250 Years of Freedom

Today, America celebrates 250 years of freedom.

As I sit here reflecting on what that means, I realize that the word "freedom" is something many of us use so often that we sometimes forget just how precious it really is.

I am thankful that I live in a country where I can open my Bible without fear. I can bow my head in prayer at a restaurant, attend church every Sunday, speak openly about my faith, and share God's Word with others. I can travel where I choose, voice my opinions, cast my vote, and enjoy countless liberties that generations before me fought to preserve.

Those freedoms became even more meaningful to me in 2009 when I traveled to China on a mission trip.

It was a beautiful country filled with wonderful people, but it was also a sobering reminder of what life is like without the freedoms we often take for granted. As we walked through the airport, soldiers carrying machine guns seemed to be everywhere we looked. Their presence was impossible to ignore. I remember thinking how different it felt from home.

We were careful about where and when we talked about our faith. Something as simple as openly reading my Bible or praying in a public place could have brought unwanted attention and potentially serious consequences. It made me appreciate, in a way I never had before, the incredible blessing of religious freedom here in America.

That experience forever changed my perspective.

Today, I also find myself thinking about the men and women who have worn our nation's uniform. My own family has a rich heritage of military service, and I have always been proud of that legacy. Today, my grandson continues that tradition as he serves in the United States Army. Knowing he is willing to stand in harm's way to help protect the freedoms that so many of us enjoy fills my heart with both gratitude and pride.

Freedom has never been free. Every liberty we enjoy has come at a tremendous cost paid by brave men and women and by the families who stood behind them.

This Independence Day also brings sweet memories of my daddy.

Daddy was born on July 2, and he loved to tell everyone he was "almost a firecracker." Every year, the Fourth of July was one of his favorite holidays. He couldn't wait for the fireworks. M-80s, Black Cats, bottle rockets, you name it, he loved them all. His excitement was contagious, and some of my happiest childhood memories are wrapped up in family gatherings, cookouts, laughter, and watching him enjoy every loud boom and brilliant burst of color lighting up the summer sky.

Every Fourth of July, those memories come rushing back, and I can't help but smile. I can almost hear his laughter and imagine him grinning from ear to ear as another firecracker exploded.

As we celebrate America's 250th birthday today, with family gathered around the table, hamburgers on the grill, homemade ice cream, flags waving proudly, children laughing, and fireworks filling the night sky, I hope we will pause for just a moment to remember why we celebrate.

May we never take our freedoms for granted.

May we remember those who sacrificed to secure them.

May we pray for our nation, for our military, for our leaders, and for future generations.

And may we always thank God for the incredible blessing of living in a land where we are still free to worship Him openly.

Happy 250th Birthday, America.

God bless America, and may God continue to bless the land that I am proud to call home.

Busted in the Backyard

Before I married my first husband, David and I spent a lot of time visiting his cousin Pat and her husband Ron. They were fun people, and their backyard featured what seemed like the greatest luxury imaginable on a sweltering Georgia summer night, an above-ground swimming pool.

One particular evening, after the four of us had spent hours talking and laughing, Pat and Ron announced they were heading to bed. David and I exchanged a glance. The night air was thick with humidity, and the pool water looked inviting beneath the moonlight. Somewhere between youthful courage and questionable judgment, David suggested we go for a late-night swim. Then he added two words that nearly stopped my heart: "skinny dipping."

I had never done such a thing in my life. The very idea made me nervous. But David was persuasive, and eventually I agreed. We waited until we were absolutely certain Pat and Ron were asleep. Like a pair of amateur spies, we tiptoed across the backyard, trying not to make a sound. We slipped into the cool water and congratulated ourselves on our successful mission. There we were, floating beneath the stars, feeling quite clever and certain we'd gotten away with our little adventure.

For about twenty minutes, everything went according to plan.

Then suddenly, without warning, the backyard security light blazed to life.

One second we were hidden in darkness. The next, we were illuminated like the grand opening of a new department store. Every ounce of confidence instantly evaporated. I froze. David froze. We stared toward the house, and there stood Pat, who had apparently heard enough suspicious splashing to investigate.

