Tiny Buddha

Tag: diagnosis

  • When Your Body Betrays You: Finding Strength in a New Identity

    When Your Body Betrays You: Finding Strength in a New Identity

    “The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” ~Rumi

    I didn’t know what it meant to grieve a body that was still alive until mine turned on me.

    It began like a whisper—fatigue that lingered, strange symptoms that didn’t match, a quiet fear I tried to ignore.

    Then one night, I collapsed. I woke up in a hospital room I didn’t recognize, attached to IVs I hadn’t agreed to, surrounded by medical voices that spoke in certainty while I sat in confusion.

    It wasn’t just a diagnosis I was given. It was a line in the sand.

    Before that night, I thought I knew who I was. I had moved across the world for love, leaving behind my home, my language, my work, my identity. I thought that leap of faith had already redefined me.

    I was wrong.

    Illness Doesn’t Just Change Your Health; It Changes Everything

    When you live with chronic illness, the world doesn’t change with you.

    Everyone else keeps moving. Fast.

    Meanwhile, your pace slows to survival mode. Appointments become your calendar. You measure your days in energy—not hours. You go from thinking “I’m strong” to wondering “Am I weak now?” And the hardest part is, people still see you as who you were before.

    But inside, you’re unraveling.

    I remember standing in the shower, my hands trembling, trying to wash my hair, crying because I couldn’t lift my arms long enough. I remember sitting in a café with friends pretending I was fine, while every muscle screamed. I remember how silence became my shield because explaining felt harder than hiding.

    I Had to Mourn My Old Self

    No one tells you how much grief comes with getting sick.

    Yes, I mourned the physical freedom I lost. But more than that, I grieved who I thought I was. The capable one. The dependable one. The one who could do it all.

    I had been that woman.

    Now I couldn’t even cook dinner some nights, let alone help others like I used to.

    And it made me angry. Sad. Ashamed.

    Illness stole not just my stamina but also the image I held of myself. That was the most painful part. I didn’t know where I fit anymore. I wasn’t who I used to be, but I wasn’t sure who I was now.

    The Turning Point Wasn’t Dramatic; It Was Quiet

    Healing didn’t arrive with fanfare. There was no great epiphany.

    It came one small moment at a time.

    The first shift happened when I stopped fighting what was. I realized I couldn’t move forward until I stopped clinging to the past. That realization didn’t heal my body, but it softened my soul.

    And that softness became the doorway to something new.

    I began to see that maybe the goal wasn’t to get back to who I was but to become who I could still be.

    That gave me hope—not because things got easier, but because I wasn’t resisting everything anymore.

    What Helped Me Rebuild from the Inside Out

    If you’re facing a change you didn’t choose, especially one that lives inside your body, I want to offer you what I needed most: permission to become someone new.

    Here are a few things that helped me begin again—not as a fix, but as a practice:

    Grieve the old version of you. Seriously.

    Don’t rush past your sadness. Say goodbye to the “you” who did it all, carried everything, said yes, pushed through. That person mattered. They were real. They deserve your tears.

    Grieving isn’t weakness—it’s the beginning of truth.

    Redefine strength.

    Strength is not being able to run five miles or check every task off your list.

    Strength is waking up in pain and choosing to get up anyway—or choosing to rest instead of proving something.

    Strength is asking for help when your whole identity was built around helping others.

    Stop waiting to feel like your old self.

    The truth? You may never feel like your old self again.

    But that’s not a tragedy—it’s an invitation. To live differently. To deepen. To slow down. To choose softness over striving.

    Some days that will feel like a loss. Other days, it will feel like grace.

    Let others in—selectively, honestly.

    It’s okay if most people don’t understand. Find the few who do, or who are willing to listen without needing to fix.

    Speak even when your voice shakes. Share even when you don’t have a tidy ending.

    You’ll be surprised how many people whisper “me too.”

    Make peace with the pause.

    You’re not falling behind. You’re not broken.

    You’re simply in a new season. One that asks different things of you.

    Don’t measure your worth by how fast you move. Measure it by how deeply you stay with yourself, especially on the hard days.

    I wish I could tell you that I handled all of this with grace from the beginning. But the truth is, I resisted every part of it.

    I wanted my old life back. I wanted to prove I was still the same person. So I kept pushing—ignoring symptoms, pretending to be okay, trying to keep up.

    That only deepened the exhaustion, physically and emotionally. My body would shut down for days. I would hide in bed, ashamed that I couldn’t ‘push through’ like I used to.

    What I didn’t realize then was that trying to be who I used to be was costing me who I was becoming.

    There’s a moment I remember vividly: I was sitting at my kitchen table, the afternoon light pouring in. I had a warm cup of tea in my hand. And for once, there was no rush. No guilt. Just a breath. Just presence.

    It wasn’t a breakthrough. But it was something. A tiny opening. A softness. I remember thinking: maybe I don’t need to heal back into the person I was. Maybe I can heal forward.

    This mindset shift changed everything.

    It didn’t fix the illness. But it fixed the part of me that kept believing I had to earn rest, prove my worth, or hide my pain.

    Now, when the flare-ups come—and they still do—I try to meet them with compassion instead of frustration. I speak to myself like I would to someone I love.

    On the outside, not much has changed. But inside? I’ve made space. Space to be exactly who I am, even in discomfort. Even in uncertainty.

    To anyone reading this who feels like their body has betrayed them—who wakes up wondering who they are now—I want to say this: your softness is strength. Your slowness is sacred. Your survival is heroic.

    Even if the world doesn’t see it, I do. And I hope someday, you will too.

    You Are Still You

    There are moments, even now, when I miss who I was before the diagnosis. I miss the energy. The ease. The certainty.

    But I wouldn’t trade what I’ve found: A self that is more tender. More present. More aware of what really matters.

    Illness taught me to slow down. To let go. To stop living as a checklist.

    And it taught me that I’m still worthy, even when I’m not productive.

    If you’re in the middle of an identity shift—whether from illness, loss, divorce, or something else—you are not alone. You’re not broken. And you don’t need to rush toward reinvention.

    You are still you. Just different.

    And that different might be where the real light gets in.

  • The Power I Now Carry Because of My Illness

    The Power I Now Carry Because of My Illness

    “Whatever the present moment contains, accept it as if you had chosen it. Always work with it, not against it.” ~Eckhart Tolle

    For years, I thought strength meant pushing through. Getting on with it. Holding it together no matter what. Not showing weakness. Not needing help. Not slowing down.

    Even when I was diagnosed with a chronic illness, I wore that mindset like armor. I was determined not to let it define me—let alone derail me.

