12 years, 12 lessons (Part 1 of 3)

I found my tumor during the 2012 Summer Olympics. I felt the small lump in my left breast while Brian and I were watching Team USA and while Teddy and Annabel were asleep upstairs, four and one years old, respectively. August 8, 2012. You have cancer. 

Today, almost exactly 12 years later, the caffeine and the peace of a cute coffee shop are fueling me to reflect. What have I learned in the 12 years since? I don't really know, but I'd like to figure it out so I'm going to write because it's the way I think best. And it feels only fitting that I do so in the context of the Olympics. (Don't worry -- I will not use "win-lose" or "victory-defeat" type metaphors to cancer; those make me angry.)

So here's what I've learned in the last 12 years. I'll do four today, four tomorrow, and four on August 8th. 

1. If you have people cheering you on, you have everything. 

One of my favorite parts of watching the Olympics is watching the families and friends in the stands; I can't get enough of them. I'm sure the relationships aren't perfect -- what relationships are? -- but when it comes down to those defining moments, these people have shown up. They've flown from all around the world to cheer for their athletes -- to acknowledge their loved one's dreams -- dreams that they now share. If you have people cheering you on in life as you reach for your dreams, then you have everything. Ev-ery-thing.

2. It's good to know when and how to tell people to F- off.

Since the first one was sweet, the next one is salty. I love that Simone Biles called out Mikayla Skinner for her obnoxious, jealous comments about the 2024 women gymnasts. It turns out that I don't believe in the old adage, If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all. No thanks. For me, it's far better to be strong and honest, especially because "being nice" is subjective. Maybe Simone's comeback to Skinner wasn't "nice" to Skinner but I'm sure it felt awesome to her most-certainly-not-lazy teammates. I am inspired by people who aren't afraid to stand up to jerks. I prefer strong and honest to nice. The latter is fake. The former are real. Thank you, Simone, for showing us that we can call people out on their bull$hit and show class at the very same time. 

3. We can never forget the gigantic world context of our lives.

Obviously, a social media back-and-forth between gymnasts is nothing relative to the world scene. I won't even pretend to understand the complexity (and indeed, the tragedy) of the politics behind so many Olympic moments. Israel and Palestine, Russia and Ukraine, North and South Korea, China-Taiwan, Sudan and South Korea, and I'm sure others I don't even know about. I've read some of the stories: athletes killed before they even made it to Paris, refugees fleeing their countries to train, families ripped apart by war. A few stories I didn't even have the stomach to finish reading. 

Part of the magic of the Olympics is that through them, we celebrate a world coming together despite all of this darkness. But wow -- the privilege some of us have in being able to do that. I try, every day, to remember the bigger picture of my life. I am so small, so insignificant, really. There will always be an infinitely larger universe in which my being is microscopic. That reality no longer terrifies me, but in a way, it empowers me. The question is, how can I help? I will keep trying to answer that. 

4. I could go all the way to Paris and lose and that's okay.

I used to think Olympic gymnasts were nuts. These people dedicate their whole lives to a moment that may never come to be. They tattoo themselves with Olympic rings and they pursue a dream that may never happen. They may get disqualified for flipping a swim turn just a bit too early. They may get sick from the dirty water and have to withdraw. Or they may just have a bad day. Then what? They go back home with the memory of complete failure? See, nuts!

The thing is, I don't think this way anymore. Three Olympic Games later, I am far less afraid of stating my dreams and failing at them. Actually, let me revise that...I'm still terrified of failure, but I'll dream and do anyways. I don't think this evolved mentality came from having cancer, but cancer played (and plays) a role, for sure. Then again, we should all have an urgency about our dreams, shouldn't we? 

I will

Dear Mom, 

No one reads this blog anymore, which I consider a true gift because it means that cancer is no longer at the center of my being. While I may "publish" this blog, I consider this a private communication. The only people who read it will be those who still think of me (or people who once followed and wonder, "Is that girl still alive?" Ha!) Well, I am still alive. Still very, very alive. So I wanted to write you to you here because this blog was where writing really started for me.

Three years ago around this time, you gave me the opportunity of a lifetime. You told me that you believed in my idea for a book enough that you'd support my dream to take a year off of teaching and write it. I will never ever have the words to express my gratitude for that but I'm going to give it a little try right now. 