I have never moved so fast in my entire life.

To this day, I don't remember exactly how I got out of that pool, gathered my dignity, and found my clothes. I only remember being absolutely mortified while Pat laughed so hard she could barely stand up. As for David, he thought the whole thing was hilarious.

Years have passed since that summer night, and thankfully my embarrassment has faded. What remains is a memory that still makes me smile. It's funny how life works. The moments we wish would disappear forever often become the stories we laugh about the longest. And while I wouldn't necessarily recommend skinny dipping in your relatives' swimming pool, I can testify that nothing creates a lasting family story quite like getting caught red-handed, or in our case, caught completely uncovered.  

(Graphic created with AI)

The tattoo that carried me through cancer

Certain images stay with us throughout our lives, quietly shaping the way we see ourselves and the way we endure hardships. For me, that image was the phoenix, a mythical bird said to rise from its own ashes, reborn stronger than before.

I first learned about the legend of the phoenix when I was in elementary school. Even as a child, I was fascinated by the idea of a creature that could survive destruction and emerge renewed. There was something powerful and comforting in the symbolism, although at the time I could not have known how deeply that image would one day matter to me.

As the years passed, life carried me through adulthood with all its joys, responsibilities, disappointments, and uncertainties. Like most people, I experienced moments that tested my strength. Some trials were small and fleeting, while others left lasting scars. Yet somehow, the image of the phoenix always lingered quietly in the back of my mind.

Years later, while trying to decide on a meaningful tattoo design, I remembered that legendary bird from my childhood. I wanted something personal, something symbolic, something that represented resilience and hope. After much thought, I decided to have a phoenix tattooed on my chest just above my left breast.

At the time, I saw it as a reminder that no matter what hardships life brought my way, I would always rise above them. Every time I looked in the mirror and saw that tattoo, I felt encouraged. It became more than artwork on my skin. It became a declaration of strength, perseverance, and survival.

What I did not know then was how profoundly that symbol would one day speak into my life.

In 2014, breast cancer entered my world.

No one is ever truly prepared to hear the word “cancer.” It changes the atmosphere in the room instantly. One moment, life feels predictable, and the next, everything becomes uncertain. Fear arrives quickly, often before you even have time to process what is happening. Questions flood your mind. What happens next? How bad is it? Am I going to survive this?

I remember the emotional whirlwind that followed my diagnosis. There were doctor appointments, tests, scans, consultations, and difficult conversations. There were moments when I felt overwhelmed by fear and exhaustion. Cancer does not just attack the body. It attacks the mind and spirit as well. It can make even the strongest person feel vulnerable.

But during that season of my life, something remarkable happened.

That phoenix tattoo, the one I had chosen years before, simply because its story inspired me, suddenly took on an entirely new meaning. Every time I looked at it, I was reminded that the phoenix survived the fire. It rises from devastation. It does not stay buried in ashes.

Some people might see a tattoo as merely decorative, but for me, it became deeply personal during my cancer journey. It was no longer just a symbol I admired. It became a visible reminder that I was stronger than my fear. It reminded me daily that hardship does not have to define the outcome of a person’s life.

There were difficult days, of course. Cancer treatment is not glamorous, no matter how positively someone tries to face it. There is physical pain, emotional fatigue, uncertainty, and moments of discouragement that can creep in unexpectedly. There are days when your body no longer feels like your own. There are moments when you look in the mirror and barely recognize the person staring back at you.

Breast cancer can especially affect the way a woman sees herself. It touches something deeply connected to identity, femininity, and confidence. There are emotional wounds that accompany the physical battle, and many women quietly carry those burdens while trying to remain strong for everyone around them.

Yet through all of it, that image of the phoenix remained close to my heart, literally and figuratively.

I began to realize that surviving cancer is not only about enduring treatments or making it through surgery. It is also about learning how to rise emotionally and spiritually through the experience. It is about refusing to surrender your hope. It is about choosing courage even when fear feels overwhelming.

The phoenix reminded me that fire does not always destroy. Sometimes it transforms.

That perspective changed the way I approached my battle with cancer. Instead of seeing myself solely as a victim of circumstances, I began to see myself as someone capable of rising through adversity. The tattoo on my chest became a quiet source of determination during some of the hardest days of my life.