    But eventually, it did. Not because I was weak. But because I was human. And that was the beginning of a different kind of strength.

    The Diagnosis That Didn’t Fit My Story

    I was thirty-two when I was diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease. It’s a chronic inflammatory condition that can be painful, unpredictable, and exhausting. There is no cure.

    At the time, I had three young kids and a to-do list longer than my arm. I was busy, stretched thin, and moving fast—chasing achievement like it could protect me from everything uncertain.

    The diagnosis didn’t land like a crisis. It landed more like an inconvenience. I had no time for illness. No space for it. No story in which it belonged.

    I started medication, but the side effects were rough, and the results were inconsistent. I quickly became obsessed with finding the “right” diet, the “right” routine, the “right” alternative therapy to manage it all myself.

    Strength, Control, and the Problem with Hyper-Independence

    Looking back, I can see that control was my coping mechanism. Control over my body. Control over the narrative.

    I didn’t want to be “someone with a chronic illness.” I wanted to be someone who could handle a chronic illness and still perform at a high level. Someone who could live life on her own terms—without needing medication, or help, or rest.

    So when things stabilized a little, I made a quiet decision: I’d stop the medication.

    I told myself I could manage it naturally. I adjusted my diet, doubled down on my routines, tried to control every variable. But inevitably, flare-ups would return. And when they did, I’d end up back on steroids. They worked—but made me manic. So I’d taper off. The cycle continued.

    Somewhere in the midst of this, we moved countries for my husband’s job. I left behind my career ambitions, my social network, and my medical team. I started to quietly adapt to a life of background symptoms: pain, exhaustion, urgency.

    I didn’t talk about it. I didn’t cancel things unless I absolutely had to. And when I did, I worried people thought I was flaky or rude or just didn’t care.

    In truth, I was trying so hard to be “fine” that I was hurting myself.

    The Turning Point: Meditation & Stillness

    Eventually, I got tired.

    Not just physically—but emotionally, spiritually, existentially. Tired of the constant vigilance. Tired of trying to outrun my own body. Tired of believing that if I just tried harder, I could conquer this thing on sheer willpower.

    I had built an identity around being capable, reliable, strong. Hyper-independent. I didn’t ask for help. I didn’t want to need anyone—or anything, especially not medication. Illness felt like weakness. And weakness was unacceptable.

    But that relentless self-sufficiency didn’t save me. It wore me down.

    That’s when I found mindfulness. Not as a fix—but as a kind of quiet company. A way of softening the grip I had on control. A way of meeting myself as I actually was, not as I thought I should be.

    At first, I treated mindfulness the way I treated everything else: as something to master. But over time, the practice worked on me. It started dismantling the war I had declared on my body. I began to see: my body wasn’t failing me. It was in conversation with me. And I had never truly listened.

    That changed everything.

    Mindfulness helped me stop seeing my illness as something to battle and started teaching me how to respond—with self-compassion instead of control. With care instead of critique.

    The diagnosis was still there. The symptoms came and went. But something in me had started to soften. I was no longer treating every flare-up as a personal failure or a crisis to conquer. The illness was real, but maybe it didn’t have to be a war. I wasn’t fully at peace, but I was learning to pay attention. And then came the call that changed everything.

    The Wake-Up Call That Brought It All Home

    It had been more than five years since my last colonoscopy, and based on my medical history, my primary care doctor recommended I schedule one. I agreed, of course. I felt fine—strong, even. I was training on the treadmill at home for an upcoming marathon, proud of what my body could still do.

    The procedure itself felt routine. But one evening shortly afterward, around 8 p.m., the phone rang.

    It was the doctor who had performed the colonoscopy—calling me personally.

    He didn’t sound casual.

    He told me I was in trouble.

    If I didn’t get on medication right away, my condition could worsen dramatically—and start impacting other systems in my body, even my eyesight.

    I was horrified. And humbled.

    This wasn’t something I could outrun. This wasn’t something I could discipline away. This was my body, urgently asking to be heard.

    Letting Illness Be a Messenger, not a Failure

    I got back on medication. This time, the right kind. And I committed to it—not from a place of defeat, but from a deeper alignment with care.

    That was almost two years ago. Since then, my body has slowly begun to heal. My most recent colonoscopy—early this year—showed dramatic improvement. The inflammation is down. The symptoms are manageable. I’m tolerating the medication well, even with the added complexity of reactivated TB, a side effect of the immunosuppression that I’m now treating with another course of medication.

    It’s not perfect. It’s not linear. But it’s honest. It’s mine.

    And most importantly, I’m no longer at war with my body. I’ve stopped bracing against what is and started responding with care, clarity, and compassion.

    Because real strength isn’t pushing through at all costs.

    It’s listening. It’s allowing. It’s staying with yourself, even when it’s hard.

    Mindfulness didn’t fix everything. But it became an ally—steady and unshakable.

    It taught me I can’t control the storm, but I can anchor myself within it. And in that anchoring, I found something I never expected: power.

    Not the power of force, but the quiet, unwavering power of presence. Of meeting life on its terms.
    Of knowing I can be with whatever comes—and still be whole.

    That’s the power I carry now. Not in spite of illness. But shaped by it.

  • 5 Life Lessons from a Brain Tumor That Could Have Killed Me

    5 Life Lessons from a Brain Tumor That Could Have Killed Me

    “Life is a balance between what we can control and what we cannot. I am learning to live between effort and surrender.” ~Danielle Orner

    I was slumped against a wall at Oxford Circus Station early one Sunday evening when an irritated male voice suddenly barked, “MOVE!”

    Moments beforehand, I had lost my vision.

    Without conscious thought, I muttered, “RUDE!” and staggered off without clearly seeing where I was going.

    It was only months later, on retracing my steps at Oxford Circus, that I realized I’d been blocking his view of some street art.

    I’d allowed a guy to bully me out of the way while in a vulnerable state so that he could take a picture for social media.

    Lesson 1: Not all disabilities are visible.

    We can never fully know what someone else is experiencing. Mental health, chronic pain, and disabilities are not always apparent. So, when we come from a place of not knowing and are patient with others by default, we open up a window of possibility that exists outside of our judgment.

    Minutes prior, I’d stepped off an underground train and onto an upward escalator. A pain hit my right temple like a bullet. It took my breath away, everything went black, and I felt I might faint.

    Desperately, I clung to the railing. And as the top of the escalator approached, my right foot went floppy, and my vision disappeared. I could see light and color, but the world was blurry, lacking definition.

    I used what little vision I had to follow the distinctive white curve of Regent Street down to a spot where I’d arranged to meet a friend

    Panic finally set in when I realized that my friend was walking toward me, and I could recognize his voice but I could not see his face at all.

