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A Letter to the Season I Went Missing

Crystal Booth-DyasLeave a comment

I didn’t notice the exact moment I slipped under. It wasn’t dramatic, more like a slow fade. One day I looked up and realized whole months, even years had gone by, and I wasn’t sure how to explain any of it, even to myself. Trauma has a way of doing that, eating away at the edges of your life until you don’t recognize the shape of things anymore.

For a long time, I blamed myself for that. For going quiet. For slowing down. For needing help. For not being “strong enough” in the ways I thought I should be. But the truth is, I wasn’t disappearing. I was doing work no one could see. The kind of work that doesn’t look inspiring or tidy from the outside. The kind of work that happens in the nervous system, in old wounds, in the places you don’t talk about because you barely have language for them.

There were days I truly fell apart. Days where even breathing felt like effort. Days where the weight of cancer, parenting, appointments, fear, and grief pressed so hard that all I could do was exist in a puddle of my own tears and hope that was enough. And somehow, even in those moments, something in me kept trying. It kept reaching. It kept choosing to stay. Tiny, shaky steps, but still steps.

That’s what I’m proud of. Not the polished parts. Not the brave face. Not the strength people think they see. I’m proud of the quiet work. The work done in the dark. The work no one claps for…the work only I could do.

Trauma therapy cracked open places I didn’t know were still holding their breath. It taught my body that danger isn’t everywhere, that it’s allowed to soften, that I can belong to myself again. And slowly, painfully, beautifully, I started to come back.

I still feel fragile. I think that’s just the truth for now. But I also feel steady in a new way. Steady enough to write again. Steady enough to let my voice exist without trying to manage how it lands. Steady enough to stop explaining myself to ghosts. So this letter isn’t a comeback. It’s a recognition!

I went missing for a while. I lost pieces of myself. But I didn’t disappear. I’ve been rebuilding quietly and honestly and on my own terms.

If I ever doubt myself again, I want this written somewhere: I did the hardest work of my life in silence, and no one has to understand it for it to matter. I survived things I was never prepared for. I rebuilt pieces of myself I thought were gone forever.

And this part is important; I don’t owe anyone a performance of what that healing looked like.
This letter isn’t an update or an invitation. It’s a marker for me. A reminder that I am allowed to choose myself quietly and privately and without apology.

I’m proud of the woman standing here now, fragile yes, but awake.
And waking up is its own kind of triumph.

The Truth About Healing: It Changes You, and Then It Changes Again

Crystal Booth-DyasLeave a comment

You know what’s funny?

I think I finally have it figured out.
Not life, not everything, but this. This version of me. This season. This phase.

That’s the thing about healing, or coming into yourself: it changes. It comes in phases. And I’m finally learning to be okay with that. To actually feel content inside each phase, even if I know it won’t last forever. To process as I go, not dig for meaning in every crack.

The truth is, I’ve spent so much of my time lost.
Lost in trauma.
Lost in emotion.
Lost in numbness.
Lost in grief. (I still grieve.)
Lost in trying to figure out who I am and why all of this has happened.

But once I combed through the hardest parts of my life,
Once I evaluated (maybe over-evaluated),
cried into my pillow,
stayed up all night for too many nights,
screamed on the bathroom floor,
and had to walk out of the room after looking at my children,
Once I did all of that, and finally accepted life as it is,
something in me settled.

I realized: this is what life is.

It’s not perfect, it’s not fair, and I don’t get to control the most devastating things.
But I do get to be here.

And I realized that my purpose…
It’s not a job or a title or some fancy calling.

My purpose is to be a mother.

I’ve always known it. But I had to live through hell to believe it fully.
I had to stop forcing it to be anything more.

And maybe it is more.
Maybe it doesn’t have to be just one thing.
But this…this is what’s clear to me now, in this season of life.

I’ve also come to see that everyone is struggling with something. Some people wear it out loud. Some hide it. Some look like they’ve got it all together but are falling apart inside. And knowing that, really knowing it, helped me stop trying to measure myself against the world. That’s when contentment started to take root.

And when I became content?

