless of gender. I truly believe that kindness is the secret ingredient that makes every truly good person an incredible human being.

A Stitch in Time

For a lot of summers, my grandparents would roll up in their motor home. I’d bound in, and we’d jet off like bandits escaping a high-stakes heist.

Grandpa drove, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, while Grandma Beth and I settled in the back. This was the '80s, mind you, but our entertainment system was firmly stuck in the 1930s-‘50s. They owned a portable VCR and a hefty stack of black-and-white VHS tapes that showcased old Hollywood glamour. I loved those films too much, always wishing I'd been born in another time, preferably one that required elegant gowns and numerous song-and-dance numbers. While Ginger Rogers twirled on the tiny screen, Grandma taught me everything from tinsel painting to origami, always optimistic that my adolescent hands could handle even the most delicate work.

One summer, the TV blared “As Time Goes By” from “Casablanca.” Grandma’s eyes, previously fixed on the dramatic scene, suddenly darted to a basket of yarn. "You'll love this," she said, her voice cutting through Humphrey Bogart's world-weary dialogue. 

She deftly turned a simple loop into a chain, the hook flashing in the dim light. And as Rick told Ilsa, "Here's looking at you, kid," that’s how I learned to crochet.

I thought about all of this today because the scene felt comfortingly similar. My youngest daughter, Indy, curled up next to me. But instead of the bumping rumble of a motorhome and an old film score, the cool, blue glow of a Netflix series washed over us. I passed her a crochet hook and a slightly large ball of variegated yarn.

“Okay, loop it through,” I instructed, imagining the phantom presence of Grandma Beth nearby.

As Indy worked, the yarn’s color shifted—from a rusty orange to a pale pink, a sunny yellow, and finally, a perfect lavender. And as the colors changed, so did our conversations, the steady stream of our spoken thoughts mirroring the progress of the stitches. In the orange section, she talked about her boyfriend and navigating the complex world of teenage relationships. The pink and yellow brought out a funny moment from her marching band practice. But when we finally made it to the lavender, my baby girl talked about her hopes for the future and how deeply she loves dreaming about the life she’s striving to have as an adult.

This simple moment became a shared space, a confessional woven into a gorgeous scarf. Each completed row seemed to pull out a different moment from Indy’s life. These weren’t just crochet rows; they became a colorful, albeit slightly misshapen journal of our secrets. I’m still unsure why, but the depth of her words and the memory of my childhood suddenly filled my eyes with tears.

So, that night, I dug through the back of my closet and finally found something extraordinary: a small section of the blanket I crocheted with my grandma. Even this tiny piece looked lopsided and utterly amateur, filled with so many skipped stitches and tension struggles that it seemed subpar. Yet, holding it now felt like the most beautiful thing in the world. It wasn't the quality of the craft that mattered; it was the quality of the time.

I thought about something my sweet grandmother wrote in her "happiness file,” and I couldn’t help but smile: "At the end of it all, the most treasured moments are with the people we love."

I’m so grateful to be sharing her legacy with my own children. Who knew that a little quiet time and a ball of yarn could connect one heart to the next? I guess my grandma did.

We Celebrated Our Tenth Anniversary

The trip Mike planned for our tenth anniversary was beyond anything I could’ve imagined. The cozy little cabin and the scent of pine and damp earth felt perfect. We spent our first day there at a nearby hot spring, just talking, filling the world with laughter. And it was so much fun that for a while, I forgot about cancer. But my body has a cruel way of reminding me. 

After returning to the cabin, a crushing wave of fatigue and a deep ache settled into my bones. I fought it, trying to keep my eyes open and smile bright, but I’d begun failing.

“I’m so sorry, Mike,” I finally whispered, the words catching in my throat. “Don’t let me ruin this for you because I’m sick.”

As Mike’s brow furrowed with tenderness, and he appeared somehow even more handsome. He reached out to gently brush a stray hair from my face. “Just worry about feeling better so we can have a blast when you’re recooped.”

I wanted to say more—to tell him how much this trip meant—but my eyelids felt heavy as stones. I could only manage a slow nod before falling asleep.

When I woke up a little while later, Mike was gone. I knew he probably went out walking, maybe grabbing a beer from a quaint restaurant nearby. Apparently, Mike’s version of "experiencing life" is hearing stories from elderly men at the bar, and I love hearing my husband talk about it.

An idea sparked in my mind. It was our anniversary. We couldn't hike or dance together, but we could still do something fun. So, I grabbed my phone and propped my head back on the pillow. I clicked the talk-to-text feature and closed my eyes while telling a story into my phone, talking about the day Mike and I met.

When the cabin’s door opened again, Mike walked in, his cheeks flushed from the cool air. He looked at me with that signature warmth that somehow washed away my stress and made me feel worthwhile despite all the ways my health has changed our lives.

“You’re still pretty sick?” he asked, his voice soft.

I nodded sadly.

“Well, I went out and had fun, but what I really want is to be here,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed, “with you.”

“I thought of something fun,” I replied, my spirits lifting. “If you’re up for it?”

His eyes lit up. “Always.”

“Can you write a chapter about how we met?” I asked. “I wrote one too. Maybe we can read them to each other and compare notes on who has a better memory!”

“Sure!” he grinned.

So, instead of letting my illness derail the entire trip, we turned a bad situation into a "writers' convention" right there in the cabin. 

We had so much fun that we wrote on the way home, ending with seven chapters each! 

Reading his side of the story is hilarious; he describes our first date as the time he’d "never felt so romanced" in all of his life. I’ve laughed and even cried a couple of times, mostly because it’s so dang heartwarming.