    We sat down in a restaurant, and a concerned waitress brought a sugary drink.

    My mind went into overdrive: “Had I cycled too much? Was my blood sugar low? Had I eaten/drank enough? Given myself a stroke? Was I just stressed?”

    Twenty minutes later, my vision slowly returned.

    Relieved but freaked out, I asked my friend if he thought I should go to A&E (ER). He said, “Only if you think you need to.” I felt silly. Scared to take up space. Afraid of being a drama queen. I didn’t trust myself or my experience.

    LESSON 2: Don’t seek external validation.

    The opinions of others are helpful, but only you see and experience life from your own unique perspective. Learning to trust and validate our own experience first and foremost is how we step in our power.

    Later I went back home but couldn’t shake it off.

    The next morning, I visited my doctor, who sent me straight to A&E (ER). The hospital admitted me overnight, concerned it was a mini stroke or aneurysm. But the following morning they discharged me, citing dehydration as the cause.

    One week later, I was back in A&E. More dizziness, more foot numbness, more blurred vision. A doctor described it as “classic Migraine Aura.”

    My gut leapt; that didn’t feel right. “I don’t get headaches,” I protested. “I rarely take painkillers. Why so many all of a sudden?”

    They seemed confident it wasn’t serious, but booked an MRI scan, just to be certain.

    Twenty-five minutes of buzzing, clanking, and humming later, I glided out of an MRI scanner.

    I thanked the technician. “All good?” I asked.

    “It’s very clear,” she replied.

    LESSON 3: Listen to your gut.

    If your gut says that something is off, listen to it. A gut feeling is typically a lurch from your stomach rather than chatter from the mind.

    My gut knew it wasn’t migraines; it told me so, and if I hadn’t strongly advocated for myself, then I may not have got that MRI scan.

    A week later, I was back with my local doctor, experiencing vertigo and earache.

    Did I have an ear infection? Was that the issue all along, some sort of horrible virus affecting my sight and balance?

    The GP opened my records up on his computer and his face immediately dropped.

    “Do you mind if I take a moment to read this?”

    “Of course,” I said.

    He composed himself but his face was ashen.

    “Has anyone spoken to you about your MRI result?” he ventured at last.

    I found myself detaching from reality, like I was watching a movie.

    He told me that they’d found a lesion on my brain and there was a possibility of brain cancer. “I’m so sorry,” he offered finally.

    I left and immediately burst into tears.

    Six days I lived with the idea of having brain cancer.

    Had it spread? How would they treat it? Could they treat it?

    More dizziness, more vertigo ensued, and a wise friend firmly told me to go back to the emergency room and refuse to leave until I got answers.

    Reluctantly, I entered A&E (ER) for the third time.

    After a long wait, a neurologist sprang from nowhere, took me to a room, and showed me my MRI scan. I was shocked by the large white circle in the middle of it.

    “How big is that?” I gasped.

    “About the size of a pea,” the doctor said casually. “I believe it’s a colloid cyst, a rare, benign, non-cancerous tumor. It can be removed by operation, using a minimally invasive, endoscopic camera.”

    Relief flowed through me. “It’s not cancer?”

    After reassuring me it was not, the doctor sent me away, telling me to await further news.

    Outside the hospital I hung around updating loved ones by phone. Suddenly a withheld number rang.

    It was the neurologist: “I’ve spoken with neurosurgeons, and they think you should be admitted to the hospital for emergency surgery. If the cyst bursts you have one to two hours max, or that’s it.”

    “Okay,” I stammered. “I’m actually still at the hospital.”

    “Not this hospital,” he said. “A different one.”

    A taxi ride later, it was 5 p.m., and I was in an emergency room for the second time that day and fourth time that month. Despite the chaos around me, I eventually curled up and got a little sleep.

    Suddenly it was 3.30 a.m. and I was still in A&E. Staff rushed in, grabbed my bed, and hurtled me through corridors. Bright lights from London’s skyscrapers flashed past windows, everything surreal and movie-like again

    The next day, surgeons explained that they wouldn’t be sure that they could reach the tumor until they operated, and there were four different options for surgery, ranging from a minimal endoscopic camera through to opening my skull up with major surgery.

    I hoped and prayed for endoscopy but wouldn’t know the outcome until I woke up.

    The operation was planned for 8 a.m. the following morning. I said an emotional goodnight to my sister. Suddenly a lady interrupted us and said, “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I saw you earlier and you don’t look sick enough to be on this ward.”

    And there it was—the trigger again, the gift, the insight, the lightbulb moment:

    “Despite how bad I feel on the inside, I don’t look ill enough to have a brain tumor.”

    I didn’t look ill enough to the guy at Oxford Circus taking a selfie.

    I didn’t look ill enough to my friend.

    I didn’t look ill enough to the doctors who turned me away initially.

    And now I didn’t look ill enough for this lady’s expectations of who should be in a head trauma ward.

    I breathed into that pain. Into the feeling of not being seen. Of not being heard.  Of not being validated. Of feeling like a fraud, an imposter. Of not deserving to take up space. Of not trusting my experience.

    And when I found my center, I quietly replied, “Actually, I’m having surgery to remove a brain tumor tomorrow morning.”

    Her face fell, then she wished me luck and moved on.

    LESSON 4: Our triggers are our gifts.

    When we are triggered, it shows us what needs to heal.

    It was me who felt unworthy of taking up space. It was me who felt like a fraud. She was simply my mirror. It’s up to me to heal those aspects within myself and to believe that I’m worthy of taking up space—and to then take it.

    The next morning, my operation got pushed back. It was a major trauma hospital, and bigger emergencies took precedent. I engaged in mindfulness to stay centered.

    I did an hour of breathwork to calm my nervous system. I listened to uplifting music to raise my vibration. I watched emotionally safe movies to collect warm, fuzzy vibes. I drew on my iPad and alchemized my head tumor into a cute pea cartoon character—benign, polite, and cute, not threatening at all.

    A porter arrived at 5.30 p.m. and whisked me away for surgery. After weeks of surrendering to the unknown, it was now time for the ultimate surrender of any illusion of control. I took a deep breath as anesthetic filled my veins.

    LESSON 5: Surrender.

    We can’t always control what happens to us or the outcome. We can only control what happens inside of us and how we choose to show up. We take our power back when we lean into the unknown and surrender. When we resist our current reality, we suffer more.

    I woke up two hours later and got sick.

    My brain was rebalancing after months of increased head pressure. Clutching a blue plastic bag, I looked up to see one of London’s best neurosurgeons waving cheerfully at me. “Your operation is over. We used an endoscope. Minimal invasion. We think we got it all, and it’s not likely to come back.”

