Not movie-theater dramatic. Not “throw a drink in someone’s face” dramatic. More like, Why am I crying because someone breathed wrong in the kitchen? dramatic.
“You’re in pretty good shape for the shape you are in.”
— Dr. Seuss
And of course, because I am a woman, an artist, a teacher, a mother, a cancer survivor, and a professional overthinker when required, my brain immediately went into full investigation mode.
Am I losing it?
Is this the Tamoxifen?
Has the medication taken the wheel?
Is this my new personality now?
Should my family be warned?
You know, normal light afternoon thoughts.
For a few days, I felt like my emotions were sitting way too close to the surface. I was teary, irritated, tired, and dangerously close to snapping at people I love for no good reason. The kind of mood where you know you are being ridiculous, but also, if one more person asks you where something is while standing directly next to it, all bets are off.
Then I finally stopped long enough to ask myself a very basic question:
What have I actually been doing to take care of myself?
And there it was.
For several nights, I had barely slept more than two hours. My eating had gone off the rails. I had not been resting. I had not been nourishing myself. I had been moving through the day like my body was some old station wagon from the ’80s that could run forever on fumes, coffee, stubbornness, and vibes.
Spoiler alert: it cannot.
It is funny how quickly I can jump to the most dramatic conclusion before checking the obvious things first.
I will wonder if my hormones are betraying me, if my medication is messing with me, if I am emotionally unraveling, if something deeper is wrong. And yes, sometimes those things are worth paying attention to. I am not dismissing any of that.
But sometimes, the answer is painfully simple.
Sometimes I am not falling apart.
Sometimes I am tired.
Sometimes I am hungry.
Sometimes my body is standing there like a weary New Yorker on a subway platform, saying, Ma’am, are we really doing this today? Because I have filed several complaints and you have ignored every single one.
That afternoon, around 4:00 PM, I finally gave in. I lay down on the couch and told myself I would close my eyes for just thirty minutes.
Thirty minutes.
That was all.
No grand wellness plan. No scented candle ceremony. No inspirational playlist. No matching yoga outfit. Just me, a couch, and the radical decision to stop pretending I was fine.
And let me tell you, that little nap brought me back from the ledge.
When I woke up, I felt like a different person. Not perfect. Not magically healed. But human again. Softer. Clearer. Less like I was about to start a family argument over absolutely nothing.
That is when it hit me:
I was not losing my mind. I needed rest.
We have made self-care sound very pretty in this culture.
Bubble baths. Spa days. Matching sets. Green juice. Fancy journals. Perfectly lit Instagram posts about peace.
But real self-care is often much less glamorous.
Sometimes, self-care is eating actual food before 3:00 PM.
Sometimes it is lying down before your body makes the decision for you.
Sometimes it is drinking water, canceling a thing, taking your medicine, making the appointment, asking for help, or walking away before your mouth writes a check your nervous system cannot cash.
Sometimes self-care is admitting, I am not okay right now, but I might be better after a sandwich and a nap.
And honestly, that is not nothing.
After cancer, I think there is a strange pressure to be grateful all the time. You survived, so people expect you to glow with perspective. And yes, I am grateful. Deeply grateful. I know what it means to be here. I know what it means to keep going.
But surviving cancer does not turn you into a saint or a wellness guru.
You still get tired. You still get cranky. You still have hormones, medication, bills, laundry, family, work, grief, memories, and a body that has been through war and would appreciate being treated with a little respect.
I survived cancer, yes.
But that does not mean I should spend the rest of my life ignoring my own needs just because I am lucky to be alive.
Actually, it means the opposite.
This experience reminded me that my body is not the enemy. It is not being dramatic. It is not trying to ruin my day. It is usually trying to tell me something before I turn into a full emotional weather event.
The hard part is listening early enough.
Before the tears.
Before the snapping.
Before the spiral.
Before I convince myself that everything is falling apart when really I need rest, food, quiet, and maybe one small treat that makes life feel sweet again.
I am learning to ask myself better questions.
Did I sleep?
Did I eat?
Have I had water?
Have I been outside?
Have I made anything just for the joy of making it?
Have I given myself one single moment today that did not belong to somebody else?
Because joy matters too.
Not fake joy. Not forced gratitude. Real joy. The little kind. The everyday kind. The kind that shows up in a sketchbook, a good cup of coffee, a quiet room, a walk, a laugh, a nap, a piece of chocolate, a conversation with someone who gets you.
Those things count.
So here is where I am landing.
I want to do more of what makes me feel alive. More drawing. More resting. More laughing. More noticing. More saying no when my body has already said no three times and I ignored it.
I want to enjoy the life I fought for.
Not in some giant, dramatic, bucket-list way every single day. I am still a regular person. I still have responsibilities. But I want to stop treating rest like a reward I have to earn after I have completely worn myself down.
Rest is not laziness.
Food is not optional.
A nap is not a moral failure.
And needing care does not make me weak. It makes me human.
I am 59 years old. I have lived in New York, Philadelphia, and Minnesota. I have made art, raised children, taught children, survived cancer, filled sketchbooks, lost people, found myself more than once, and learned the hard way that the body keeps score whether we are paying attention or not.
So yes, doowutchyalike.
But also sleep.
Eat something decent.
Take the break.
Have the treat.
Make the art.
Listen to your body before it has to start yelling.
Because sometimes healing is not a grand revelation.
Sometimes healing is thirty minutes on the couch at 4:00 PM and waking up just enough to remember:
Oh. I’m still here. And I deserve to feel good while I’m here.
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