Riding the Waves
Recent reflections, exactly three years after my colorectal cancer diagnosis.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the waves keep coming. As a cancer thriver, I’ve had some big ones — huge milestones and countless checkpoints to cross. In many ways, they’ve been incredibly motivating, but it can also be hard to keep your head above water. These past months have been challenging; I’ve faced new obstacles I’m not entirely sure how to navigate. There’s something about early October that always brings a wave — perhaps it’s the shift of the season (my favorite, actually), another circle around the sun, or simply the rhythm of my life. This year, it’s a collision of many elements. Not all are ones I’d wish upon myself, yet there’s an orchestration unfolding — it makes no sense, and all the sense, at the same time.
Over the past two weeks, I’ve struggled more with going to the bathroom, more urgency and frequency than usual. Not having a rectum and missing the last section of my colon means I’m an extremely sensitive barometer. For those familiar with the gut-brain connection, my gut is literally closer to my brain. I was preparing to take a leave from work after an incredibly stressful year, and my body seemed to be purging everything pent up inside me. My recent bloodwork showed the impact of this stress, and I could see it reflected back at me — in my face, in my eyes. Last week, my final week of work for the year, I landed in the ER with severe abdominal pain. I hadn’t felt that since October 2023. As I sat waiting to be seen, the pain began to fade — almost as if being at the hospital itself triggered a release, an ability to let go, to not be in charge for once. The tests and scans showed nothing. I was sent home exhausted and back in charge.
This week, free from the corporate grind, I had my routine CT and bloodwork, three years since my diagnosis. Again, I remain unremarkable. I wasn’t worried, but I was relieved. Not just for myself, but for those who tiptoe around questions about scans, not wanting to ask but wanting to know. It brings them comfort and joy, a wave that has passed. But for me, as for so many who live post-cancer, I carry a daily reminder in the form of chronic Low Anterior Resection Syndrome (LARS). I’ll have good weeks and hard weeks, easy days and bad ones. I plan carefully — mornings, meals, travel — and brace for the unpredictable moments when my body simply protests. I try not to dwell or complain; it’s a reminder of what I’ve endured and how much my body depends on me to treat it with care. That connection is deep and unwavering.
Amid this work pause, while Slack pings and meeting reminders have gone quiet, it isn’t truly a pause. The waves haven’t stopped. In fact, there are some big ones ahead — equal parts thrilling and terrifying. But this is my chance to shift my energy, to ride these waves differently. To move with intention rather than urgency. To breathe between sets. We are all capable of more than we realize, this I know. How we show up for ourselves makes the difference — for us and for those we love.
Here’s to riding some waves. 🌊
Thanks for reading. If this resonated, I invite you to share it with someone navigating their own waves — or share how you are navigating the change of seasons.