    Relief, nausea, and gratitude flowed in abundance.

    I dozed a little while morphine played tricks on my mind. Delicious little dreams filled my head, and I saw the world as one big, animated garden with flowers as cartoon characters.

    I giggled at the thought of plants acting as humans do and imagined an aggressive rose bush declaring war on all of the other plants and throwing bombs. It seemed ridiculous. Humans should be more like flowers, I thought—less ego, just growing, flourishing, blooming.

    I enjoyed this magical trip a little longer, a welcome respite from the hell of the last month, and eventually they wheeled me back to the ward.

    I arrived in time to see the sun setting across London from the twelfth floor.

    It was magnificent. Its beauty, color, and intensity moved my weary body to tears.

    A nurse came to check that I was okay, and I assured her that I was crying happy tears.

    I silently watched the sun as it made its final slip over the horizon, safe in the knowledge that I’d survived another day.

  • How To Keep Moving Forward When You Feel Like Shutting Down

    How To Keep Moving Forward When You Feel Like Shutting Down

    “I can’t believe what I’m managing to get through.” ~Frank Bruni

    My worst fear was inflicted upon me three months ago: a cancer diagnosis—non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Out of nowhere!

    Truth be told though, lots of awful things that happen to us come suddenly out of nowhere—a car accident, suicide, heart attack, and yes, a diagnostic finding. We’re stopped in our tracks, seemingly paralyzed as we go into shock and dissociative mode.

    My world as I knew it stopped. It became enclosed in the universe of illness—tiny and limited. I became one-dimensional—a sick patient.

    And I went into shock. To the point where I didn’t feel. As a person who values mental health and understands the importance of emotions, I seemingly stayed away from the feeling part. It wasn’t intentional; it’s how I coped.

    I dealt by mindlessly and mindfully (yes, that seems like an oxymoron) putting one foot in front of the other and doing what needed to be done, like a good soldier, plowing through the open minefields.  Actions and intentional mindset were my strategies.

    My biggest fear was: Will I make it through the treatments? What if I don’t?

    So I started reigning myself in to not let myself think too far ahead, down into the rabbit hole of fear and anxiety. Being a small person with no extra weight, I was scared of the chemo crushing me. Terror would rear its head when I allowed these thoughts to enter my thin body. What if I shrivel up and die? What if I can’t do it?

    And so my mind work began. I became very intentional about putting up that stop sign in my head so as not to get ahead of myself and project into the unknown, scary future. I began taking everything one step at a time.

    I stop now and digress. I had been in the depths of despair and darkness when, many years ago, my middle daughter, Nava, was diagnosed with lifelong neurological disabilities.

    I had a noose of bitterness and anger pulled so tightly around my neck that I couldn’t even go to the park with her. My envy of the other babies who could sit up and start to climb out of their strollers was too much for me to bear; to the point where I stopped going to the playground.

    My therapy at the time was a life-saver and helped me move from the unanswerable “why me/why her?” questions to the “how” and “what”: how to carry on with a major disappointment and blow, toward creating new expectations and goals, and what to do with this to still build a good life.

    Changing the questions helped me cope and move forward. This has served me well in other challenges throughout the years, such as my divorce and Nava’s critical medical issues years later, for which she was hospitalized for a year.

    So with the cancer diagnosis, I went to the “how” and “what.” How can I deal with this in as best a way as possible? What can I do to optimize my coping skills? How can I minimize my anxiety and fear?

    Having studied positive psychology, resiliency-building, and mindfulness, I’ve gleaned some tools over the years that are serving me now through my personal medical crisis.

    Let’s look at a few.

    Anxiety and Staying Present

    We know anxiety is caused by worry of the future. So staying present is key. Working on our mind to be in the moment and not spiral outward is crucial. I know my PET scan is coming up, and I’m naturally anxious about the results. I tell myself to take today and make it as good as possible and not think about the end of the week. There’s a lot of intentional work that goes into controlling the mind.

    And when we spiral, as we humans naturally do, we allow for that too. “Permission to be human,” as positive psychologist Tal Ben-Shahar states. The important thing is bringing ourselves back. It’s not that we don’t go to dark places; it’s that we notice it and don’t linger and get sucked down into it. We recognize it and can pull ourselves out of it.

    Expansion

    Once the shock and horror of illness begins to settle and we see some pattern or predictability, we can look to expand our identity and role beyond a sick person, or in my case, a cancer/chemo patient. I begin to step outside myself, my illness, toward others and other things that are important to me.

    Connecting with who you are beyond your sickness opens you up and reminds you of the bigger You. We are more than our difficult circumstance.

    I always remember Morrie Schwartz in the book Tuesdays With Morrie—how he cried each morning (as he was dying from ALS) and was then available and present for all his visitors, to be of help and service to them.

    So I reach out to a couple of clients to offer sessions during my seemingly better weeks (in between treatments). I create some (generic) social media posts. I haven’t gone personal with this online, so this blog post is a big (public) deal.

    Meaning in Your Life

    Doing things that are meaningful, however small, and that make you feel good is a sure way to stay engaged and moving. It’s the ordinary things that keep us going. Since I love colors, I wake up and match up colorful clothing and makeup (unless I’m too weak), as that makes me feel good.

    Nature and beauty are my greatest sources of soothing and healing. When I feel okay, I go to a park, sit by the water/ocean, and visit gardens, just get outside and look at the expansive sky.

    I deal with my indoor and outdoor plants. I cut off the dead heads, water them, take some pictures, and check on the veges. This represents growth and beauty.

    I get inspiration and uplift from words, and love non-fiction books of people transcending their adversities. I read, underline, and reach out to authors.

    And I learn. I started a creativity class with someone I actually found on this site. I figure it’s a good time to incorporate creativity and natural healing.

    What infuses your life with meaning? What is important to you? What expands you? Who are you beyond your difficult situation?

    Response and Choice

    Viktor Frankl, psychiatrist, logotherapist (therapy of meaning and purpose), and author of the renowned book Man’s Search For Meaning, is instrumental in the foundational concept that it’s not our circumstances that define us but rather our response to our situations that determine who we are and who we become.

    “Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.”

    And another one: “Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.”

    These ideas have been life-changing for me and propel me to avoid an all-too-easy passive and victim-like mentality.

  • Are You Pathologizing Normal Emotions? It’s Not Always a Mental Illness

    Are You Pathologizing Normal Emotions? It’s Not Always a Mental Illness

    “Don’t believe everything you think.” ~Unknown

    Society is becoming more accepting of mental illness. That’s great, but there’s a downside that we need to talk about. Not everything is mental illness. We need to stop pathologizing every single thing that we feel.