That’s when real love and happiness started to shine through.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m still human. I still get overwhelmed.
I still say things out of frustration.
I still mess up.

But I’m working on it. I’m always working on me.

And I’m finally deciding to be selfish. Not because I’m bitter, or angry, or burned (though I’ve been all of those before).
But because me and my family deserve it.

They deserve all of me.
Not the scattered, exhausted, guilt-ridden version.
But the one who is present. Who can meet them in their own moments of human-ness.

So yeah. I’m in my content, happy, and reminiscing on life era.

And I love it.
And I’m going to protect it at all costs.

With peace (finally),

Crystal

If you’re still in the chaos, still in the questions; hold on. You don’t have to force your purpose.
You might be living it already.

And even if it doesn’t feel that way yet…
your content era will come.

It really will.

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Behind the Strength: The Unseen Reality of Living With a Terminal Illness

Crystal Booth-Dyas1 Comment

People often look at those living with a chronic, terminal illness and call them strong. Brave. Inspirational. And they are. But not because they choose to be heroes every day. They’re strong because they have no other choice. Metastatic cancer, and many terminal illnesses like it, is not a disease someone recovers from. It doesn’t end in remission parties or five-year survivor ribbons. You don’t get to ring a bell and leave with an applaud. It ends in death. That’s the truth that rarely makes it into polite conversation. Until that day comes, life becomes an endless series of treatments, scans, and decisions. There’s always a new medication, a new side effect, a new tumor to deal with. Weeks fill up with appointments: surgeries, radiation, chemotherapy, palliative care, cardiology, and countless other specialists whose names become all too familiar. People living with terminal illnesses don’t just fight disease. They fight systems. Insurance companies, hospital scheduling, drug approvals, paperwork. The phone becomes an extension of their hand as they try, often in tears, to make sure they get what they need to stay alive. Every day demands the kind of energy reserves most people can’t fathom. Yet on the outside, many appear “normal.” Smiling. Chatting. Picking up kids from school. Posting photos that look like life is rolling on. But underneath, there’s exhaustion that goes beyond physical fatigue. Treatments meant to prolong life slowly damage the body in other ways. Hormone-driven cancers are stripped of hormones, plunging patients into medically induced menopause with symptoms that can leave a person feeling like a stranger in their own skin. Bone pain, memory lapses, insomnia, emotional volatility…it all comes along for the ride. None of this is designed for young people. Or young parents. Or anyone trying to juggle a family, friendships, careers, and some remnant of a personal life. And the emotional burden grows heavier because talking about it, even with the people closest to you, is often impossibly hard. Loved ones may care deeply, but they’re not living it. They don’t feel the daily toll. They don’t really know. And so many people keep the darkest parts to themselves, carrying the weight in silence because they don’t want to scare, burden, or alienate those they love.

Then there’s the financial reality, especially for younger patients. How do you keep a job when your life is ruled by scans, treatments, sudden progression, and crippling side effects? Physical pain, fatigue, and brain fog can make even part-time work impossible. Yet life costs money. House payments. Food. Medical bills that insurance doesn’t fully cover. Raising children. Trying to hold on to some piece of a future. Social Security Disability is often the only option. But when you’re young, the payments are barely enough to cover the basics, let alone support a family. And for some, especially younger patients, there’s an even harsher truth: they might not have worked enough years, or paid into the system long enough to qualify for Social Security Disability at all. Many spent years raising families instead of earning a steady paycheck, believing there would be time to build careers later. But when illness strikes, they’re left without the safety net people assume exists. Even when benefits do come through, they’re often far too small to live on, especially for those trying to support children. It leaves people trapped between impossible choices: stay alive, but lose financial security. Keep fighting, but risk everything else.

And whether someone is living with a terminal illness for years, facing it as a lifelong battle, or even if they’ve had earlier-stage cancer and finished treatment with no evidence of disease…there’s trauma. Because for many, even when cancer seems gone, the fear never fully leaves. Trauma from surgeries, scans, endless hospital stays, and the terror of waiting for results. Trauma from watching your body change, from pain, from treatments that save your life but also wound it in other ways. It leaves scars that don’t always show on the outside, and trauma responses that linger long after the doctors say you’re stable. It’s real. And it’s a part of this story too, even though it’s so often left out of the conversation.

