Yesterday afternoon, I sat in a doctor’s office receiving care my body needed but my spirit is still learning how to hold.
First, a shot to shrink my fibroids. Then, an iron infusion.
There was something almost surreal about it all—the quiet hum of machines, the stillness of the room, the soft rhythm of time moving differently than it does outside.
And yet, just beyond the window, the view was beautiful. Light poured in. The world carried on as if nothing had shifted.
But something had.
There was a moment—maybe several—where disbelief washed over me.
How does life change so quickly?
How do we move from health to illness, from strength to surrender, from certainty to questioning?
This is the road of chronic illness. Not a straight path, but a winding one. A place where the body speaks loudly, and the soul leans in closer to listen.
My faith keeps me grounded.
My practice reminds me: I am not my experiences.
That I am a spiritual being having a human experience.
And yet, there are moments where those two truths—spirit and humanity—don’t just coexist. They dance. They wrestle. They speak over one another, each trying to make sense of what is real.
Because the truth is, I felt it all.
- Sadness.
- Loneliness.
- The quiet whisper of why me?
- And even more tender, why now?
But beneath all of that, something else rose to the surface.
Gratitude.
Not the kind that ignores pain.
Not the kind that rushes healing.
But a grounded, embodied gratitude that says: even here, there is something to hold onto.
- The view was beautiful.
- The blanket was warm.
- I have access to medical care and the benefits to support me.
- I have a car that carries me where I need to go.
- I have breath in my body.
And in that moment, I realized something I want to offer to myself—and to every woman walking a similar path:
Wellness is not always the absence of illness. Sometimes, wellness is the presence of love.
Love for self.
Love for the body, even when it feels like it’s failing you.
Love that says: I am still worthy of care, of softness, of grace.
There is a path to feeling well, even when the body is not fully well. A path rooted in gratitude, in self-compassion, in the quiet remembering that we are more than what we are experiencing.
So today, I am holding both.
The reality of what my body is moving through.
And the truth of who I am beyond it.
And I return to the words that feel like a mantra, a prayer, a gentle anchoring:
“I am alive and well… I am alive and well, well, well. Be well.”
And even here, especially here, I am learning what that truly means.