Or: why my body is a full-time job and cheese can go straight to hell.

There’s something about telling your story. Really telling it, that pulls the pain out. It’s like a splinter that’s been sitting under the skin for years. I’ve been writing my blog. Thinking if I wanted to do a podcast, because you know, I love to talk. Suddenly, all this shit I’ve been through feels like it’s coming up like a bad burrito. It’s not just words-it’s everything. The surgeries, the scars, the quiet nights I cried alone, the fucking pizza that betrayed me.

Let me say this before anything else:

I don’t think I’m more special than anyone else.

I feel like I’ve been handed a lifetime supply of “WTF Moments.” Wrapped in medical paper and trauma tape.

Last week, I had surgery to remove a neuroendocrine tumor from my right lung. Nice, right? While they were in there, they pulled out four inflamed lymph nodes too. I have been tested, scanned, and stitched back together like a crime scene. I’m tired, y’all. Not ” I need a nap” tired. I’m molecularly tired. I walk for 30 minutes and I’m toast. But I keep going, because that’s what I do.

Because what choice do I have?

Sit down and give up?

Hell no, not my style.

Not when my daughter needs me. Not when my husband is watching me fight. He’s always, giving me the look that says “I’ve got you”. While telling me he will put his foot up my ass to insure I fight.

And now? Now I get a call from my new rheumatologist’s office:

“Hi, we got your blood work back and the doctor would like to see you back.”

Excuse me? I wasn’t supposed to go back for 3 months. Cue the full-body panic. The last time a doctor said those words, I found out I had lung cancer. So yea, I’m a little fucking twitchy. I’ve read my own labs. I have my suspicions. I know whats coming. But the waiting? The not knowing? It’s hell in stretchy pants.

This appointment is weighing on me. Chris will be there-of course he will. He will be there to ask the questions I can’t. He will just hold my hand while I cry, because I know I’ll cry. Sometimes, it’s just all the feelings, and you can’t control it anymore. Knowing you’re being told you’ll have to deal with this for the rest of your life. Life isn’t going to be easy, and you’re going to have to continue the fight.

Let me take a second to say this about my man:

If your partner doesn’t treat you like your Stevie Nicks floating through a field of chaos while also giving you shit like an old tour manager with zero patience, is he really your person? Chris and I? We’ve done the trenches, the trauma, the hospital nights, the “holy shit, now what?” panic. He listens when I spiral. He makes me laugh when I want to cry. He absolutely knows I will plug his nose in the middle of the night if the snoring gets outta hand.

But, let’s get back to the betrayal. Let’s talk food. Let’s talk inflammation.

Let’s talk about how fucking cheese decided to personally ruin my life.

Since that first emergency room visit, I cut out grains, dairy, and nightshades. For a full month. And you bet your fucking ass the first thing I added back in was peppers. Do not mess with a girl and her peppers. I will give up a lot, but I will burn the world down for peppers.

I’ve lost weight. My insulin needs are nearly nonexistent. My body is showing me what it wants-and what it absolutely does not. Like cheese. That real, melty, mozzarella-on-a-homemade-pizza cheese. I was so happy for like 12 hours, then my body said a big fat “FUCK YOU”. My knee caught fire. My toe joint screamed, and that shit hurts! Stupid toe. And my spirit died a little.

Cheese? Really?… You’re the villain now?

Chris looked at me and said “Nnnoooooo.”

And nothing else needed to be said.

And don’t even come at with me with vegan cheese. If I need to Google half the label, I’m not eating it. I eat real food, real ingredients. I’m not in this for little indulgences-I’m in this because of deep, primal cravings.

Like dark chocolate. The real deal.

Or those grain-free cinnamon and coconut sugar chips. I use them to scoop hot cooked apples. Yes, I cook the damn apples. Why? Because together, they taste like a 90’s era Hot Apple Pie from that fast food place we don’t speak of. You know the one. We all ate there once. I used to love their food. I used to get it. Then I grew up. Not just this year-like 15 years ago. My health journey has been a long one. But this latest chapter? It’s kicked my ass harder than all the rest combined.

So here I am. Still fighting. Still scared. Still laughing when I can.

Still showing up in stretchy pants with battle scars. Dark chocolate in my bag, and a hot cup of tea in my hand every damn night.

If you’re reading this and you’ve been through the fire, know that you’re not alone. If your life feels like one long game of “How much more can I take?” just know you’re not alone. You can cry and laugh, cuss and rage and still be brave as hell.

We don’t get to choose our battles. But we sure as shit get to choose how we show up. And I? I show up messy, mouthy and fucking unbreakable.