Tag: writing

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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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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