Because metastatic cancer and many other terminal illnesses are often invisible, people don’t always understand. They look at someone who “seems fine” and wonder why they’re not working. Why they’re canceling plans. Why they can’t just push through. But these illnesses are hidden monsters. They live in the bones, the organs, the spaces in between. They’re relentless. And they steal more than health. They steal stability, certainty, and sometimes even dignity. People living this life aren’t avoiding loved ones because they don’t care. They’re not flaking out because they’re unreliable. They’re simply trying to survive the day. And then, if there’s a flicker of energy left, they’re pouring it into moments that matter; a bedtime story, a family dinner, a quiet hug on the couch. They’re not looking for pity. They’re not trying to say “poor me.” They’re simply hoping people might understand. Because the truth is, terminal illness wears you down. A day, a week, a month, a year. It’s relentless. And it’s lonely, because the world often doesn’t see it, or doesn’t want to. Until it happens to you. And God willing, it never will. But if it does, or if it happens to someone you love, may you remember this: Strength doesn’t mean the pain is gone. Positivity doesn’t mean it’s easy. And sometimes, just surviving the day is the bravest thing a person can do.

For all of us living this truth,
Crystal

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A Letter to the Newly Diagnosed

Crystal Booth-DyasLeave a comment

Dear Reader,
This isn’t a post filled with answers, it’s a story. My story. And I share it because I’ve carried the weight of silence for too long. If you’ve just been diagnosed, or if you’re standing at a crossroads trying to decide what healing looks like for you, I hope this helps you feel a little less alone.

There wasn’t just one moment that changed everything for me. It was all of it. The physical pain, the emotional exhaustion, the pressure to stay hopeful. I was trying so damn hard every day. Trying everything, managing everything. I spent over $70,000 on alternative treatments. And still, my cancer didn’t care. My body was healthier than ever on the inside, but the scans told a different story. It was ravaging me. And I knew. I knew because my body has always told me when something was wrong. It told me at 13 weeks pregnant with Ace. It told me before I was diagnosed. And it screamed again, louder than ever, when my liver was in the beginning stages of failure. So I listened. I got the scan. And even though they said chemo and radiation probably wouldn’t help much because of my cancer’s subtype, it worked! It gave me time. It gave me life. It gave me another chance to listen, combine, and let go of what wasn’t helping me survive.


At the start of all of this, I believed so strongly that if I stayed positive, I would heal. That I could be the miracle. I believed that if I avoided conventional treatment, I could prove something. I believed that sharing that belief was helping others. I didn’t know that I was also making it harder for myself, and maybe for them.


I’ve lost friends who walked similar paths. Some spent their last days trying everything under the sun. Others refused treatment altogether. Many passed away without their families by their sides. And I carry that. I supported their decisions, sometimes too quietly. I didn’t speak up, even when I wanted to say, “Try it. Just try one thing.” One friend passed just a week after refusing brain radiation. Her 8 year-old daughter didn’t have a father in her life. That haunts me. Another friend begged me to try a targeted therapy I rejected at first. She died before I could thank her for trying to help me. That therapy ended up keeping me stable for two years.


I know I can’t save anyone. I can’t even guarantee my own outcome. But what I can do, is speak now.
I don’t believe there is one right way. I believe in balance. In listening. In combining what works. I believe in the medical system and also in holistic support. I still believe in a higher power. But I no longer believe I’m the exception just because I had hope. Hope matters. But so does action. So does humility. So does choice. And here’s the thing: You can do anything. But you can’t do everything.

My biggest regret is not encouraging others to listen to their own bodies before locking into just one belief. I mistook stubbornness for strength. And I shared that stubbornness with others. I thought I was helping. I didn’t see the harm. Now, I just want to walk beside you. Not ahead. Not behind. Just beside you. I’m not here to give advice or sell a method. I’m here to say: it’s okay to change your mind. It’s okay to try something new. It’s okay to hope and still ask for help. Let go of what you can’t control. That’s where your power lies.