One of the reasons I love being a teacher so much is that I honestly believe a teacher has the power to help their students build their dreams. On a day to day basis, the work doesn't look like it involves dream-building at all (like not even in the slightest) but I still know it's true. A teacher can help a student believe in themself, help them think (even if it's deep in their subconscious) I can do that. I can learn that. I can be that. I can. Then the really great teachers can help students learn and execute the how. 

When students believe they can, it's because they have found one of life's most precious gifts: hope. Hope makes us believe that we can take the infinite pieces of being human that the universe hands us -- in whatever shape, color, and size and in whichever degree of pain, pleasure, and practicality -- and build our one life. If we get lucky, we have time to do it. 

Today I figured out something: the beauty of I can is surpassed by just one other belief. It's not I did (didn't Gatsby teach us anything?), but rather I will. 

Mom, you and Dad have always been my greatest teachers. You both have always made me believe I can. There is nothing more in the world I hope to give my kids than that belief.

Today I realized what's next, and it's on me. It's the I will. 

I wrote that draft -- that embarrassingly-bad-piece-of-total-crap 430-page draft. And it's sat there for over a year. I've been too afraid to look at it again. Too scared of how much work it's going to take to make it real. To make final decisions about what a character does and says. To add, delete, punctuate. I'm terrified to put my name on it and show it to the world and somehow try to believe that it's worth someone's time to read it. Don't get me wrong -- I have not overcome those fears, not even close. And I'm not really inspired nor excited about the prospect of finishing this thing. It's just that it's time. 

Maybe that's part of the process of writing a novel or achieving any dream -- just deciding, it's time. And then getting lucky enough to have the time. 

On Monday you'll come with me for my chest scan. That's always scary, no matter how routine it may be. Thank you for being there from the first scan almost twelve years ago to this one. Thank you for convincing me I can. And thank you even more for making it possible for me to actually do it -- showing me the how. Being part of it, in all it's lazy, imperfect, very-unfun reality. 

And now, it's time for me to check this damn dream off the dream list and get it done. So, mark my words. I will. By the summer of 2025 I will send this damn draft out to 10 agents. Even if it's so bad that they don't even read past page one. 

I will. 

Thank you for that. 

Love you always, 

Me

One Reason Writing Fiction Is So Damn Hard

Because every single moment you do it, you face your own thoughts. And somehow, you have to make sense of those thoughts.

I continue to wake up every morning to write and I continue to think it is one of the most challenging things I have ever done. Maybe that's how you know you're supposed to do something--it feels like torture and yet, every single day, something calls you back to do it. 

Silence and Nuance

I've been observing something interesting in American culture: the tendency to create two sides to every issue. Often I am asked to choose one side or another on issues that I don't see as so easily bifurcated that way. I have to hate something or love it, support it 100% or vilify it completely. Or, I need to ignore it altogether. 

It's such an American thing, in a way: to commit to something with great passion and unequivocal dedication. It's a great strength, but, ironically, it's also a great weakness. 

I wish that things weren't so blue or red, black or white, good or bad. Almost always the issues are so much more nuanced than that. While I want to talk through nuance, I often feel like there is neither time nor place to do so. Plus, I often lack the skills, patience, and emotional toughness for it. I had to leave social media altogether; it's no place for constructive debate. 

I wish that I could express that I am an advocate for systems that I simultaneously question. In fact, it's in my questioning of those systems that I manifest my support for them. In other words, because I care, I ask questions and in asking those questions, I hope to strengthen those systems, not destroy them. I do not hate a leader because I want him to do better, just as I do not hate myself when I need to improve. Likewise, I do not hate the police because I want to ensure their accountability, just as I do not think my principal hates me because she wants to ensure mine. 

We start to crack as a democratic society not when we ask questions of our leaders, but rather, when we don't. And we begin to fall as a democracy when we know something isn't right but we assume someone else will fix it. Who is that someone? What if they don't show up? 

This world is hard, for so many, in countless different ways. I am not saying we will agree on issues because we haven't, don't, and never will. But we can, at the very least, stop creating two sides to nuanced issues. We can ask questions and answer them without the assumption of malice or hate or the intent to destroy. We can change our minds. We can talk, and make mistakes, and learn from them. We can be civil even when we stand apart. Because it's not the talking that gets us all in trouble. It's the silence. 

Good or bad? Hard to say.

Loved this SO much!