There is something incredibly powerful about symbols. Sometimes a simple image can anchor us when everything else feels unstable. It can become a source of comfort, motivation, and identity. For me, the phoenix represented survival long before cancer entered my life, but afterward, it represented something even greater. It represented victory.

Now, almost twelve years later, I am still here.

Those words carry more weight than many people realize. Cancer has a way of making you appreciate time differently. The ordinary moments become extraordinary. You learn not to take simple blessings for granted. A peaceful morning, laughter with loved ones, a quiet sunset, or even an uneventful day can suddenly feel precious.

Surviving cancer also changes your understanding of strength. Before my diagnosis, I thought strength meant never being afraid. But cancer taught me that real strength often exists alongside fear. Courage is not the absence of fear. It is continuing to move forward despite it.

Looking back now, I realize the most important lesson I learned was not merely how to fight, but how to rise.

Anyone can face hardship because hardship eventually comes to all of us in one form or another. Some battles are physical, some emotional, and some spiritual. What matters most is not the existence of the trial itself, but the way we respond to it. We may not always control what enters our lives, but we do have the power to decide whether we will remain buried beneath the ashes or rise from them.

That is what the phoenix ultimately came to mean to me.

Today, when I see that tattoo, I no longer just think about mythology or artistic symbolism. I think about survival. I think about resilience. I think about every difficult moment I endured, and every prayer whispered during sleepless nights. I think about the grace that carried me through fear and uncertainty. Most of all, I think about the blessing of still being here to tell my story.

Cancer changed my life forever, but it did not destroy me. In many ways, it revealed strengths I never knew I possessed. Like the phoenix I admired as a child, I learned that sometimes life’s fiercest fires do not consume us. Sometimes they teach us how to rise.

Remembering 12 years ago

Looking back to June 22, 2014- 

I've been through a gamut of emotions since receiving my Breast Cancer diagnosis. I've been sad, I've been angry, I've been depressed. I've been confused, I've been bewildered, I've been numb. I'm sure if I Googled "range of emotions related to Breast Cancer diagnosis" I'd receive a long list of psychological reports and studies that have been created but, I don't have to do that. I've lived through them over the past weeks. Yesterday, I dealt with anger and defeat. Today, I am adopting determination! What, you don't think determination is an emotion? Maybe not. Perhaps determination is just anger with a goal in mind, in any event, I'm headed in that direction.

Determination runs in my family. My mother always said I was very determined. If there were cookies in the jar and I wanted one, even if I'd been told not to touch them, I would figure out a way to reach that jar and grab a cookie. As a child, if you told me I couldn't do something, I went about proving that I could. As an adult, if I was told I couldn't do something, I took on the challenge and found a way to prove the naysayers wrong. I guess you could say the characteristics of determination have been part of my character from the very beginning. I know my strengths and weaknesses. I know how to set goals and achieve them.

I see determination in my children, too. When Laura, my middle daughter, was a child, she portrayed her determination in what Dr. James Dobson liked to call a "strong willed child." From the time she was an infant, we knew she was different. Some said she had a big temper and used it to get what she wanted, but I knew she was just determined. She knew exactly what she wanted and she was going to find a way to get it. We used to laugh when she'd kick and scream and cry in frustration at not being able to do what she wanted to do. But her determination has taken her through challenges in life and she's turned out just fine.

This morning, I watched my granddaughter, Heather, as she tried to get the child lock off of my kitchen cabinet door. She shook it and pulled on it, trying her best to figure out a way to make it let go. I could see the determination in her face as her little lip was pulled back and held tight by tiny baby teeth.  Laura looked down at her and said "she's determined to get that thing off!" I smiled knowing that determination indeed has passed from one generation to another. Determination isn't a bad character trait to have, is it?

Like a horse with blinders on, determination has caused me to see the finish line. I see myself headed toward the gate. Today, I'm going to "pick myself up, dust myself off, and start all over again!" I am determined to get through this Cancer journey and do it well.