With all my heart,

Crystal

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What Almost Dying Taught Me About Living

Crystal Booth-Dyas2 Comments

A Quick Note to my Readers:

You might notice a shift in how I write some of my posts from here on out. While Letters to Life started in a letter format (and some posts may still follow that style), I’ve found that sometimes, writing more directly feels more natural, and more me. I’m still figuring out what fits best as I grow and heal, so you’ll see a mix as I go. The heart of it stays the same. And honestly… it’s my blog, so I get to do what I want. 😉

I’ve had brushes with death before. But this one felt different.

As many of my readers know, I had a cryoablation and biopsy done on several liver tumors, which resulted in a hospital admission for a few nights due to unexpected complications. During the procedure, I was sedated, but not asleep. I could hear everything. I could feel everything. They had me heavily medicated, but the pain cut through it all. It got so intense I wanted to scream for them to stop. And then, after it peaked… everything blurred.

I don’t remember much until I came to in a hospital bed, pain crashing back in. I didn’t know yet that I was bleeding internally, not until they told me there were complications. After they came in with an ultrasound machine and confirmed that blood had traveled from my stomach and into my chest cavity. That they were admitting me. Hearing “internal bleeding” suddenly made all the pain make sense. It also made it real. That’s when fear started creeping in. But something else happened too.

I remember looking at Carl, sitting by my side. I could see the worry in his face, the kind he tries to hide. And in that moment, something in me shifted. I felt this wave of love. Deep, grounded love. I knew, somehow, that I was being held. That I wasn’t alone. That I could go inward and let my body do what it needed to do.

The pain was still there, but peace showed up too. There was a strange separation, like I wasn’t fully in my body anymore. Time didn’t exist. It wasn’t fast or slow… just gone. And I wasn’t scared. Not then. Fear didn’t hit me until I was fully “back” in my body, when the pain spiked again and I felt myself slipping into survival mode. But looking back, even that fear was a gift. Because it meant I was alive.

Something shook loose in me during that experience. Not just fear. Not just pain. But old beliefs and baggage I’d been trying to release for years. I’ve said it before, I knew I needed to let go of control. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t let go completely. This time, it wasn’t up to me. The universe took it out of my hands. It helped me see what had always been there: love, support, and a reason to keep going.

Once I was stable again, I felt different. Lighter, maybe. More aware. I could see my people more clearly, the ones fighting for me so I can keep fighting. I felt their love in a way I hadn’t before. Not just in my head, but in my bones. In my soul. And something else shifted, too. How I love others.

Before, I think I was tangled up in my own thoughts, wondering if I had to earn love, or who truly cared, or whether it was safe to trust it. But now… I just love. I don’t need to hold it so tightly. I don’t need to make sense of it. I just let it be what it is.

What matters most to me now is living. Truly living. Letting go of the stress I began to carry again over the past year. The fear of what might happen. The pressure to control every outcome. I still have cancer. I still have pain. But I also have something I didn’t before. Permission. Permission to live the way I’ve been trying to live for years.

And I plan to.

Love, Me

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A Letter to My Body

Crystal Booth-DyasLeave a comment

Dear Body,

Most of my adult life, I’ve been angry at you. I’ve resented the way you don’t “look” like I wish you would. I’ve spent years trying to shape you into something that met my expectations, yet every time I looked in the mirror, I saw someone who was different than who I thought I should be.

But today, I want to thank you. I want to thank you for all the ways you’ve carried me through. This body of mine has delivered four children, endured over a dozen surgeries, and healed from infections that should have taken me down. It’s fought tumors that tried to take my life and even survived liver failure. You stretched to carry a near nine-pound baby, and you held on long enough to give me my miracle child, Ace, born at 26 weeks. Without your strength and resilience, I wouldn’t be here today.

Yes, you’ve been bruised. Yes, you’ve been broken. But you’ve also carried love, you’ve carried loss, and you’ve carried trauma. And you’ve kept going. You are a testament to resilience, to survival, to the quiet strength that doesn’t always get seen but never falters.

