Remember my grandiose proclamations of a January Hibernation? Let me tell you how that worked out.

It reads like a picture-perfect Pinterest project… marked by the hashtag of fallen aspirations, #pinterestfail

January kicked off with the realization that Henry still had nine.more.days of the Christmas-break-that-would-never-end.  

I felt like throwing a party on his return to school on January 9th (for the record, he was pretty much there, too). What did I do instead? I looked around my post-Christmas disaster of a house, two sad Christmas trees, needle-adorned floors, and garlands sagging under the weight of festive memories. Every nook was crammed with STUFF. It was too much. So, instead of resting, I pivoted and started cleaning… because, obviously, I couldn’t process and relax until I de-cluttered and reclaimed our living space from the obstinate clutches of Christmas.

Before I knew it, mid-January was knocking on my door, with two weeks lost in what was meant to be a four-week break dedicated to processing the last nine months.  

With stubborn determination, I parked myself in my chair and began to do all the things… pages and pages of journaling, praying, breathing, walking, thinking. I bounced on my rebounder (for lymphatic drainage). I did Vagus Nerve courses and craniosacral therapy to help unblock my stuckness. I was desperate to process for two reasons: 1.) To “move on” and get back to a life that felt more like my pre-cancer existence, and 2.) To regulate this gnawing, growing awareness (let’s just be honest, I mean fear) of cancer recurrence that is hanging over my head. (My type of cancer has a high recurrence rate in the first two years.)

Amidst all my efforts, I waited. And waited.

And waited some more.

Nothing. Zero. Zilch.

Frustration started creeping in. Despite experiencing frequent divine moments of inspiration and hope during the daily hustle over the last several months, why did everything suddenly become… quiet?

I felt a numbness from the inside out. No sense of direction. No creative spark. No divine taps on the shoulder, despite my efforts to work hard to process. The numbness grew noisier.

Reflecting on it now, I nearly break out into a heap of laughter. What was I thinking?? Did I honestly believe that I could neatly process this experience in one month with sheer hard work, tick it off, and move on? (That does sound like me.)

Ah, the folly of plans.

Fast forward to the fourth week of January. A pile-up of work cut my January hibernation short. But at this point, I’d sort of thrown up my hands anyway with a proverbial OH WELL. Maybe next month.

I met a new friend for coffee in the first week of February. Her journey with cancer inspired me. Our conversation quickly delved into deep topics. (Cancer does that.) Words spilled from her mouth as she delivered one truth bomb after another.

I pulled out my phone and flung open the notes app.

“I’m sorry, do you mind if I write while you’re talking?” I asked, feverishly writing down all her gold nuggets.

Here is a summary:

Numbness? Totally normal. It’s part of the grief & trauma cycle.

Processing happens on its own timetable, not ours, and will likely take years, not months or weeks. (Clearly.)

Our endurance and stamina change; that’s okay.

Our priorities shift. Joy takes precedence because time is precious.  

It’s crucial to articulate our needs. Need your kid to turn the TV down? Speak up. Need to skip a trip? Say so. Require some downtime to rest instead of attending that party? Politely decline. Learn to identify your needs and assert them clearly. It is more important than ever.

The pre-cancer [or, insert whatever your trauma is] person inside of us lived a life of deliciously ignorant bliss. We'll never return to that person, and, whether we notice it or not, we mourn that loss daily with subtle triggers that dare us to crumble. Pandora's box has been opened; there will be good and bad days. Furthermore, your physical and emotional states may not always align. Be kind to yourself.

It becomes so easy to want to just look away or skip over it. (Most people, in fact, do.) Perhaps even force it into a small box. (Hint: A January Hibernation?)

And the reality is that these truths apply to everyone, trauma or no trauma.

Her words were a tonic, a deep validation of someone else once again articulating feelings I could not.

Leaving the coffee shop that day, I had a sudden realization wash over me.  I wasn’t being asked to process, tempting as it was… I was being asked to wait. And this has been the underlying request from the start. 

Waiting is sometimes the most painful action that can be asked of us.

But when I finally let go of my agenda, truth slowly started seeping back into my daily life. Humility is at the root of authentic processing, while agendas (and timetables) place an ego-rooted filter on its flow.

As life resumed its bustle around me again, I noticed that the processing began to happen naturally. It was gentle, unrushed, and loving.

A surprising development was my newfound joy in creating art from meaningful photos.

It felt entirely (and refreshingly) unrelated to the processing journey. My obsession with efficiency initially told me it was a waste of time. I somewhat scolded myself for not being more practical until I comprehended this fascinating phenomenon it had created: Doing something joyous helped me let go of my need to control, thereby clearing space for natural processing to happen.

In the process of processing on processing’s own terms, I’m happy to report that it is February 12th and, ironically through no effort of my own, I now feel more at peace with the delicate balance of authenticity in grief alongside resting in my rebirth that is, thank God, out of my hands. That Divine Love has never let me down. Its faithfulness is always close at hand, its blessings abundant, its guidance is trustworthy. And so long as I keep my desperate hands off the process, the flow of its faithfulness can continue to be felt and seen.

So, thanks, January Hibernation, for showing me that my grief and fear are ok to feel, that processing will likely take a lifetime, and that Love is still what upholds me even as I shed my old self and embrace a new one, reborn from ashes.

Messi, Here We Come.

I'm often asked about our plans to commemorate the end of 2023. Well, we decided. On January 10th, we splurged on tickets to watch Leo Messi and Inter Miami CF play the LA Galaxy here in L.A. on Sunday, February 25. This experience is something we wouldn’t have typically done, making it even more special to check off our bucket list. Throughout the challenging journey with cancer, Henry has shown incredible strength even as an eight-year-old. For example, he was awarded the Golden Boot by his soccer coach on the VERY DAY of my bilateral mastectomy (Nov 15), of which Gabby lovingly accompanied him. I adore seeing him so passionate and single-mindedly dedicated to the sport of soccer these past three years; it reminds me of my undeterred love for Arabian horses as a kid. Henry has developed a strong admiration for Leo, not only because of his mad skills (the GOAT of soccer) but also because, like Henry, Leo is small yet incredibly agile. Leo is also a solid human being who is keenly aware of his responsibility as a role model to young kids, and over the last few years, Bob and I have become deep fans as well.

We managed to secure tickets (a class B miracle), and I put together this reveal video, which we showed Henry after school. He nearly came unglued!

I did my best to situate a meet-and-greet with Leo (which is basically the same as getting an audience with the Pope) to no avail and no one’s surprise. Regardless, it will be a lifelong treasured memory, and I’m beyond grateful we have this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

A few concluding thoughts for the week:

• My hysterectomy + uterus removal surgery at UCLA’s main campus is scheduled for Wednesday, February 28th. Hysterically, this is one day after my 45th birthday. An ironic, yet somehow, fitting way to celebrate.

• My final reconstruction is scheduled for May 2nd at UCLA's main campus.

• I continue immunotherapy (Keytruda) every three weeks at UCLA Santa Barbara as preventative maintenance for a recurrence and thankfully have only felt side effects one time. Please pray that the side effects continue to be held at bay.

• I would love your prayers for direction and guidance in this next phase of my life. I feel like I’m being led into some form of service.

• Bob travels to his sister’s Celebration of Life service today in Tampa, Florida. Please cover him and his family in prayers of peace.

As always, my family and I appreciate the heaps of love and support you continue to pile on us. It truly means the world. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

With love,

Evie