Healing my body, stretching my soul, and trying not to fart in pigeon pose.

Last week was weird. Not like “accidentally texting the wrong person while sleep-deprived and holding a spoonful of peanut butter weird.” More like, “Hey, is this what peace and purpose feel like? Because I’m suspicious.”

Let me back up. I started back with my personal trainer this week. I know, cue the Rocky music and the slow-motion montage of me trying to remember how to lift weights without tearing something important (like my spirit). The thing is, I’ve been doing yoga religiously these past six weeks while healing, and I love it. I’ve got my warrior pose down. My down dog is no longer an accidental face plant, and my zebra booty is finding its way back to center. I felt like I needed to add strength training back into the mix-because apparently, carrying emotional baggage doesn’t count as resistance work.

Now, here’s the kicker. My brain-sweet, delusional brain-thought I could just waltz into the gym and pick up where I left off… five years ago. You know, before I took the scenic route through two cancer diagnoses, a couple autoimmune disorders, and whatever mystery gremlin is still squatting rent-free in my immune system. She’s out in right filed doing cartwheels, refusing to be identified like she’s auditioning for her own show.

The truth is, I don’t even know when I started feeling sick. Was it after my hysterectomy? Was it the neuroendocrine tumor the whole time? Is this just one of those autoimmune sneak attacks that show up like, “Hey girl, I heard you had plans?” All I know is I went from feeling okay, to needing daily naps like I was a toddler who missed snack time. I’d get in a groove with yoga, feel amazing, then crash again. Rinse, repeat. My body has been throwing red flags like its coaching the NFL.

And yet… here I am.

I finally feel like everything is going to be okay. Like, deep breath in, unclench your jaw, and your shoulders are not earrings– okay. I’ve got scans coming up, rheumatology on August 1st (shout out to my autoimmune chaos committee). I feel better than I have in years. Maybe ever. I don’t say that lightly. You know I’m not out here handing out sunshine stickers and toxic positivity. I am saying this: I’m proud of myself. Like, deep-down proud. Like, “cry-in-the-car-after-the-gym-because-I-showed-up” proud.

I’m practicing yoga daily. I may only be in the studio 4-5 times a week, but I practice every damn day. It’s more than movement-it’s spiritual. You cannot walk out of a good yoga class and not feel like the universe whispered something just for you. It’s like your body, your breath and your soul finally sit at the same table and say, “Lets do this.”

I’m meditating more. Journaling. Reflecting. Going to bed earlier (yes, me). I listen to sound baths instead of the TV while falling asleep, which is growth, honestly. I feel like I’m finally discovering who I really am-and she’s strong, she’s funny, and she’s not taking any more shit.

My heart feels lighter. My legs are sore. My shoulders are getting stronger. I’ve lost inches off my waist, and I’m starting to regain feeling in my abs. I HAVE ABS. They are still hiding under trauma and hospital gowns, but they’re still in there, deep down somewhere.

As much as I as I want to throat-punch the phrase “everything happens for a reason,” I’m starting to wonder.. what if getting sick was the universe’s not-so-gentle way of saying, “Hey babe, it’s time. Prioritize you.”

Why do we, as women, feel like taking care of ourselves is selfish? Like our needs are optional, something we get to if there’s time left after everyone else’s fires are put out? Nope. Not anymore. I will never again feel guilty for putting myself first. Not when I have so much to live for. So much I want to see. So much I want to do.

This healing? This version of me? She’s not the same woman who walked into surgery eleven weeks ago. She’s fire. She’s grace. She’s slightly sore and covered in sweat, but she’s damn proud.

I’m taking this energy with me everywhere.

Even if my right arm still can’t lift the 15 pound dumbbell yet.

Namaste, bitches.

✨💪🏼🧘🏻‍♀️