Six years ago, I was forced into a rebirth. So today, while I may be pushing 35, I am really still just a baby. A toddler with car payments, half a career and a rental I can’t manifest into a mortgage.

If you’re curious, my rebirth began in a hospital hallway. The off-white walls, scuffed and carved by years of medical machinery & unsteady hands, witnessed my “cancer-versary” as my 28th birthday drew closer.
Since then, birthdays haven’t been the same.

They used to be predictable. Princess pizza parties and presents. Making wishes on trick candles that covered enormous chocolate cakes. And later, as the mask of the angsty teen fixed itself tightly onto our face (long into adulthood if our early days were turbulent), there would be weekend ragers with strangers that crashed them, accompanied by way too much booze and regret.

Instead of blowing out candles, you’d numb the pain and chase down shots—which were cleverly disguised as a celebration—wishing that each year would go by faster and this life would get better.

But now, that kind of predictability—whether it was happy princess memories or basement binge drinking—feels like a distant memory for most of us.

Between the perpetual darkness of this very broken & burning world, and the stories & systems we’ve inherited and keep repeating, each passing year feels like an unravelling.

Strangely, that unravelling feels like a way to finally stop lying to ourselves. To dig deeper into the truth of who we are and the world we live in.

That’s exactly what my cancer diagnosis did for me: it taught me to excavate the deepest wounds—both Self & societal—and sit with them instead of pretending they weren’t there. It taught me to listen to what my body had been screaming out for my whole life. It showed me all the parts of myself that so desperately needed my attention, guidance, and safety.

It’s usually an unpopular insight when I share it, and I don’t mean to sound insensitive to those who are still deep within the battle…but in my experience, cancer saved my life.

Because these days, I want to stay. Even if staying means more of the unknown. Even if it means more unravelling.

There’s something about being forced to live in a room laced with death and antiseptic as the potpourri that makes you reevaluate things. You want your mom. Your dogs. The loving boyfriend you never had. You begin to ache for the nurturing touch of nature and the taste of freedom. You want to feel…something. Anything.

The First Time I Felt…Anything

As my new life began to loom over my almost-death bed six years ago, I had this first taste of freedom, and I wanted more.

Within the clinical “chalet” was a hidden door that led to a small, secluded outdoor garden. It was mine for a time, and a reminder that life still existed beyond those walls.

There was a rickety old chair that was perfectly positioned in the sunlight where, at 9 am each morning, I’d cradle my cup of tea with both hands, bring it close to my nose and inhale the intoxicating aroma of lemongrass and ginger. The zest brought me back to life—a refreshing substitute for the sanitizer and urine stench that lingered inside the building.

That memory is seared so sweetly into my brain because it was the first time in my life I’d consciously felt the sun on my skin and realized how worthy I was to be kissed by the light.

(Photo taken from said rickety, old chair.)

After the tea meditation, I’d take my golden, super-fine locks out of a tightly gripped ponytail and let my scalp breathe. My fingers would glide gently along each strand, twisting and twirling them around my fingers, trying to memorize every inch before they’d soon be gone to chemo.

I wanted to remember so badly because those strands hid a lifetime of secrets. Secrets that I could call upon when time stood still and there was nothing left but feelings of shame & embarrassment for a smooth, sheen scalp—that, by societal standards, meant I was no longer a woman worthy of love, care, or gentleness.

Some of those secrets, I presume, are the reason I ended up as a 28-year-old cancer patient. Between the stress of hiding, the stress of being overworked & exploited, and all the years I pushed down traumatic moments…I know this illness was my body screaming out for help.

But still, even those secrets meant something to me. Maybe they weren’t always happy moments, but they told stories of all the ways I learned to protect myself. How wildly capable I was to overcome anything life threw at me. And how brilliant this body of mine truly was!

As I reflect on my upcoming 35th lap around the sun (yes, it’s still a few months away in January…but, in the Age of Aquarius, truth can’t wait), I’m flooded with those secrets again. But more so, flooded with happier wishes for the years ahead, and I’d like to share them with you:

1. I wish to make new secrets. Blissful secrets. Ones that only the stars and I will know about. Then, I want those secrets to spill over into the Universe once I’m gone and blanket worlds with whispers of my wisdom—because some secrets are meant to be spilled, and wisdom is meant to be shared.
   
   
2. I wish to devour the deliciousness of life. Every. Single. Day. I want to taste how sweet the summer berries are when picked at just the right moment. I want to turn those berries into sacred liquid sustenance and drink every last drop as if my life depends on it. I want this earth to hold me until I remember I am made of everything here.
   
   
3. I wish to make birthdays mean something again. I want to move forward, knowing that all of the pain was not for nothing. I want to turn that pain into peace and play with the moments I have left here.
   

I wish all of that for you, too.

I’ll leave you with this poem I wrote after having a pity party about getting older (we’ve all been there, amiright?)

I'm getting older, and I find myself

out of patience
as I trace these tiger stripes and craters
that blanket my thighs

I remember how many times I ran
out of patience
for these legs
and this body
and this life.

I remember how many times I gave up
on this body
and this life

when it failed to move
like it used to
look like it used to
play like it used to.

I remember how many times I crawled
through shards of glass
and blood-soaked dreams

because this body,
this life,
could not hold me
like it used to.

and the inevitable cracks would widen
pouring this body,
this life,
into pools of pity.

But today,
I have run out of patience
for pity

Because this body,
this life,
is now so very gentle
with me.

Remember: no matter how many times we fall apart, how cruel this world appears…we will always find a way to begin again. In fact, we must.

Until next time,

Natalia 💜

P.S. To learn more about me and my creative, cancer & survivorship support, or eco-somatic guidance sessions, click here.