A line from my grandma’s happiness file came to mind: “We all matter.” It’s so true. And that’s really what Mike does for me. Despite the treatments, the exhaustion, and the way my abilities have been altered, he never treats me like a burden. He always shows his love in every quiet look and kind word, which helps me know that I matter.

Not long after our vacation in the cabin, I went to see my oncologist. They did scans, and something shocking happened. I no longer have any cancer in my brain, which is miraculous news. I still have some cancer at the base of my skull and at the bottom of my spine, but all the other spots are gone! I had tumors in my pelvis, my hip, growths in my lungs, and at one point, every single vertebra in my spine. But now I only have cancer in two places. This feels like a miracle after all of this time!

“This is absolutely incredible.” I hugged Mike so tightly after the appointment. Maybe we have more chapters to write in life after all? I sure hope so! I guess we’ll have to wait and see.

The Good Stuff

The world shrank to the size of the sterile tube around me. The machine’s clamoring thump-thump-thump resounded, a loud drumbeat against my skull. Its cold, impersonal surface became my only companion as it scanned my body, searching for more melanoma. Every three months, I “get” to spend a few hours in that tube, being reduced to a simple gown and my soul. It’s probably bizarre, but MRIs always remind me of how we’ll leave this world. As I take off my jewelry, magnetic eyelashes, and hair clips, I soberly remember that we will all—at some point—leave EVERYTHING behind. 

You'd think I’d be used to scans by now, but sometimes I still get so afraid, thinking about how the same device that's supposed to keep me above ground is ironically similar to a coffin. In these moments of terror, the only thing that saves me is my imagination. And I've come to appreciate the power of good memories. It’s a game I play, a mental escape. One moment I’m trapped in the MRI machine; the next, I’m back on a pier in Jamaica during my honeymoon. The salty air brings my senses to life, and the gentle lap of waves against the wooden planks tames my soul. I sit with Mike, planning our perfect future filled with happiness...and health... How precious that word sounds now that so much has changed.

The machine continues its tha-whumping, but my mind can’t bear to focus on that. Instead, I’m lost in a highlight reel of my life, a dance through the past that I’ve been ridiculously lucky to live. I see myself in a hospital room, holding my newborn babies for the first time, staring at them with a wonder that felt bigger than the universe. I remember the magical moments of getting old-fashioned photos in Jackson Hole and playing card games in a cramped cabin with our kids. I think of traipsing across Italy while Mike pushed me in my wheelchair, and the kids pointed out beauty in everything as they ate gelato. I recall our family playing tag in Goblin Valley, as the kids ran here and there, living to the fullest. Each memory is a unique stone in a mosaic of my life, and as I piece them together in that awful machine, a surreal picture forms.

The fear and anxiety have left. Regrets and mistakes fade, nowhere to be found, replaced by a gratitude so fierce my chest aches. I’m not defined by this disease or the hardships I’ve endured. I'm a wife, a mother, a daughter, and a friend. I’ve lived a full, beautiful life, and all I have to do is close my eyes to remember. It really is in the darkness that the best moments of life truly shine.

Extra Mile

 With the resolve of a man twice his age, my son prepared for his senior year. As a junior, Trey survived a brutal breakup after dating a girl (on and off) for two years, and I know that weighs heavy on his mind.

“I’m done,” he said before his first day of school in August. “No dating until I get my degree.”

That vow lasted about as long as my phone's battery, and in the afternoon, when I asked about Trey’s first day back, he didn't mention classes, friends, or even lunch. Instead, he talked about "the new girl," and I couldn’t help but smile. Around here, a new student is basically front-page news.

"She could probably use some friends," I said, trying to subtly nudge him in the right direction.

"Yeah," he nodded, “I think she's had a hard life. I heard she's in foster care."

So, Trey considered approaching the girl for the next two days but couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. Then, in a moment straight out of a movie, she actually approached HIM and struck up a conversation.

“She’s so hilarious and fun, Mom. I think I’m gonna ask her to homecoming,” Trey said as he paced in our kitchen the following weekend. 

After hearing his words, my mind went to my grandma’s infamous "happiness file.” It’s a collection of life advice so wholesome it’s brilliant. She scrawled on one faded index card, “It’s worthwhile to go the extra mile to make people feel valued.” And that sentiment seemed perfectly apt for Trey’s current dilemma. 

"It sounds like this girl has been through so much," I finally said. “You should do something romantic to ask her to the dance."

Trey just stood there, gaping. “But what if she says no?”

“So?” I said, shrugging. “What do you really have to lose?”

“That’s just...embarrassing.”

Within seconds, I donned my serious-mom face. "Is the objective to get a ‘yes’ or to make her feel special?”

Trey paused for a while, thinking hard. “I just want her to be happy.”

Although Trey never met my grandma, he took her advice that day. For the next few hours, he meticulously wrote out ideas, got candy, and arranged it into cryptic messages on a posterboard. (A couple of the lines were pure gold: “Going to the dance with you would feel like ‘100 Grand.’ I'm falling to ‘Reese’s Pieces.’”)

Trey left for school the next morning, looking more nervous than I’d seen him in years. The day dragged for me because this was super exciting!  I could just picture my tall, strong son, holding up the romantic posterboard that he’d crafted for the new girl. I hoped it would make her day.

When Trey finally got home, I bombarded him. “So, how’d it go?”

“Mom! She said it's the nicest thing anyone has ever done for her. She said…’yes’!”

I gave him the biggest hug, and a rush of pure joy flooded through me.

“Mom,” Trey said after a second, “even if she’d said ‘no,’ it would’ve been worth it just to see how happy she was. Grandma was right.” 

And there it was—perfectly understood, the core of Grandma's wisdom, passed down through two generations. 

Making people feel special, valued, and loved is always worth the extra effort. Like Grandma used to say, it really does pay to be kind.