My life has suddenly gone from black and white to hi-res color. Instead of focusing on the entire journey ahead, I've decided to live in the moment. A dear friend told me recently that wherever I am, that's where I'll be. She said I need to take a look at my feet and realize that at that very moment in time, I am in that place and nothing but that time and place matter. I have never thought of living life that way before. I've always been a long range planner, a goal setter, a mover and a shaker. Can I learn to live in the moment? I think I can.

As I look down at my feet right now, I see that I am in my office. My feet are firmly planted in the lush carpet of my home. Underneath the carpet is a solid foundation of cement, the slab of my home. Underneath the slab is the beautiful grass covered earth that God created and underneath all of that, is the solid rock of Jesus Christ. He is the only foundation that is unmoveable and unshakeable. No amount of determination can ever change the fact that He holds me firmly in the palm of His mighty hands.

The dog days are over! It's time to move full steam ahead. Determination is going to carry me forward, over, around, under, and through the next stage of my journey. Cancer you may think you've won. You may think you're going to run rampant through my body but I say no! I am going to fight you with everything that is within me. You have no idea what kind of fight I'm going to give you! Radiation, bring it on. Hormone therapy...got that. And if, and when, I'm told I have to have Chemo, well...I'll push through it too.

We are a family of fighters. We are determined. We find a way. I'm not going down without a fight and I'm not going to allow myself to feel defeated again.

"I press on toward the goal to win the [supreme and heavenly] prize to which God in Christ Jesus is calling us upward." Philippians 3:14

"But the firm foundation of (laid by) God stands, sure and unshaken, bearing this seal (inscription): The Lord knows those who are His, and, Let everyone who names [himself by] the name of the Lord give up all iniquity and stand aloof from it." 2 Timothy 2:19

"Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go." Joshua 1:9-10

Epilogue

Looking back now, I smile when I read these words. At the time, I had no idea what the journey ahead would require of me. There would be surgeries, treatments, exhaustion, tears, and victories I couldn't yet imagine. There would be days when determination carried me and days when only God's strength was enough.

But the woman who wrote these words on June 22, 2014, was right about one thing—she wasn't going down without a fight.

Cancer didn't have the final word.

God did.

Today, I live with gratitude that only a survivor can fully understand. Every ordinary morning, every family gathering, every devotional I write, every photograph I take, and every grandchild's laugh reminds me that life is a gift. The determination that carried me through treatment has become something even stronger: quiet confidence in the faithfulness of God.

He never left me. Not once.

The Gift of an Unhurried Season

"They will still bear fruit in old age, they will stay fresh and green." — Psalm 92:14 (NIV)

When I was younger, I never imagined this season of life.

Back then, my days were full. There were children to raise, jobs to work, meals to cook, appointments to keep, and endless responsibilities demanding my attention. I often longed for a slower pace, certain that one day I would appreciate having fewer obligations.

Then that day arrived.

Now, retired and nearing seventy, I sometimes look around and wonder, Is this all there is? The housework gets done. A book is read. Perhaps a trip is planned now and then. Family and dear friends live miles away. The calendar that once overflowed with commitments now contains wide stretches of quiet.

To be honest, this season can feel strange.

What am I supposed to do now?

But perhaps I'm asking the wrong question.

Maybe this season isn't about doing more. Maybe it's about being more aware of God's presence in the ordinary moments. Perhaps this quieter chapter is not an indication that my usefulness has ended, but an invitation to rest in ways I never allowed myself to before.

God never intended our value to be measured by busyness. The psalmist reminds us that we can still bear fruit in old age. Fruit doesn't always look like activity. Sometimes it looks like wisdom shared over coffee, prayers whispered for those we love, encouragement offered through a handwritten note, hospitality extended to a lonely neighbor, or simply cultivating gratitude in the everyday rhythms of life.

I wonder if this season is, in part, God's gracious reward after years of faithful labor. Not retirement from purpose, but retirement from striving. A chance to breathe deeply. To notice the lightning bugs at dusk. To linger over morning devotions. To watch the changing seasons and recognize that God is present in every one of them.

The truth is, I may not run at the pace I once did, but I can still walk closely with the Lord.

And perhaps that has been His invitation all along.