And even now, in this fight against cancer, you continue to carry on. The treatments have taken their toll. More radiation, chemotherapy, surgeries, scans, medications, and infusions to even count. I can feel the weight of it on you, body. The exhaustion, the pain, the days when I can barely find the energy to move. I know you’re tired. I know that every fiber of your being is working so hard just to keep me alive. I know you are weary, and I feel your fatigue. But this is not the end of our story. It’s just another chapter. You have fought so hard, and now it’s time for me to prepare you to fight again. I feel it in you again, it’s time to prepare for another round.

The battle we face is not only physical but also mental and emotional. I’ve learned that I must support you in every way I can, not just with treatment, but with care. My care. I will feed you with the nutrients you need to rebuild. I will allow you rest when you need it, and I will push you when it’s time. I have to remind myself that this is a journey that requires patience and trust, not just in the process, but in your strength.

This fight is not just about surviving, it’s about thriving, even in the hardest of circumstances. I will be kind to you when you need kindness, and I will challenge you when you need strength. Every cell in your being is working overtime, and I will be here, beside you, doing everything I can to give you the support you deserve.

As I prepare for what comes next, I reflect on the countless times we’ve defied the odds. Each time you’ve been pushed to the limit, you’ve come back stronger. This time, I trust that you will do the same. I won’t lie, it’s terrifying. But I know that I am not alone. You’ve carried me through life’s hardest battles, and now, I will carry you through this one. We’ve faced the darkness, and we’ve emerged stronger each time.

Together, we will fight again. Together, we will continue this journey with strength, resilience, and unwavering trust in one another.

With gratitude, love, and strength,
Me

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A Letter to the Days I Thought I’d Never See

Crystal Booth-DyasLeave a comment

✨ Author’s Note:
This post is both a reflection and a quiet update. In February, I received news that my cancer has progressed, but this time, it came with something unexpected…hope. I’m learning what it means to live again, even in uncertainty. Thank you for being here with me.

Dear Days I Thought Were Outside My Reach,
You felt so far away for so long.

There was a time not that long ago when I didn’t think I’d still be here, when survival mode was my entire world. I was trying to keep life moving, trying to pretend everything was normal. For my kids, for my family, for my sanity. I stuck to routines, clung to structure, and did everything I could to hold on. But deep down, I wasn’t living. I was bracing. I wasn’t looking forward because I didn’t believe I had a future to look toward.

I wanted to believe I did. But I lost touch with real life, disconnected from the people I loved most, because I was drowning in survival. I forgot how to be present. I forgot that healing was possible. I was hiding behind a mask because I didn’t think I would make it this far. I was stuck trying to leave behind what I wanted others to remember me by. I forgot that I didn’t have to stay stuck. But there is something quite beautiful in that. There is beauty in the struggle.

The love I had for those closest to me morphed into deep fear. Fear of losing them, fear of being a burden, fear of dying, to be completely honest. Not a fear of death itself, but a fear that I may no longer be around to help them through that loss. That fear kept me frozen longer than I want to admit. I was strong, damn was I, but I had layers and layers of trauma I hadn’t faced, and facing that was harder than facing cancer. It meant going to the scariest places in my own mind and body. But it’s also what brought me back to life.

There were many moments I thought I wouldn’t make it. I even began preparing to die. And strangely, it was in those darkest moments that I also felt the most peace. Something bigger than me kept whispering that it would be okay, even if I didn’t know what “okay” looked like. I didn’t know what I was holding on for, but now, I think it was this, the hope that healing wasn’t just for me, but for the generations before and after me. That maybe, just maybe, I was meant to walk this path not just to survive it, but to teach through it.

Still, acceptance was the hardest part. I didn’t need advice. I didn’t need someone to pull me out. I just needed to be met where I was, to be seen, and to be allowed to feel it all without being rushed through it. And through that grief and emotion I forced myself to feel, something cleared.

