Recently, I found myself sitting in a chair on my driveway, engrossed in a captivating novel as the sun warmed my skin. For a fleeting moment, I felt a sense of calm wash over me. But just as quickly, the familiar shadow of dread—a lingering impact of past trauma—began to creep in.
After experiencing a whirlwind of intense life events over the past three years, I’ve struggled to find my footing. Letting go and embracing peace has felt almost impossible. My life has been dominated by feelings of fear, chaos, and confusion, leaving me grappling with guilt for enjoying moments of happiness. It’s a strange place to be in.
My journey began with the anticipation of adopting a fourth child. Matched with expectant parents halfway through the pregnancy, I assumed everything would unfold smoothly. However, my children’s eager questions about the baby’s arrival only amplified my anxiety. Each day felt like a tightrope walk, teetering on the edge of uncertainty, fearing that everything could unravel at any moment. Thankfully, the adoption was successful, and our new addition is now three years old.
Six months after her arrival, I discovered a painful spot on my upper right breast. Initially, I dismissed it, but the persistent ache became impossible to ignore. After consulting my gynecologist, I underwent a mammogram and ultrasound, which thankfully yielded clear results. However, an unsettling feeling lingered, prompting me to seek a second opinion and, ultimately, a biopsy. That’s when I received the life-altering news: I had breast cancer.
In a whirlwind of six weeks, I underwent genetic testing, MRIs, and numerous consultations. Faced with a monumental decision, I had to choose between a lumpectomy followed by radiation or a bilateral mastectomy. Weighing the options with a detailed list and fervent prayers, I opted for the mastectomy. The surgery was far from easy, and it took a year for me to begin to feel like my new self, often breaking down in tears during follow-up appointments.
Amidst my cancer treatment, I learned that one of my children had undiagnosed special needs. What I expected to be a straightforward evaluation turned into a grueling two-year journey to secure the necessary support from the school system.
As I strive to embrace life and enter the holiday season with gratitude, I find myself battling the urge to fully enjoy the company of loved ones. The trauma has left me with a persistent sense of anxiety, constantly worrying that if I allow myself to relax, disaster will strike.
Time seemed to stretch endlessly during my struggles. I often wished for a fast-forward button, but healing required experiencing each step, with its inevitable setbacks. I recognized that the challenges had transformed me. Who was this new version of myself? What did she require? Who did she aspire to be? Most importantly, what burdens was she ready to leave behind?
I began attending counseling regularly, resumed exercising, and took charge of my life. I stumbled along the way—setting unrealistic goals and saying yes when I should have declined—but I made a significant decision to return to anxiety medication, which became a pivotal moment in my recovery.
Today, I can say I had cancer in the past tense. However, the experience remains a part of my identity. I am constantly reminded of it—seeing pink ribbons everywhere, whether on a car sticker or a cereal box. In the shower, I see my new breasts, which I refer to as “foobs,” and I’m reminded of my journey. The absence of sensation is a constant reminder of what I’ve been through.
Medical appointments now bring waves of panic, as I recall the vulnerability of being in a surgical position for hours. Even routine visits can trigger anxiety, and I find it challenging to muster the courage to attend any medical appointment out of fear of receiving devastating news.
Two years have passed since my surgery, three since my adoption, and just a month since we secured an appropriate educational plan for my child. These events, clustered together, felt overwhelming, especially with four children relying on me for their daily needs.
Now that I find myself in a better place, I am working hard to enjoy life and appreciate how far I’ve come. Yet, I struggle with “time anxiety,” feeling guilty if I find myself at peace and not engaged in something productive.
For three years, I was consumed by research, meetings, and notes, waiting for the next piece of bad news. Now, when I experience moments of calm or even good news, I’m at a loss for what to do with that feeling.
Outsiders may tell me I’m fortunate and should be grateful. I am thankful—I have the family I prayed for, I’m cancer-free, and my child has the educational support they need. But trauma has instilled a fear that if I lower my guard, something terrible will happen.
Therapy, medication, prayer, healthy eating, meditation, and exercise have been instrumental in my healing. I am slowly regaining my footing and learning to trust the process. I may never understand why I faced cancer or why the adoption and educational journey were so fraught with challenges. What I do know is that I am committed to giving myself grace and embracing the joy of the present moment.
For more insights on navigating trauma and finding support, check out this informative blog post on our site. Additionally, if you’re interested in enhancing your fertility journey, visit Make a Mom for valuable resources. For further information on pregnancy and home insemination, the CDC offers excellent guidance.
In summary, navigating life after trauma is a complex journey filled with challenges and self-discovery. It requires patience, self-compassion, and an openness to finding joy amidst the scars.
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