Sixty-five days. That’s how long I’ve been waiting. Not for something exciting. Not for something planned. For answers. For clarity. For the kind of news that can change everything.

This isn’t my first time waiting for cancer results. It’s my second in less than a year. And while the tests are different, the ache is the same.

I’m still packing lunches. Still wiping noses. Still whispering “We’re okay” at bedtime. But inside, I’m unraveling.

This year has burned through so much—my peace, my plans, my sense of safety. And yet, somehow, I’m still here.

Still rising. Still planting seeds in the ash. Still believing that maybe—just maybe—the wildflowers are already on their way.