If you find yourself in a quieter season, don't mistake stillness for insignificance. God wastes nothing—not even the slower chapters. There is beauty to be found here, purpose yet to be discovered, and fruit still to bear.

The God who guided us through the busy years will also teach us how to live faithfully in the unhurried ones.

Heavenly Father, thank You for being present in every season of life. When I struggle to understand this quieter chapter, remind me that my worth has never depended on how busy I am. Teach me to embrace the gifts You have placed before me today—the gift of rest, the gift of reflection, and the gift of time spent in Your presence. Show me the ways I can continue to bear fruit and encourage others, even if it looks different than it once did. Help me to trust that You still have purpose for my days and joy waiting to be discovered in the ordinary moments. May I walk into this season with gratitude, hope, and confidence that You are not finished writing my story. In Jesus' name, Amen.

It's been a while

My goodness! I didn't realize it been so long since I had written a blog post. But life has a way of happening and moving recently is my valid excuse. Hopefully, things are starting to slow down a little and I can start posting more. 

I can't even begin to tell you all the things that we've been doing but I'll try to focus on the most recent trip. This one wasn't a long way away, but it was still fun. 

We went to a local peach orchard and enjoyed watching the sorting and washing process. It's amazing that they can make machines to do just about anything these days. After we visited the market part of the farm, we drove to the orchard and of course I took a good bit of pictures. 

Peaches always remind me of my daddy. He loved peaches and especially loved peach ice cream. I remember as a child, we would take turns with our neighbors making homemade ice cream. They had an old wooden crank machine. Our little arms would get so tired turning and turning that crank, but we love the end result. 

I can still visualize the salt and ice packed around the edges of the center container of the ice cream machine. Watching that ice slowly melt as the salt press down on it was amazing. 

What was even more fun was when we all got to sit down and chairs and enjoy the fruit of our labor. That peach ice cream was delicious! 

I can almost hear the laughter from my brother and sister and our neighbors - Charles Jesse, Lee and Ray. Those summer nights were so special. 

I love how smelling or tasting something can instantly transport me back to the past. I hope I never forget any of those sweet memories, especially the nights when we turned peach ice cream.

Lesson From a Robotic Vacuum

This past Mother’s Day, my daughter gave me one of those little robotic vacuum cleaners. You know the kind, small, round, and determined. At first, I found myself watching it like a child watches a remote-controlled car. It bumped into furniture, turned around, adjusted its course, and kept going. But before long, I noticed something else, it was actually doing a pretty good job cleaning my floors.

As I sat there watching that little machine quietly do its work, I couldn’t help but think about the Holy Spirit.

Much like that robotic vacuum, the Holy Spirit has a way of moving through the hidden spaces of our lives. He goes places we often overlook—those dusty corners of old wounds, hidden attitudes, secret pride, unforgiveness, fear, and habits we’ve learned to live with. We may think everything looks clean on the surface, but God sees what settles in the corners.

King David understood this when he prayed:

“Search me, O God, and know my heart: try me, and know my thoughts.”
— The Bible Psalm 139:23

The Holy Spirit doesn’t clean with condemnation, He cleans with conviction, love, and purpose. Sometimes He bumps into areas of our lives we’d rather keep untouched. Sometimes He circles back to something we thought had already been dealt with. But He never does it to shame us. He does it to make us holy.

Jesus said:

“But the Comforter, which is the Holy Ghost… he shall teach you all things.”
— The Bible John 14:26

Just like my little robotic vacuum keeps moving until the dirt is gone, the Holy Spirit continues His work in us until we begin to reflect Christ more clearly. He’s not interested in surface cleaning, He’s after transformation.

Paul reminded believers of this truth:

“Being confident of this very thing, that he which hath begun a good work in you will perform it until the day of Jesus Christ.”
— The Bible Philippians 1:6

So now, every time I hear that little vacuum humming across my floors, I smile. Because I’m reminded that while my vacuum is cleaning my house, the Holy Spirit is still cleaning me.

And honestly? I’m grateful He never stops!

The Power of Forgiveness : Unlocking the Key to Freedom for the Forgiver and the Forgivee

Forgiveness isn’t always easy, is it?