It happened after one of the hardest seasons of my life. I had lost so much. To the outside world, it probably looked like I was giving up, like I was destroying relationships or falling apart. And maybe there were moments that I was. Maybe that’s exactly what needed to happen so I could begin to trust myself again. I was following something deeper, my own guidance, my own truth. I began to rebuild, piece by piece. Slowly, everything started to come back together. Not as it was, but as something new. Something healed.

And just as I was learning to live again, just as I began tasting presence and joy, I got news that might’ve once shattered me. In February of this year, my six-month scans showed that while 90% of my cancer remains stable, two new tumors have appeared on my liver.

Of course, I feel sadness. I feel the weight of uncertainty. The physical symptoms of this beast are not something you can just ignore, either. Time wears on. But surprisingly, I also felt something else, something I hadn’t really felt in the past… hope.

You see, the last time I heard the word “progression,” it felt like a death sentence. My liver was so covered in tumors that treatment wasn’t even considered an option. I was told my subtype of cancer wouldn’t respond to treatment. And yet, by some miracle, it did. Against the odds, my body responded to chemo, and those “innumerable tumors” are now considered stable, likely dead. Which means that this time, I have options. For the first time, there’s a possibility to target the new tumors. And that… that is massive. That is grace.

This progression is not the end. It’s a bend in the road, but not a cliff.

This time, in round infinity of the battle I call life, I’m not blaming myself. I’m expressing what I need. I’m doing the hard things, not to survive, but to live meaningfully. I’m following my intuition, holding boundaries, and breaking cycles, even when it’s terrifying. Even when it’s misunderstood. I’m choosing truth over fear.

And no, I don’t always know how to balance it all. But I know one thing with certainty, I will not go back to living in survival mode. I want to live. Really live. That doesn’t mean toxic positivity or pretending everything is okay. It means embracing the joy and the pain. It means letting peace grow in the cracks.

To those who are reading this, thank you for being here. If I could ask one thing of you, it would be this: meet me where I’m at. Not with fixes or advice or comparisons. Just presence. Let me live this human experience in all its mess and beauty.

Things can get better. Even when it feels like there’s no way up. Even in the deepest dark, there is a way forward. I see that clearly and fully.

These days, the ones I thought I’d never see, they’re not perfect. But they are mine. They are what is needed to fill my soul, and I’m living them fully.

With everything in me,
Crystal

A Letter to Change

Crystal Booth-DyasLeave a comment

Dear Change,

You have been a long time coming. For years, I felt stuck in patterns that weren’t fully mine, yet I carried them as if they were. The ways I was raised, the unspoken expectations, the survival mindsets. I absorbed it all, and without realizing it, I passed pieces of it down. Not because I wanted to, but because I didn’t yet see another way. But now, I do.

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on the patterns that shaped me, the lessons passed down through generations, the ways we coped, the silent struggles we all carried. I see now that so much of what we repeat isn’t intentional, but inherited. And now that I recognize it, I have the power to change it. Not with blame, but with understanding. Not with resentment, but with compassion. I want my children to know that they are not bound by the past, that they have the freedom to create something new. And in choosing to break these cycles, I hope to show that healing isn’t about taking on patterns that don’t belong to you or pointing fingers, it’s about opening doors. That’s where you come in, change.

You are not easy. You have required me to sit with discomfort, to grieve for what I didn’t know, to take responsibility without self-blame. You have asked me to be honest, with myself and with others. To hold compassion for what shaped me while refusing to let it define me. You have stripped away the idea that things “just are” and replaced it with the truth: Things can be different. I can be different. And because of that, my children’s future can be different too.

This birthday felt different because for the first time, I wasn’t just surviving, I was living. Breaking these cycles has been like opening my eyes to a reality I never saw before, one where I am not just reacting to life but consciously shaping it. For so long, I was stuck in survival mode, repeating patterns I hadn’t questioned, carrying weights that weren’t mine to hold. But this year, I felt the shift. I wasn’t just marking another year, I was stepping fully into a new way of being. I celebrated not just my age, but the freedom that came with seeing the truth, with choosing change, with knowing that I am no longer bound by what was. I was present, fully aware of how far I’ve come, and for the first time in a long time, I could truly feel the future opening up before me. This birthday, I reflected on what I leave behind as my legacy, for my children and future generations, with a newfound hope.

