I've spent the last few days up in Muskoka at our family lake house recovering from a cold.

This cozy cottage has been in our family for nearly 65 years and I have been coming here my entire life.

One of the things I love about being here is the familiarity:

the smells in the air - pine needles toasting in the sun, black earth and moss, ancient yet fresh glacial water so different from the salty offerings of worldly oceans
the sounds on the lake - wind chimes tinkling in the breeze, chainsaws from the ever present maintenance on long standing structures, the deep nighttime quiet in the fall that is so different from the nightly noises of mid-summer
the daily routines - outdoor chores, naps on the old glider on the sun porch, lounging on the dock and swimming in the lake

Of course it's hard to ignore the changes that have occurred here as well:

the 1960's Americana “proud eagle” wallpaper that used to cover the bathroom but eventually made way for simpler white walls (my sister is still mad about this one)
the welcome sign at the end of the road where only a few names of “original” families remain as homes have been passed on and sold
the stores and restaurants on Main Street that we remember and talk of fondly but no longer exist

And coming here in the fall is always bittersweet.

The temperature of the lake cools daily as days are shorter and nights colder.

The colors on the trees deepen and fade every day.

Lightweight bedding changes over to warmer quilts and extra blankets and we begin the great pack up preparing to put this little home to sleep for a long winter's nap.

When I ultimately pull out of the driveway for the last time this year I'll silently say to myself “see you again next year Oxbow, the good lord willing and the creek don't rise!"

Over the last few days here with my mom and sister, honoring the autumnal equinox and sharing the same memories and stories as years past, I've been reflecting on the nature of change and our relationship with it.

And this reflection might be the greatest secret I have ever learned that serves me in healing and in life….

Last night's sunset from our dock. A view that has barely changed for me over a lifetime. And yet every sunrise and sunset that I see here are unique in their colors.

Change is the nature of existence.

At first glance this statement might seem unsettling.

We are often told that we humans are instinctively resistant to change.

That our primitive lizard brains seek the status quo and the familiar as a form of protection.

And there is truth in this statement but only to a point.

Because the fact is that life is change.

And we are made to adapt and evolve.

In who we are, what we experience, and how we live.

And, when we learn to accept and embrace change instead of fearing it, we can find the hope that exists within the unknown.

“Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes. Don't resist them—that only creates sorrow. Let reality be reality. Let things flow naturally forward in whatever way they like.”
–Lao Tzu

Recognizing and accepting change in ourselves.

There is no way to get from the beginning of this life to the end without experiencing significant changes.

Some changes are non-negotiable - the passage of time, the biology of our bodies.

Some are made by choice or circumstance - changing jobs, starting or ending relationships, moving your home whether across town or across the world.

And certainly not all changes are wanted or welcome.

Breast cancer brings life-altering physical, mental, and emotional changes that most of us would never wish on anyone.

And when we are diagnosed, when we go through surgeries and treatments, as we begin life in “survivorship” (whatever that looks like for you) all we want is to "go back” to who or what we were before all of this happened or at least jump ahead to when it's all “behind us”.

This is the story we are sold.

That somehow this experience is finite and exists in a bubble of time that begins with diagnosis and ends with the completion of “active” treatment.

But no life-changing event happens in a vacuum, certainly not something like breast cancer.

We carry this experience with us forever because we are forever changed, whether we like it or not.

And accepting this is the first step to long-term healing.

Even if change is inevitable, learning to accept difficult life-alternating changes doesn't always come naturally.
It takes time and patience and effort.

Fighting change is a form of control that often backfires.

Now I would never suggest that fear isn't natural when facing a life-threatening illness.

It's probably the most natural emotion that could come in this situation.

Changes are thrust upon us and even the ones we may have some choice in - a lumpectomy or mastectomy, reconstruction or flat closure - ultimately are driven by necessity not true desire.

But it is how we react to the changes that we cannot control that ultimately informs how we move through them and beyond.

One of my favorite mentors and authors was the Zen Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh.

In his book “You Are Here” he teaches that in order to find peace and happiness we need to establish ourselves in the present even during difficult times.

When we are experiencing pain of any kind caused by our breast cancer experience it is difficult to imagine wanting to stay present in these moments.

We don't want to feel the physical pain caused by surgery and radiation.

We don't want to sit with the fear and anger that linger or even intensify as we try to figure out what comes next when we are set free to find our “new normal”.

So how do we do this?

How do we accept the changes that we would give anything to reverse?

He offers:

“If you feel irritation or depression or despair, recognize their presence and practice this mantra: "Dear one, I am here for you." You should talk to your depression or your anger as you would to a child. You embrace it tenderly with the energy of mindfulness and say, "Dear one, I know you are there, and I am going to take care of you," just as you would with your crying baby.”