 

Sometimes the hurt runs deep. Sometimes the words spoken or the actions taken leave wounds that don’t heal overnight. And if we’re honest, there are moments when holding on to that hurt feels almost justified.

 

But here’s the truth we gently learn, often the hard way:

forgiveness is not about saying what happened was okay, it’s about setting your heart free.

 

When we choose to forgive, we’re not excusing the offense. We’re releasing its hold on us. We’re choosing not to let yesterday’s pain dictate today’s peace.

 

Unforgiveness is heavy. It lingers in our thoughts, weighs on our spirit, and quietly builds walls around our hearts. But forgiveness, real, intentional forgiveness, is like unlocking a door we didn’t realize we were standing behind.

 

And the beautiful part?

 

That freedom doesn’t just touch us, it reaches the one we forgive, too.

 

Forgiveness opens the door for healing on both sides. It creates space for

 grace, for restoration, and for God to move in ways we could never orchestrate on our own.

 

Now, that doesn’t mean everything is instantly repaired. It doesn’t mean trust is automatically restored. But it does mean the chains are broken.

 

It means you can breathe again.

 

It means your heart is no longer carrying something God never intended for you to hold onto.

 

If there’s someone you’ve been struggling to forgive, take that first step today. You don’t have to feel it fully yet. Just choose it. Place it in God’s hands and trust Him with the outcome.

 

Because forgiveness isn’t weakness, it’s freedom.

 

“Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.”

Ephesians 4:32 (NLT)

 

Heavenly Father,

Thank You for the gift of forgiveness. You have forgiven me more than I could ever deserve, and yet I struggle at times to extend that same grace to others. Help me to release every hurt, every offense, and every burden into Your hands.

 

Give me the strength to forgive, even when it’s hard. Heal the places in my heart that still ache, and replace bitterness with peace. Teach me to trust You with what I cannot fix.

 

I lift up those who have hurt me, and I ask that You work in their lives as only You can. Bring restoration where it is possible, and peace where it is needed.

 

Thank You for the freedom that forgiveness brings.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Woe is me

There’s something humbling about knee replacement surgery that no one really prepares you for. You go into it thinking, “I’ll be back on my feet in no time,” and then reality gently (or not so gently) reminds you that healing has its own timeline. As I inch closer to 70, I’m learning that my body doesn’t always cooperate the way it used to. Some days it feels like my knee and I are in negotiations… and let’s just say, I’m not always winning.

It’s a strange realization, this awareness that our bodies are, little by little, wearing out. Scripture tells us this earthly tent won’t last forever, and now I’m feeling that truth in very real ways. Getting up takes a little more effort, walking requires a bit more thought, and don’t even get me started on stairs. Whoever invented stairs clearly never had a knee replacement!

But here’s what I’m holding onto: while the body may slow down, the spirit doesn’t have to. So in the meantime, I’m choosing to live the best I can, one day at a time. I’m learning to rest when I need to, laugh when I can, and manage the aches with a little more grace (and maybe a heating pad or two). There’s still so much life to live, even if I move through it a bit slower these days.

And through it all, I’m thankful. Thankful that I can still get up, still move, still embrace each new day God gives me. It may not look like it used to, but it’s still a gift. So I’ll keep going, one careful step at a time, with a grateful heart and maybe a slightly dramatic sigh every now and then. After all, if we can’t laugh a little along the way, we might just cry… and I’d rather save my energy for walking. 

Learning the New

There’s something both exhilarating and unsettling about starting over in a new city. Every street is unfamiliar, every turn requires a second guess, and even the simplest errands can feel like small adventures. Some days it feels exciting, like we’re explorers charting new territory. Other days, if I’m honest, it’s just plain overwhelming.

We haven’t found our rhythm yet, and one of the hardest parts has been not having “our people.” Back home, friendships were woven into our daily lives, easy, comfortable, and deeply rooted. Here, we’re starting from scratch. No familiar faces at the grocery store, no spontaneous coffee dates, no one who just “knows” us yet. That absence can feel heavy.