    What I mean by pathologizing everything is jumping to diagnosing yourself after every tough feeling you have. It’s great to be self-aware, but I think we are taking that a little too far, and it’s causing more depression and anxiety.

    Yes, I said we are taking self-awareness too far. I stand by that, but I’ll explain the reasoning behind my belief. We are supposed to feel a range of emotions. It is normal to experience sadness, anger, irritability, anxiety, grief, or any of the feelings that exist from time to time.

    Since society is more accepting of mental health issues, we now want to label any uncomfortable feeling as mental illness. We diagnose ourselves with whatever mental illness we believe we have at the first sign of emotional pain.

    That leaves us feeling like we are so screwed up. We don’t need anything additional to make us feel like we’re screwed up! Most of us already feel this often enough as it is.

    Before you start listing all the reasons I’m wrong or how my view could be damaging, let me give you some examples. If you read them and agree, this could help you see that you and your feelings are more “normal” than you may think.

    Recently, I was talking to somebody who was in the process of buying a house for the first time. He was telling me that he was having a lot of anxiety related to the process and everything that he needed to get done.

    I could see the stress in his body and face.

    He has a history of generalized anxiety disorder, so when he feels even a little anxiety, he starts fearing that his disorder will return in full force.

    That’s a logical and valid fear. Anybody who has ever experienced clinical anxiety knows how scary it is to consider its return.

    However, he was missing something incredibly important. Buying a house, especially your first house, will always come with some “anxious-type” feelings.

    We need to learn how to normalize feelings that most people would have in the same situation. Panicking at the first sign of difficult feelings can turn those feelings into something much larger than they actually are.

    Just a couple of weeks ago, I slept twelve hours straight one night. I woke up with no energy or motivation whatsoever. I still didn’t want to get out of bed after twelve hours of sleep.

    That is incredibly abnormal for me. Typically, I wake up at about 4:00 am to write and do stuff for my other job. This gives me time to work while my family is asleep.

    That morning I woke up when my husband did, a few hours later than my normal. I told him I was just so tired and didn’t feel like doing anything, which is uncharacteristic of me.

    I felt “blah” and just wanted to stay in bed all day doing nothing. So, thirty minutes after waking up, that’s exactly what I did.

    My husband had to convince me to eat because nothing sounded good to me. I didn’t even want my normal glass of wine that evening.

    The next morning, I woke up feeling blah again and couldn’t shake it. I forced myself to function and play with my baby.

    He seemed to be feeling like me. That concerned me because he is so incredibly intuitive. I even thought maybe he was picking up on my feeling down and blah.

    When I got back in bed after lunch, I started worrying that I was depressed. From childhood and throughout my twenties, I was severely depressed. I did a lot of work to heal and haven’t had symptoms of depression in about ten years. A little bit of panic started rising with my negative self-talk.

    “What is wrong with you? Why can’t you just get out of bed? Maybe you should do some yoga instead of being so damn lazy.”

    I started telling myself that my depression was coming back, and in full force. Thankfully, I was able to put a stop to those thoughts pretty quickly.

    For some reason, my mind and body needed to rest. I just needed to allow myself to do that. Just because I was tired and didn’t feel like doing anything for a couple of days did not mean that I was depressed again.

    It was hard for me to acknowledge that I might actually have been sick, that there might have been a medical reason that I was so exhausted and didn’t feel well.

    The next morning, I went to an urgent care office. Well, what do you know? I had an ear infection in both ears and a fever, and my throat looked awful according to the nurse practitioner.

    Immediately my mind was put to rest. Major depressive disorder hadn’t reared its ugly head again. I was physically sick. My body was fighting an infection.

    For any of you who have experienced mental illness, you may also have this fear that one day it might return to say, “Hello. Remember me? I’m back!” Any time we get a hint of a difficult feeling, we jump to the conclusion that our anxiety, depression, or whatever we had is returning.

    This happened recently for a friend of mine. She has a history of major depressive disorder that plagued her for many years. She went to therapy and has been doing really well the last few years.

    She is an introvert who works in sales. Her company had a week-long meeting with all the managers and sales representatives. If you’ve ever been in sales or know somebody who has attended a company-wide meeting for several days, you know how much extroverted energy that takes.

    A few days after her meeting, she and I were on the phone. I asked her how her day was going. She told me that she just felt down and not motivated to do the things she needed to do.

    She had even scheduled an appointment with her psychiatrist for the next week to see if her medications needed to be adjusted. She was labeling herself as depressed and feeling scared.

    After we got off the phone, I started thinking about how I just didn’t think that she was depressed.

    I know her well and knew that being around a bunch of people for a week was exhausting for her, since she’s an introvert. I texted her about this and asked her if she thought her “depression” could simply be her needing to rest after having to be “on” for a week at her meetings.

    Quickly, she responded that she agreed and that it probably wasn’t her depression coming back to haunt her again. She recognized that she needed time to decompress from having been around so many people for several days.

    That’s just another example of how we pathologize feelings that are normal. We want to immediately label what we’re feeling as “wrong” or “unhealthy” and catastrophize it when it’s not actually a catastrophe. It’s often just a normal reaction to what we’ve experienced.

    It’s wonderful that society is becoming more aware and accepting of mental health and getting help. However, not everything is a symptom of mental illness. We need to stop diagnosing ourselves with mental illnesses based on social media memes or things we read or see.

    Also, we need to realize that it is perfectly normal to experience sadness and anxious feelings. That does not mean that we are suffering with mental illness.

    When we jump to diagnosing ourselves or others, we’re actually causing harm because we aren’t allowing ourselves to experience our feelings or normal things. Instead, we are trying to find a pathological reason we feel a certain way so we can eliminate it as soon as it pops up.

    That is not healthy. What is healthy is allowing ourselves to experience the feelings that come up, learning how to navigate those feelings in a healthy way, and choosing not to shame ourselves for having feelings that aren’t “positive.”

    So, the next time you’re going through a difficult time and you’re tempted to label it as mental illness or something that has to be stopped and “fixed” immediately, pause and ask yourself a few questions.

    Is this something that many people experience? If yes, then give yourself some grace and time to recover.

    Are the feelings I’m having normal based on my circumstances? If yes, then you don’t need to label them as mental illness or something that you should be gravely concerned about.

    Is this preventing me from completing the tasks I need to complete? If so, is it lasting for more than a week or two? Mental illness diagnoses require alterations from “normal” functioning.

    Have other people noticed me struggling, and are they concerned? If not, then you are probably experiencing normal feelings for the experience you’ve had.

