Rooted in soil, fueled by food, powered by information.

It’s been 4 weeks since it felt like they blasted a four-foot opening through my side, and strapping on a bra still feels like a tourniquet so tight I’m gasping for air. At home? Bras are a myth. Bralettes are a cruel joke. I’m embracing naked freedom and giving my stubborn under the boob incision the VIP air time it deserves.

My body’s still screaming for naps. I’m clocking more shut-eye than a bear in hibernation. I refuse to let recovery become my excuse. There is no way 5am workouts are happening; 7am is my wake-up call. That kicks off a walk on the treadmill, squats and leg lifts. It’s my 30-day “Get My Shit Together” challenge: move everyday, but move smart. If my body needs the rest, a 10-minute stretch counts as a victory.

At all hours, I find myself in detective mode-chasing down neuroendocrine cancer, Hashimoto’s, PCOS, LADA and that sneaky cortisol beast. I’m starting to wonder if stress is the real puppet master behind my immune system’s chaos. So, every morning, I carve out 15 minutes for meditation. Followed by 5 minute breathing sprints-just me, my lungs and a big middle finger to stress.

Mother’s Day brought an emotional reckoning, and it has taken me a full week to somewhat recover. Mom popped in with a card, and old wounds flared like fireworks. I trembled when I snapped-demanding answers I’m not sure I’ll ever get. There was anger, and there were tears, and all I can do is hope that one day, real healing will settle in. (This is one of those things I’m invested to heal, and will be telling my story.) That raw honesty is the work. If someone wants into my bubble, they have to be ready to build, not break.

To reclaim what felt uncontrollable, I plunged my bare toes into the grass and my fingers into the veggie garden. Just me, fresh dirt under my nails, pulling weeds like a plant overlord. Planting fresh herbs, tomatoes and peppers into the earth. Every scoop of soil grounded my soul, reminding me that while I may wobble, I still have deep roots in this world.

Grocery runs became a power moves: meal-prep staples for the week. Big monster salads, homemade dressings, Korean chicken, and pickled veggies that zing your soul awake. My fridge is now a control-freak’s power grid, stocked with healthy wins that keep me far from late-night pizza emergencies.

So here I am: wobbling like a baby zebra. Some days, raiding my snack arsenal for healthy bites. Giving my incision secret air breaks, and planting seeds- literal and metaphorical. Healing isn’t linear, but damn, I’m grabbing the bull by its horns and driving it exactly where I want to go. One belly laugh, one breath, one garden victory at a time.