But in the middle of all this newness, there are small mercies, and I’m learning to notice them. For one, I’m incredibly thankful for GPS. What did we ever do without it? It’s been our constant companion, guiding us through winding roads and unknown neighborhoods, helping us feel just a little less lost. It’s funny how something so simple can bring such comfort.

We’re slowly checking things off our list. Next up: finding new doctors. It’s one of those necessary steps that makes a place start to feel more like home, even if the process itself feels daunting. Piece by piece, we’re building a new life here, even if it doesn’t quite feel like “ours” yet.

This past weekend brought a much-needed dose of familiarity and joy. Having my son visit, along with my youngest daughter and her husband, filled our home with laughter and love. For a little while, everything felt normal again. It reminded me that no matter where we are, home isn’t just a place, it’s the people we hold close.

So here we are, somewhere between lost and found. Learning new roads, hoping for new friendships, and trusting that in time, this unfamiliar place will become something more. Maybe even home.

Survivorship and Suitcases: Stepping Into the Unknown Twice

My sweet oncologist

The month after my oncologist transitioned me into the survivorship program, my husband and I signed papers on a house in a new city. I didn’t expect that leaving the safety of my cancer team and leaving the familiarity of my hometown would stir up the very same question in my heart: Who am I now?

When my oncologist told me I was being moved into the survivorship program, I smiled politely. I knew this was good news. Survivorship is the place every cancer patient hopes to land. It means active treatment is behind you. It means scans are less frequent. It means life is supposed to return to something resembling normal.

But as I walked to my car that day, keys clutched tightly in my hand, I felt something I hadn’t expected.

I felt untethered.

For months, years really, my cancer treatment center had been my anchor. The waiting room chairs, the familiar faces at the front desk, the quiet efficiency of the infusion nurses, and most of all, my oncologist. She knew my case inside and out. She knew my fears before I spoke them. When something felt off in my body, I could call and know someone who understood my history would respond.

Being transitioned into survivorship felt like someone gently, but firmly, removing the training wheels.

“You’re doing great,” they said. “We’ll see you in six months.”

Six months.

In cancer time, that feels like an eternity.

At almost the same moment this shift was happening, my husband and I were in the middle of buying a house in another city. Boxes were appearing in the corners of our home. Paperwork was piling up on the kitchen table. We were researching new grocery stores, new pharmacies, new doctors.

The irony wasn’t lost on me.

In one season, I was leaving behind not just a house, but the place that had carried me through one of the hardest chapters of my life.

Cancer changes the geography of your heart. Certain streets hold memories of radiation appointments. Certain parking spaces feel sacred because you prayed there before walking inside for biopsy results. The walls of my treatment center had witnessed my tears, my flat chest, and my whispered pleas to God in sterile exam rooms.

And now I was being told: You’re okay. You can go.

At the same time, I was packing up my life.

Moving to a new city is unsettling under the best of circumstances. You leave behind your favorite cashier at the grocery store who always asks about your family. You leave the pharmacist who knows your medication history by heart. You leave the shortcuts you’ve memorized and the restaurants where they know your order.

You trade familiarity for uncertainty.

But for a cancer survivor, it’s more layered than that.

In my current city, people know my story. They saw me during treatment. They watched carefully as my body changed. They brought meals. They prayed. They know why I look the way I look.

In this new city, no one will know.

And strangely, that both thrills and terrifies me.

There’s something undeniably appealing about walking into a room where no one knows your medical history. In a new neighborhood, I won’t automatically be “the woman who had breast cancer.” I’ll just be the new neighbor. The lady down the street. The one unpacking boxes.

That anonymity feels like freedom.

But it also feels like hiding.

Because here’s the truth: I am flat-chested. I chose not to reconstruct after my mastectomy. Some days I wear my prostheses. Some days I don’t. In my current town, that choice doesn’t require explanation. People understand.

In a new city, if I choose not to wear them, I may get stares. I may get whispers. Someone may wonder if I’m transgender. And then I’m faced with another decision: Do I share my story all over again?

Do I open the door to the most vulnerable chapter of my life for the sake of clarity?

Or do I wear my prostheses every day, ward off questions, and blend in as “normal”?