    Use these questions as a guide and give yourself a little more grace when you have appropriate feelings and reactions to difficult experiences. Also, keep in mind that most of what you read that tells you that you have a mental illness probably isn’t truly qualified to do so.

  • How Beating Cancer Helped Me Stop Being a People-Pleaser

    How Beating Cancer Helped Me Stop Being a People-Pleaser

    “Nothing ever goes away until it has taught us what we need to know.” ~Pema Chadron

    The hardest part of hearing the words, “I’m sorry, but you have cancer” at the age of thirty was knowing I had to tell my mother and my husband.

    Why?

    Not because I was afraid of their reaction, although it would be especially heightened since my father had died of cancer three years prior, but because I was going to take on a role I had never experienced before: a patient.

    For me, being a patient equaled being dependent. Someone who was needy and required others to change their lives to accommodate them. That wasn’t me at all.

    I was a people-pleaser. A self-sacrificer. An empath who could feel the emotions of my family members and worked hard to avoid adding to their stress. 

    I spent my entire life making things easier for those around me. I never complained. I didn’t ask for anything. I willingly gave up my desires to make other people happy.

    I built my life around the premise that I could handle everything on my own; but suddenly, my “I’m fine, don’t worry about me,” mantra was about to change.

    As a young mother with two children under the age of three, I knew that I was going to need help during my cancer treatments. And that fact was more terrifying than my diagnosis.

    Growing up, my family never had any money. My mom and dad worked opposite shifts to avoid paying for daycare, and many times, it was just me and my two older brothers fending for ourselves.

    While I never went hungry, I didn’t always have a lot of food options. I remember the days of powdered milk and wearing my brother’s old, ragged clothes.

    As an empath, I could feel the strain on my parents as they tried to make ends meet. So I learned to be quiet. Shrink down. Not make waves. No milk for cereal? Okay, I’ll just use water. Cold? I’ll just wear my winter coat in the house. I became so good at being “easy,” it became part of my identity.

    “Oh, Natalie never gives us any trouble at all” was something I took as a compliment. It was overwhelming, but over time being a people pleaser became an intrinsic part of me.

    As I grew older, life became a little easier. I got a job, started making my own money, and my parents respected my independence. More importantly, I was able to leave my people-pleasing practices behind for a little while. I went to college, then graduate school, and became a psychologist helping others live better lives.

    I was a helper, which is a more acceptable way to channel my people-pleasing lifestyle. And it worked well to keep my people-pleasing at bay. Until I became a mother.

    When I had children, my husband and I made the decision that I would stay home to raise them. While blessed to have this choice, it reawakened my people-pleasing tendencies.

    In my mind, since I was the one who stayed home, I needed to make everything as easy as possible for my husband, since he was the one going to work. All the night feedings, the diaper changes, the baths, even while recovering from complicated c-sections, my automatic response was, “I got it.”

    When my husband would interject, I would remind him how he needed sleep because he had to go to work, reply that I wasn’t tired, or that it was “faster,” if I did it.

    Was I tired? Yes. Did I sleep during the day? Anyone who has children knows the answer to that one. But that’s all I knew—how to make it easier for everyone else so I could avoid feeling their emotions. 

    When my cancer diagnosis threatened to remove my ability to handle everything on my own, I fought hard against it. I drove myself to my testing appointments, refused any support group or counseling; and I would probably have driven myself to my mastectomy and chemotherapy appointments if they would have allowed it.

    Others called me “strong,” and “stoic,” but I felt confused to hear that until my mother asked me, “Where did you learn that you have to do everything on your own? What is that about?” I shrugged; it was just how I was wired.

    Thankfully, my cancer journey passed quickly, and I was back into my routine in a few short months. I was healthy and immersed in raising children.

    Yet I started to think about my mother’s question and wonder why I consistently refused help from anyone.

    It took a few years and a lot of reading and soul searching, but I came to realize that my empathic abilities were more than just understanding how others feel, but feeling how others feel. And my people-pleasing practices were attempts to remove any feelings of discomfort from my loved ones.

    I wasn’t living authentically for myself; I was living for others. And it was time for a change. 

    Here are five ways that I transitioned from people-pleasing to self-caring:

    1. I learned about boundaries.

    Setting boundaries is one of the most helpful and basic activities that one can do to interrupt the people-pleasing process. I started to tune into my body and notice when I felt uncomfortable, whether it’s how I was being treated or if someone was asking something of me. Those were good indicators that a boundary was needed.

    2. I practiced saying no.

    I always tell my children that just because you can do something, doesn’t mean you need to.

    3. I did some self-exploration.

    My kids would ask me “What’s your favorite food?” Or “What’s your favorite color?” and I could never answer. Why? Because I was so used to going along to get along that I never developed favorites or even a basic sense of what I truly liked and didn’t like.

    4. I started journaling.

    I utilized writing to help me learn about myself. Who am I without a relationship with anyone else? I asked myself questions, listed my wants/desires, and started taking small steps towards achieving those goals.

    5. I was gentle with myself.

    I understand this is a process. I am still in recovery, but now I have the awareness to recognize when I am struggling with wanting to please others rather than myself.

    Ultimately, transitioning from people-pleasing to self-caring enabled me to become stronger, not only for myself but also for the people I care about most. It wasn’t easy to break free from the ways that I had adapted to my childhood circumstances.

    I had to rewire my brain, step by step and it’s still a process. It’s ironic that not having a choice with cancer is what ultimately gave me the freedom to change.

  • How I Finally Healed When I Stopped Believing a Diagnosis of Incurable

    How I Finally Healed When I Stopped Believing a Diagnosis of Incurable

    “The quieter you become, the more you are able to hear.” ~Rumi

    The quarantine has felt oddly familiar. That’s because I spent thirteen years largely homebound with a mysterious, viral-like illness. It even started with a cold on a flight back from Asia in 2005.

    My nose was an open faucet, and my head felt like the cumulus clouds outside my window. When I returned to San Diego, I was so weak and exhausted, I could hardly get out of bed. My brain and body were on fire.

    I couldn’t focus or recall names of coworkers. Although I’d previously been able to fall asleep in action movies and moving vehicles, I suddenly had severe insomnia. I existed in a perpetual state of tired and wired.

    I tried desperately to return to my profession as a broadcast journalist. But what good is a reporter who can’t show up for the evening news? Eventually, I lost a career and life I loved and retreated into my house.

    Well before the word quarantine splashed across TV screens, I began to live inside my four walls. I left merely for trips to the grocery store, if that.

