Wounds into Wisdom
I’ve had a lot of time to think these last two years since my Stage 4 breast cancer diagnosis. That tends to happen when your body doesn’t move very well and you have to take months to recuperate from emergency surgery.
Your world gets smaller, your work hours shrink (at least temporarily), and you spend a lot of time in bed, resting, on the couch, alone with your thoughts.
I think about my life. Have I done enough? Am I proud of how I’ve lived so far? Do I have regrets? Are there things I need to fix? What do I want to experience that I haven’t experienced yet?
I think about my death. Not just death in general, but mine. Will I die from this disease? When would that be? Will it be painful? Will I have a good death? How can I make sure I have a good death when the time comes?
I think about healing. Am I doing everything I can to heal my body? What do I need to learn? What should I be doing differently? Is healing just a crap shoot?
I think about my relationships. How are my loved ones experiencing this diagnosis and my treatment? What’s the hardest thing for them? Am I being as open as I can be with them, or glossing over my reality to avoid causing them pain and worry?
I have many wounds since my diagnosis. Many are physical. Some are emotional. Others spiritual. This disease not only kills, but it harms in the process. Destroys your sense of safety and stability, your sense of trust in your body. Your relationships suffer, everything is called into question.
There are days when I feel overcome with grief about this newish reality I’ve been living. I tend to grieve quietly. I’ve always been that way. I try to not cut people out, though — I’ve seen that happen with other people, and that’s not how I want to live. I just don’t want to burden my friends and family, so I measure my words carefully.
But along the way, I realize some of my wounds have evolved into wisdom. And that’s not an altogether bad thing to grow through this adversity, right? I’m not one to chirp on about how “everything happens for a reason” and “God won’t give you more than you can handle,” but I do believe that growth can absolutely happen in the midst of trauma. I’ve experienced that firsthand.
Maybe you’re experiencing something similar. A devastating diagnosis. A death. A loss of purpose. You know, the big things that threaten to take us out. And if so, you may understand what I’m talking about here.
You think that, at first, there’s no way you can handle this thing. You can’t survive it. You’ve never felt such pain, such fear. And somehow, you start getting through the hour, and you’re still here. And then you’ve gotten through the day, and yes, it was brutal, but you did it. And now, two years later, your life doesn’t look or feel the same but you’re here and you’re doing it.
One plodding step at a time. And sometimes two or three steps backwards, and then forward again. You learn to manage, to cope, to handle more things that erupt along the way.
“You’re so brave,” people say. And it’s okay if you’ve said this to me. I don’t take offense. But here’s the thing: I’m not brave. I’ve simply learned how to manage when shit goes down. I don’t always do it perfectly (lol that’s a joke) and it might not be pretty, but I get the job done.
I know how I want to feel every day, and if I let myself sink into despair, then my life ceases to be what I want it to be. There are so many, many things outside of my control that, in order for me to be ok, I have to first recognize that and then get to work tending to what I do have control over.
So as these wounds heal — and sometimes they don’t fully heal, sometimes they simply cease to be gaping holes in my life — I realize I’ve learned how to be more resourceful and resilient. And that’s the wisdom part of this newsletter, friends.
Resourceful means I can have tools at my disposal to deal with it all — that I can figure out different ways of looking at and handling hardships so that I can live my life. And resilience? That just means that when something doesn’t go the way I’d hoped, I’m not taken out. I can feel grief, pain, and fear without ultimately crashing out in bitterness and defeat.
I’m not the first to experience these things. I certainly won’t be the last. I’m not the only one to have my life disrupted by disease, and I won’t live as though I am.
Look, I’m not having the time of my life over here, but I’m also living a deeper existence than I did before, with better understanding of my life and the world around me. I have a clearer vision of my purpose in this life, and I’ve learned how to give and receive grace like I never have before.
Wounds have become a part of my story. They don’t magically disappear, but they can become places and markers of beauty rather than defeat and sorrow. They point to the rawness of life and the jaggedness of being human. There may be scars, but the wisdom and tender toughness forming in those places of pain have a poignant beauty all their own.
Affirmation:
I am allowed to grow beyond what hurt me without denying what happened.
Thank you for reading Jenny’s Dying to Live — I never take your time or your trust for granted. If these newsletters feel like a conversation you’d happily have over a cup of coffee, becoming a paid subscriber is like picking up the next cup. It helps keep this newsletter growing while allowing me to continue showing up each week. Thank you for considering it! And there’s always the virtual coffee as well, where a one-time contribution to Buy Me a Coffee is deeply appreciated.
Very nice; nothing to add but confirmation from someone in a similar place..
Your words always resonate with me. You are a courageous, open & honest woman. I so appreciate & respect those qualities-Jenny, thanks for letting us in