My fight with stage four melanoma is exhausting, but this journey has really sorted out what truly matters. It might not look like it, but I am making progress.
My greatest wish now isn't for a miracle cure—though let's be honest, if one were sitting on my nightstand, I'd take it without a second thought. But instead, my greatest wish is to see the people I love find happiness. I want to watch my kids chase their dreams until they're breathless and fulfilled. I want to see the spark in Mike's eyes when he talks about his job and our life together. I just want my family to truly live and enjoy life.
My second-oldest daughter, Sky, has a voice that can twist any melody into something beautiful yet heart-wrenching at the same time. As a little girl, she dreamed of being a singer, of packing up her whole life and heading to Los Angeles to start her career. But when I was diagnosed with cancer, I watched her set that dream on a shelf, and the sight of it broke my heart. I told her not to put her life on hold for me, but she didn't want to leave.
"Life is short," I finally told her again, trying to sound wise and not completely terrified of losing her. "Trust me. If you really want to do this, you should go for it. California isn't that far away, and we can do video calls as much as you want."
So she moved, and our video calls are the highlight of my days—a chaotic, beautiful window into her new world. I see sunlight and ocean breeze on her face as she talks about living by the beach, writing new songs, and meeting people who actually understand her musical inclinations. Plus, her growth is incredible to witness. In fact, she recently shared a story that resonated with me more than anything I've heard in a while.
So basically, when Sky gets lonely, she'll sit in her car and watch the monks at a Buddhist temple across the street from her apartment. During the springtime, the temple had a single, featureless statue. The monks worked on it for about an hour every single day. They'd never speak, but instead, they worked tirelessly, their slow, rhythmic chipping a meditative sound even from across the street.
Anyway, time passed, and Sky didn't realize how much progress the monks had made until a second, faceless statue arrived last week. They set it next to the old one, and when they unveiled it, Sky stared in shock. Seeing the two statues side by side stunned her. The first piece was no longer a rough block of stone, but a masterpiece of intricate detail, a patiently carved visage of serene contemplation, standing in stark contrast to the bland, rough form that had yet to be refined.
"I just knew you'd understand," Sky told me, excited to share about the epiphany she'd had. "I know sometimes you don't feel like you're making progress, Mom, but you are. We all are." Sky went on to say that she told me this, knowing how much I dreaded my next round of cancer treatments. And it was the perfect reminder that we get through life one step at a time.
When we're in the middle of a struggle, it's easy to become discouraged because progress can seem invisible, but just as the monks slowly sculpted a masterpiece from rough stone, we are also making headway. Each small act of courage—waking up, facing another day, just trying to do your best—is a chisel stroke, chipping away at the stone of who you were to reveal the masterpiece of who you're meant to be.
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