    Doctors diagnosed me with chronic fatigue syndrome. Untreatable, incurable, hopeless. Labs showed high titers of Epstein-Barr and other obscure viruses.

    Specialists homed in on faulty mitochondria or bad genetics. They had ancillary diagnoses, too: fibromyalgia, post-viral syndrome, leaky gut syndrome, candida overgrowth, adrenal fatigue, interstitial cystitis. Etcetera.

    They stacked up like weights on my shoulders. I collapsed into an unrecognizable me.

    At thirty-five, in the prime of my career with hopes of having my own family, I was deflated. My scant strength went into researching remedies, fighting health insurance denials, and trying to save my house from foreclosure.

    My life as a TV news reporter went into an endless commercial break. Then, dead air. I was stuck in this morass for years, trying everything from anti-viral IVs to energy healers.

    I saw the best specialists in CFS/ME. Plus, Tibetan and Chinese doctors, shamans, and therapists. I rewrote the traumas and tried to flush them out with enemas.

    Nothing moved the needle on my symptoms much—not diets, supplements, or medications. Some made it worse.

    After more than a decade of dashed hopes—and finally, a pipe-smoking healer who charged $200 to tell me about her cat—I let go of hopes that someone else could fix me and turned to simple and small reliefs. It’s not that I gave up on healing. I stopped frequenting sterile doctor’s offices and smoky dens.

    That freed up long afternoons to watch ravens and snails, read poetry, and write my own poems. I’d sink into the words of Rumi, Rilke, or Eckhart Tolle. I’d meditate, chant Sanskrit, take short walks, and stretch into restorative yoga poses.

    I luxuriated in simplicity and slowness as if there were nothing better on earth. I looked for what was given rather than what was taken away. A still and contented mind replaced my busy and accomplished life.

    There was an intrinsic connection with the living world. From this messy, real, surrendered state, something magical happened: I recovered.

    Through an online writing class, I met a woman who healed from CFS. Kathy told me her story and heard my story. She explained how she did it, and I had an instantaneous remission.

    I went from being bed-bound to running around the block. Many times!

    How could words make my symptoms disappear on the spot? Kathy told me about the little-known but groundbreaking work of Dr. John Sarno. The late physician from New York University Medical Center helped tens of thousands of patients recover from chronic pain, fatigue, headaches, and other stress-related conditions by teaching them the origin of their symptoms: the way the brain is processing stress due to overwhelming emotions.

    I’d heard the only truth that made sense about my symptoms. They were physical manifestations of tension and trauma, not so different from PTSD.

    I felt them in my body, but the cause was in my brain. This explained why the sensations moved around, came and went, and shifted in intensity. Tissue damage doesn’t act that way.

    If you’re walking on a broken leg, it doesn’t suddenly stop hurting. If you have a tumor, it won’t wax and wane.

    My nervous system was trying to warn me of danger. It had become stuck in fight, flight, or freeze mode. Like a broken record with a deep rut, my brain had learned patterns of pain and fatigue.

    But brains are neuroplastic. I could rewire mine to feel well again! Hope filled me like spoonfuls of medicine.

    Over the next year, I retrained my brain with gusto. It had associated so many things with harm: foods doctors told me not to eat, activities they warned me not to do, anything that reminded me of the initial trauma and all the dominoes to fall in its wake.

    I started feeling my body sensations with curiosity, while reminding myself I was safe. I spoke to my brain as one would a frightened child, with kindness and confidence.

    “I know you’re creating these symptoms, but they are not dangerous. There’s nothing wrong with my body. I am not sick. I am resilient and strong!”

    It may sound woo woo, but imaging shows self-affirmation activates the more logical prefrontal cortex over the reactive amygdala. You could say I became the adult in the room rather than the skittish kid or the catastrophizing parent.

    Next, I began challenging my triggers, doing things that brought on symptoms, which is to say almost everything. I took baby steps back into the world, with indifference to the fatigue, pain, and brain fog. Slowly but surely, they subsided.

    It was working! I was retraining my very own brain.

    I also started feeling my emotions, instead of my lifetime habit of repressing them. I mourned the loss of my career, child-rearing years, ability to climb a mountain or feel okay in my body.

    After years of being frozen, I started thawing. That brought tears, along with sadness, shame, and anger. I wrote angry letters (and didn’t send them). I started telling myself it was okay to feel whatever I feel (and pausing long enough for that to arise).

    It took thirteen years before I understood that healing does not happen in a disempowered state. We must take back our power. We must believe in our resilience, despite evidence to the contrary.

    We must connect with the part of us that is already well and keep our attention trained on that. It could be our little toe, the energy inside our body, or a connection with something divine. We must not listen to those who tell us we are sick and broken beyond repair.

    When someone says there is no cure, we conclude that they do not have the answer for us and move on. We do not listen to those who make us feel scared or small. We seek that which makes us courageous and hopeful.

    As we gain confidence in our self and our inner wisdom, we start to feel safe and empowered. This works wonders for our nervous system, which works wonders for every other system in our body.

    Modern medicine offers life-saving therapy for acute conditions, such as infections, tumors, blood disorders, and illnesses with tissue damage that can be repaired. My beloved mom is alive twenty-three years after battling an advanced case of ovarian cancer, thanks to medicine derived from the Pacific yew tree.

    But allopathy has little success with stress-related symptoms, such as chronic back pain, pelvic pain, fibromyalgia, and irritable bowel syndrome. Dr. Sarno said that’s because it doesn’t yet recognize them as physical manifestations of emotional stress.

    There is little scientific evidence to show that viruses cause chronic fatigue syndrome. I relied on doctors armed with small-scale studies and their own best guess. Of course, I would have been thrilled if their treatments worked.

    But then, I wouldn’t have discovered the joy of healing, which I now see as a skill for life. It’s a self-written prescription for a more authentic and empowered experience.

    DISCLAIMER: This post represents one person’s experiences and beliefs, and one route to healing. It is not intended to diagnose, treat, or cure any condition or disease. Please consult a professional if this doesn’t speak to your personal experience.

  • How to Love Yourself Through Cancer or Any Other Terrifying Diagnosis

    How to Love Yourself Through Cancer or Any Other Terrifying Diagnosis

    “If you want to see the sunshine, you have to weather the storm.” ~Frank Lane

    One minute your life is just humming along, and out of nowhere you’re hit with a devastating diagnosis. Cancer.

    Believe me, I know what it’s like to get the news you have cancer and to live with the trauma that follows, because I’m not only a licensed psychotherapist, I’ve been treated for both breast cancer and leukemia.

    I know how that diagnosis changes everything. I know how the world around you can still look the same, but suddenly you feel like a stranger in your own life.