If I could go back and talk to myself one year ago, I’d tell her this: Even in the hardest moments, even when it feels impossible, you are already changing. Keep going. Keep questioning. Keep choosing to be aware, even when it hurts. The future you is waiting, and she is free in ways you can’t yet imagine.

I never set out to break cycles, but once I started, I realized that it was never about blame, it was about choice. And so, I keep going. Not perfectly, not without struggle, but with the certainty that change is worth it. That breaking cycles is worth it. That the future I am creating is worth it.

With courage and resilience, Me

A Letter to Life

Crystal Booth-Dyas

Hello, Life.

If you were a person, I would describe you as a bipolar, multiple-personality, inconsistent, sour patch kid, first sour, then sweet. And yet, despite everything, I greet you with kindness and understanding. I thank you for the beauty you have given me, and I forgive you for the pain and fear you have caused.

Because you have taken everything from me. Yet, you have given me so much.

You have stripped me down to my rawest core. You have broken me, shattered me, and left me questioning everything. You forced me to confront a reality I never wanted to face. One I never asked for. And worst of all, you showed me that I could not control how my loved ones handled it either. I spent so much time resisting, trying to fix the unfixable, trying to fight back against you. And for what? To avoid the truth?

The truth is, there was a time I was so angry with you, Life. I felt like a victim to my own existence. I screamed, HOW could this be happening to me? To my children? My Husband? After everything we had endured, after all those years of clinging to the hope that “someday it will get better,” you hit me with a terminal diagnosis. Of course, I was angry. I was furious! And that fury seeped into everything around me. I blamed my doctors, my body, my circumstances. But most of all, I blamed myself. I felt deep regret for the time and money I spent trying to cure something rather than simply living. For “helping” others facing the same monster, who didn’t make it. And the worst part? Every friend I lost to this disease felt like another gut punch from you, another cruel reminder that despite all of our efforts, you always win.

I even resented kindness. Encouragement felt like false hope. Advice felt like an insult. As if people didn’t understand I was already doing everything I could. That my effort to live was not enough. I was drowning in my own anger, and I didn’t even realize that the person I was punishing the most was myself.

But then, something shifted.

I don’t know the exact moment I stopped resisting you and started embracing you. Maybe it was when I finally saw myself through a lens of kindness instead of criticism. Maybe it was when I stopped focusing on how far I had to go and instead honored how far I had already come. Maybe it was when I realized I wasn’t really living at all. Yet, I knew I had to go through this journey for myself. I had to come face to face with it, and no one could save me.

I had spent so much time trying to find meaning in my life because it was now limited, that I forgot to simply live it. And so, I chose to stop being a victim to you.

I started healing, not just physically, but emotionally. I stepped away from distractions and started listening to audiobooks, journaling, meditating, and prioritizing my relationships. I started to eat well again and moved my body, not in a desperate attempt to fix something, but because I deserved to feel good. I chose to be present instead of just existing. I allowed myself to grieve, my past, my losses, my marriage, my years spent in survival mode. And I finally learned the value of boundaries, something I had never truly understood before.

Now, I see acceptance differently. I no longer try to control you, Life. Instead, I focus only on what I can control, what I put into my body, how I move, who I let into my heart, and where I direct my energy. I can’t control the outcome, but I can control how I live.

Still, I am learning. This is not something that happens overnight, it is an everyday, conscious battle. Some days are harder than others, but I am willing and ready to face them. I choose to keep moving forward, even when it feels like a struggle. Healing is not a destination; it is a practice, and I am committed to showing up for myself every single day.

So, for all the pain, the loss, and the uncertainty, I still thank you.

I thank you for guiding me to the next reflection, every single time. I thank you for the people you’ve placed in my world who make life worth fighting for. And I thank you for showing me that after everything, it really can get better again. There is beauty after the smoke clears. And even now, I continue to grow.

I choose, today and every day, to be present.

Crystal