When I first read this it felt so counterintuitive.

Aren't anger and fear negative emotions that we are taught not to harbor but let go of?

But what I have learned is that indeed the more we acknowledge and make room for the changes - for the anger, grief, fear - the more we are able to accept and in turn soften them all.

For me learning to “hold lightly” was the beginning of this process…

“If something negative comes to the surface, such as your despair and anger, or the despair and anger of your spouse, you need the energy of mindfulness to embrace it.

Breathing in, I know that anger is there in me.
Breathing out, I care for my anger.

This is like a mother hearing her baby cry out. She is in the kitchen, and she hears her baby wailing. She puts down whatever she has in her hands, goes into the baby's room, and picks it up in her arms. You can do exactly the same thing--embrace the pain that is coming to the surface.

Breathing in, I know that you are there, my dear anger, my dear despair.
I am there for you; I will take care of you.”
- Thich Nhat Hanh

Learning to “hold lightly”.

I started formally studying oncology massage in the fall of 2012.

The teacher I learned from taught under the practice name of “Lighthold”.

I remember being very curious about the name, what exactly did it mean?

I honestly don't remember if they ever explained it to me or if it was something that I finally internalized after years of studying with them but for me “holding lightly” can be summed up like this:

Picture yourself on a beach of soft, dry sand.

The sun has warmed it and taken all of the moisture away.

Each grain is completely free and separate from the others.

You run your fingers through and it feels so silky and light.

You attempt to take a fistful and close your hand around it.

As you reduce the amount of space between your fingers and palm the sand starts to slip between the cracks and fall back to the ground.

The tighter you grip to hold onto the sand the more it slips away and the less you have.

Now try this instead…

You soften your hand and scoop up the sand with your palms facing up.

You keep you fingers soft and instead of trying to close your fist around the sand you allow it to remain open to the sky.

The sand remains softly mounded sitting in your hand and stays there as long as your grip - your hold on the sand - stays light and without further demand.

The desperation we create with our tight grip has an opposite effect on our desired results.

By holding lightly - by leaving space in the moment - we actually get what we want and with less effort.

So how do we apply this to healing from breast cancer….?

The more you grip something the harder it is to hold onto. When you learn to hold your challenges lightly the easier it often becomes.

Allowing space for the hope that exists within the unknown.

Holding too tightly to who we were and the life we lived before our diagnosis is like holding the sand too tightly.

Our grip on who we were or what was doesn't allow space for who we can become or what may be waiting for us in the future.

The same is true of focusing on where we want to be instead of facing where we are.

It is easy to want to skip the hard parts - the physical recovery, the early days, months, and years of adapting to life in survivorship - to get to the new normal we are promised.

Trying to grab that future version of yourself - the healed version of yourself - is like grasping at the dry sand that slips through your fingers because you aren't allowing space for all of your experience, most notably your present reality.

When you can begin to accept and allow space for all of your experience - the good, the bad, the terrible, and the very real possibility of the beautiful - you soften into the present moment and create space for hope.

This is where it all comes together.

When you acknowledge and accept that the nature of our existence is change - that our bodies and lives are meant to change (and yes with both positive and negative experiences) - we can begin to see not just the fear of the unknown but the hope that exists within it as well.

I remember the darkest days of my breast cancer experience:

the gut punch of the words “you have cancer”
the lowest lows during chemotherapy, not sure I would ever feel good again
the frustration of early survivorship wondering why I didn't feel happy even though I was “better”

And six years later I can say that some of the greatest days of my life have occurred on THIS side of all of that.

I am a better, brighter, happier, more hopeful version of myself not just despite of what I've been through but also because of it.

And when those thoughts of “what if” start to creep in, when the fear of the unknown starts to outweigh the hope, I look at those who have come before me and showed me that even if “the worst” was to occur, that life can still be beautiful.

Because as long as we are alive we have the opportunity for joy in our existence.

“Hope is important because it can make the present moment less difficult to bear. If we believe that tomorrow will be better, we can bear a hardship today.”

- Thich Nhat Hanh

Don't let fear steal the hope and joy that you are entitled to in this beautiful life.

How I can help you in your evolution.

It is so important to remember that where you are now in your experience, in your life, is not where you will stay forever.

Will there be more challenges? Possibly. Probably.

But will there also be more joy, more happiness, and even more peace?

Definitely, as long as you work towards creating space for it.

If you would like individualized guidance in taking your next step towards healing, I am now offering two versions of my “Ask Amy” consultations that you can book online at your convenience!

I work with women from diagnosis through all forms of survivorship including many living with metastatic disease.

Choose from a 30 minute or 60 minute expert consultation and let's identify the best ways for you to prioritize your mental health NOW.

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