    You have trouble getting up in the morning. You have trouble getting to sleep. When you finally get to sleep you’re jolted awake by nightmares. Or maybe you sleep all the time. You can’t eat, or you can’t stop eating.

    You’re drinking too much. You’re smoking too much. You’re terrified, exhausted, and have no idea how you’re going to get through the next few hours, let alone the days, or weeks ahead.

    When I was going through chemo for breast cancer, I read all the books about surviving cancer I could get my hands on. I talked to my oncologist and to other women going through the same thing, trying to find the way to “do cancer right.”

    I worried myself sick that I would get things wrong, until a friend said, “You know, everybody does things differently. Just find what works for you, and do that.” Those words changed everything for me.

    I realized there wasn’t “a right way” to do cancer. There was just the way that worked best for me.

    I believe it’s the same for you. No matter what kind of diagnosis you’re facing, it’s up to you to find what works for you and do that.

    To get you through those tough first days, I’m offering you some thoughts and techniques that worked for me. I hope some of them will work for you, too.

    Be Gentle With Yourself

    When you’re going through a tough time, you may not have the time or energy keep up your usual self-care routine. So, why not let the big things go and start looking for little things you can do instead?

    If you can’t get to the gym, go out for a ten-minute walk at lunch. If you don’t have time to cook a nutritious dinner, add a salad or vegetable to your take-out order.

    Instead of trying to check things off your to-do list, think of ways to make life easier for yourself. If you don’t have time to do something yourself, hire someone, or ask for help.

    Focus on what’s best for you, and that means speaking up for yourself. If you don’t have the time or energy to do something, say “no,” and don’t feel guilty about it.

    Find the Joy

    Be sure to do something you love every day, even if it’s just for a few minutes: sit on a beach, gaze at the stars, read a book, go for a walk, watch a funny You Tube video or TV show. Smile when you can and laugh as often as possible, because laughter connects you with the world in a way that eases anxiety and heals the heart.

    Affirm Courage, Love, and Safety

    What you say to yourself matters. And when you’re going through a tough time, positive self-talk can make a real difference in how you think and feel.

    When I was struggling to find even one positive thought, I found it really helpful to focus on powerful affirmations instead. So, if you find yourself spiraling downward into the depths of negativity, try the following process to break that cycle.

    Healing Affirmations

    Begin by saying your name out loud. Then remind yourself that you’re safe and secure in the moment. Let that feeling soak all the way in to your belly and your bones.

    Once you feel safe, affirm:

    “I have the spirit, will, and courage to meet any challenge ahead.”

    “I can handle anything, one step at a time.”

    “I am always surrounded and protected by light and love.”

    “I speak to myself with loving kindness. I treat myself with loving kindness. I care for myself with loving kindness.”

    “I am always moving in a positive direction toward a positive future.”

    “I am safe.”

    End by promising you will always treasure yourself and honor your beautiful spirit. Affirm courage, love, and safety.

    Nourish Yourself

    Experts recommend eating well, and eliminating sugary and processed foods, alcohol, and caffeine when you’re under stress.

    But maybe you’re having trouble eating anything at all. Or maybe you’re living on chicken noodle soup, pretzels, and chocolate doughnuts.

    Please, give yourself a break. When you’re going through a traumatic experience it’s no time to be following a strict diet or to beat yourself for not eating a balanced diet. Instead, focus on making healthy food choices when you can, and letting go of judgment when you can’t.

    If you find you’re having trouble eating, choose foods you can tolerate and enjoy smaller portions more often through the day.

    If you’re over eating, try eating fruits and vegetables first. Commit to eating only when you’re sitting down. Focus on eating more slowly.

    But if you’ve tried everything you can think of and are still struggling with food, please let your health care provider know what ‘s going on. They’re there to give you support and help in all aspects of your health care.

    Rest

    A good night’s sleep is an important part of healing your body, mind, and spirit, but if you’re struggling to get enough sleep there are a number of things you can do.

    Try going to bed an hour earlier each night. The extra time in bed can give your body some needed rest.

    Once you’re in bed, do your best to keep your focus off your troubles. Relive happy memories, or imagine yourself vacationing in a place where you can relax and enjoy.

    If you haven’t fallen asleep after twenty minutes, get up and do something calming. Write in your journal, do a crossword puzzle, or sip a cup of herbal tea.

    Finally, if you aren’t able to get enough sleep at night, take a nap during the day. Make it a non-negotiable part of your daily schedule. If time is an issue, try scheduling all your activities and responsibilities before lunch, leaving your afternoon for napping or resting.

    Seek Support

    It’s important not to go through this alone. And asking for help is a sign of strength and courage, not weakness.

    When things get rough, call a friend or a family member and ask for support and help.

    If you’re completely overwhelmed and don’t know where to turn, consider getting some professional help. Talking to a mental health provider can give you new insight, hope, and bring you peace.

    Finally, you may also want to consider working with a support group. There’s great power in knowing you’re not the only one suffering this kind of challenge. There are people who are in the same boat and know exactly how you feel.  They may be able to offer comfort and advice in the days ahead.

    Give

    Giving is another powerful way to connect with the people around you. It reminds you of the gifts you still have, and that you’re not the only one going through a tough time.

    There are lots of ways to lend a hand. Offer to drive a neighbor to a medical appointment. Walk the dogs at your local animal shelter. Write a check to your favorite charity or drop a few coins in the donation can as you pass by. Send a card or text to a friend to help them through the day.

    If you’d like to make a longer term commitment, volunteer at your local library, food bank, or senior center.

    And if you think you don’t have any energy or time or left to give, give a compliment. Share a smile or a kind word. You never know how that one small gift could change a life.

    Give Yourself a Healing Hug

    Hugging is a way to give yourself comfort and peace in the middle of any storm. Acupressure is a powerful way to bring ease to both body and spirit.

    I combine both techniques in what I call a healing hug, and highly recommend it to ease fear and panic that can be a part of these tough days.

    Begin by crossing your arms over your chest. There are two important acupressure points located in the soft tissue just under your collarbones called the “letting go” points.

    Chances are that by crossing your arms, your fingertips have landed on those “letting go” points. Take a moment and feel around until you find the spots, about two inches above your armpit crease and an inch inward.

    Once you’re found the points, pull your arms close around you in a comforting, self-hug, and gently massage those “letting go” points with your fingertips. Continue to breathe, noticing on each exhale how the tension and fear flow down your spine and out of your body.

    —

    No matter how difficult or scary your diagnosis, treating yourself with love and kindness will make the journey through the those first tough days easier, and give you a head start on enjoying the sunshine waiting for you on the other side.