65 Days in Limbo

Waiting, Again

I’ve been waiting 65 days.
Thirteen more to go.
And I’m tired.

Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes.
The kind that settles into your bones when life keeps handing you more than you asked for, more than you can carry, and then whispers, “Pretend everything’s fine.”

This is my second time waiting for cancer test results in less than a year.
The first was in January—my kidney.
Cancer.
I wasn’t shocked because I’d known for weeks about the 7-centimeter mass growing inside me.
But knowing didn’t soften the blow.
I was still shaken to the core.
What gutted me wasn’t the diagnosis—it was the waiting.
Waiting for the scans.
Waiting for confirmation that the cancer hadn’t spread.
Waiting to know what mine and my kids’ future would look like.

Now I’m waiting again.
This time, it’s for two thyroid nodules—found by accident during a follow-up scan meant to check my organs for cancer recurrence.
The CT wasn’t even looking for them.
It just happened to catch an abnormality in my neck.
CTs aren’t ideal for thyroid imaging, so I had to wait again—for an ultrasound this time.
I walked into the ultrasound followup appointment hoping for clarity, for a yes or no, for something definitive.
Instead, the doctor told me there was not just one, but two nodules.
And then he stuck ten needles into my neck to biopsy them.
Ten.
I held still.
I breathed through it.
I tried not to cry.
And then I went home and made dinner like nothing had happened.

I’ve been in limbo for over two months.
And it’s not just the medical uncertainty—it’s the emotional gymnastics of pretending everything is okay.
I still have to work.
Still have to be a mom.
Still have to pack lunches and wipe noses and show up for bedtime stories with a smile.
My kids are too young to understand what’s happening, and I wouldn’t want them to carry this weight anyway.
So I carry it for all of us.

And lately, it feels like the universe is piling on.

Just this week, the water heater went out.
Then the dishwasher broke.
The kids and I have pink eye for the second time in two months.
I’m washing dishes for a family of four by hand with lukewarm water while trying not to spiral.

In March, my dog died.
Thirteen years together.
It felt like she held on just long enough to comfort me through the cancer surgery—and then let go.
She was what my friend called “my heart dog.”
She was perfect.
There will never be another.

It’s too much.
It’s really too much.

The Fog of Not Knowing

There’s something uniquely cruel about the waiting.
It’s not the diagnosis—it’s the not knowing.
It’s the way your mind fills in the blanks with worst-case scenarios.
It’s the way you try to enjoy a fun moment with your daughter and wonder in the back of your mind if you’ll be ok after all.

I’ve tried to distract myself.
I’ve buried myself in work, in parenting, in planning holiday activities for the kids.
I’ve coordinated Halloween costumes and a family photo shoot and tried to create joy, even while I feel like I’m unraveling.
I’ve leaned into rituals—gentle ones.
Lighting candles.
Journaling.
Meditating.

But the truth is, I’m scared.
And I’m angry.
I’m exhausted.

I keep asking, “Why?”
Why me?

Ashes & Wildflowers

This year has been a wildfire.
One thing after another, burning through my plans, my peace, my sense of control.

But I keep coming back to the name I chose for my brand: Ashes & Wildflowers.
It wasn’t just poetic—it was prophetic.

Because even in the aftermath, even in the scorched earth of uncertainty, wildflowers bloom.
They don’t ask for perfect conditions.
They don’t wait for permission.
They just rise.

And maybe that’s what I’m doing, too.
Rising.
Even when I don’t feel strong.
Even when I’m covered in ash.

I’ve learned that resilience isn’t loud.
It’s quiet.
It’s showing up for your kids when you want to crawl under the covers.
It’s washing dishes and whispering, “We’re okay,” even when you’re not sure you believe it.
It’s choosing hope, one day at a time.

What I’m Holding Onto

I’m holding onto the fact that I’ve made it through hard things before.
I’m holding onto the laughter of my children, the way they dance to “Boogie Woogie Choo Choo Train,” the way they tell me they love me.
I’m holding onto the tiny rituals that ground me: warm tea, soft blankets, placing artwork on the fridge and taking Lily to dance class.

I’m holding onto the idea that this season—this brutal, relentless season—won’t last forever.

I’m ready for 2026. Because 2025 has been awful.

But I’m still here.
Still showing up.
Still planting seeds in the ash.

And maybe, just maybe, the wildflowers are already on their way.
I have to believe they are—quietly rooting beneath the ash, waiting for their moment to bloom.