Learning to Live in Limbo
I went to the doctor today hoping for clarity. Instead, I walked out with more uncertainty. My biopsy results came back, described as “atypia of undetermined significance.” Not benign, not malignant—just somewhere in between.
I’ve already been waiting since August, and I thought today would finally bring answers. Instead, I was told I’ll need to wait another six weeks. Six more weeks of limbo. Six more weeks of waking up every morning with the same unanswered question echoing in my chest.
It’s exhausting. I just want to be healthy, to move forward, to celebrate Christmas with my family without this shadow trailing behind me.
This will be the second Christmas in a row I’ve spent pending cancer results. Last year, I smiled through carols and wrapped gifts with trembling hands, pretending everything was fine. This year, I’ll do it again. Another happy face for my kids, another performance of normalcy.
They’re far too young to shoulder any of this burden. So I carry it quietly, making sure their December feels magical. I’ll bake cookies, wrap gifts, and light the tree, even if my own heart feels heavy. Pretending isn’t denial—it’s protection. My children deserve joy, not worry.
I don’t know how I’m going to manage the stress. That’s the truth. Waiting is its own kind of storm. But I’ve found small ways to anchor myself:
Movement: I keep working out, not to punish my body but to continue building strength and resilience.
Food: I eat whole, unprocessed foods to nourish my body and continue my healing journey.
Presence: I sit with my children, listen to their stories, watch their faces light up. They remind me that life is happening now, not six weeks from now.
Work: I keep showing up, keep contributing, keep moving forward. Work gives me structure when everything else feels uncertain.
These rituals don’t erase the stress, but they help me carry it.
I never thought I’d say this, but I’m getting good at waiting. Living in limbo is teaching me patience, resilience, and the art of living in the “not yet.”
Waiting strips away illusions. It forces you to confront what matters. For me, that’s my children’s laughter, my morning coffee, keeping everything normal. These are the things that ground me when the medical jargon feels overwhelming.
Limbo is uncomfortable, but it’s also clarifying. It reminds me that even when the future feels uncertain, the present is still here.
I suppose I should be grateful the cells weren’t obviously cancerous. That’s the silver lining. It’s not the answer I wanted, but it’s not the worst answer either.
Gratitude feels complicated right now. It’s hard to be thankful when you’re exhausted, when your future feels uncertain. But I’m learning that gratitude doesn’t require everything to be perfect. It’s about noticing the small joys that exist alongside the fear.
So here I am, six more weeks of waiting. Six more weeks of limbo. Six more weeks of unanswered questions.
I don’t know what the results will be. I don’t know what January will bring. But I do know this: I will keep showing up for my children, keep nourishing my body, keep finding moments of joy in the midst of uncertainty.
Christmas will come, whether I have answers or not. And when it does, I’ll light the tree, wrap the gifts, and make sure my kids feel the magic of the season.
Waiting is exhausting. Uncertainty is heavy. But this isn’t the end of the story.
This Christmas, I’ll carry both—the weight of unanswered questions and the joy of small moments. I’ll hold them together, side by side, and trust that someday, clarity will come.
Until then, I’ll keep living in limbo, one day at a time.