It’s a conundrum I didn’t anticipate when we started house hunting.

Because this move isn’t just about real estate.

It’s about identity.

Cancer has already rewritten my reflection in the mirror. It has reshaped my body and, in many ways, my soul. Survivorship is supposed to be the chapter where you reclaim yourself. But what if you’re still figuring out who that self is?

Am I the “before cancer” version of me, trying to reassemble what was lost?

Am I the “cancer warrior,” defined by scars and survival?

Or am I someone entirely new?

Standing at the intersection of survivorship and relocation, I’ve realized something profound: both experiences are invitations.

Being moved into the survivorship program is an invitation to trust my body again. To trust that the treatment did what it was meant to do. To live without the constant hum of weekly appointments.

Moving to a new city is an invitation to step into unfamiliar spaces and discover who I am when no one already knows my backstory.

Both feel risky.

Both feel hopeful.

There’s grief in leaving the safety net of my oncology team. Even if I can still call them, it won’t be the same. The rhythm of regular check-ins is changing. The intensity of oversight is softening. I have to learn to carry more of the responsibility for my health awareness.

And yet, there’s dignity in that, too.

Survivorship says, “You are strong enough to walk forward.”

Likewise, moving says, “You are brave enough to begin again.”

I’ve started to see that the real question isn’t whether I’ll be the new me or the old me with baggage.

The truth is, there is no old me to return to.

Cancer ensured that.

But there also isn’t a completely new me untethered from the past.

The woman packing boxes carries scars, visible and invisible. She carries a fear of recurrence. She carries gratitude for life. She carries wisdom she didn’t ask for but now treasures.

The choice isn’t between baggage and freedom.

The choice is how I carry what I’ve been given.

Maybe some days in the new city I’ll wear my prostheses. Maybe some days I won’t. Maybe I’ll share my story with a neighbor over coffee. Maybe I’ll keep it tucked close to my heart until trust is built.

Maybe survivorship isn’t about pretending cancer never happened.

Maybe it’s about deciding that cancer doesn’t get to script every introduction.

As we prepare to load the moving truck, I find myself whispering prayers like the ones I prayed before scans: Lord, go before us. Steady my heart. Remind me that You are my true safety net.

Because the truth is, my security was never fully in a building with an oncology wing.

It wasn’t in a zip code.

It wasn’t even in the frequency of appointments.

It was in the steady faithfulness of God through every diagnosis, every treatment, every sleepless night.

That same faithfulness will meet me in a new city. It will meet me in survivorship. It will meet me in awkward introductions and in quiet evenings when fear creeps in.

This season feels like standing on a threshold.

Behind me: scans, surgical scars, therapies, familiar streets.

Before me: unpacked boxes, new doctors, unknown neighbors, longer stretches between checkups.

In both directions, there is evidence of grace.

I don’t know exactly who I will be in this new city. I don’t know how often I’ll tell my story or how often I’ll choose silence. I don’t know if I’ll feel untethered or unexpectedly free.

But I do know this:

Survivorship is not the absence of fear. It’s the decision to live anyway.

And moving forward, whether into a new home or a new medical chapter, is an act of courage in itself.

So here I am, keys in one hand and medical discharge papers in the other, stepping into a future that feels both fragile and full of possibility.

Maybe that’s what survivorship really is.

Not a clean slate.

But a brave next step.

If you are still in the thick of treatment, still counting infusions, still waiting on scan results, still gripping the hand of your oncologist a little tighter than you admit, I want you to hear this: the day may come when they move you into survivorship, and it will feel both victorious and unsettling. You may miss the rhythm of appointments that once exhausted you. You may long for the safety net you can’t wait to outgrow right now. That’s normal. Healing is layered. Courage is layered. And you are stronger than you know, even on the days you feel anything but strong.

For now, stay where your feet are. Let the nurses care for you. Let your body rest. Let others carry what feels too heavy. One day you will look back at this chapter, not because it was easy, but because you walked through it. And when that next season comes, whether it’s survivorship, a new home, or simply a new kind of normal, you will not step into it empty-handed. You will carry resilience. You will carry wisdom. You will carry proof that you can do hard things.

And that will be enough.