Because nothing says inner peace like broken ribs, swollen lymph nodes, and a prayer whispered in stretchy pants.

I know, I know. I ghosted you last week. Total MIA. Radio silence. Here’s the thing-sometimes life sucker punches you. Instead of standing up and swinging back, you crawl into bed, pull the covers over your head, and say “Not today, Satan.” That was me last week.

The scan results came back. Two more enlarged lymph nodes in my chest. And, surprise- some sort of lesion on my left kidney. Like, come on. I’m over here feeling amazing, kicking ass at the gym, rolling out my yoga mat like I’m about to ascend to Nirvana. Meanwhile, my insides are over here playing Whack-A-Mole with cancer scares.

I didn’t want to make the call. I didn’t want to schedule more scans or have that oh-so-cheery conversation with my oncologist. I finally did it yesterday. Because apparently, avoidance isn’t a long-term health plan. So, we’re back on the scan train, followed by yet another appointment. Oh- and I meet with rheumatology this week too, because what’s one more specialist when you’ve already got a punch card at the hospital gift shop?

Also, plot twist, I have broken ribs. Yeah. That’s a thing now. Maybe that explains why everything still feels so off. Or maybe I’ve just forgotten what “normal” even feels like at this point.

It’s weird, because physically and mentally, I feel stronger than I have in ages. I’ve been reading more. Not just books about surviving illness but about living through it. I’ve been praying more. My heart feels lighter, even though my anxiety still likes to pop in uninvited like the world’s worst party guest. And yoga? Yoga has straight up cracked me open in the best way possible.

Let’s rewind to four years ago. Just had a hysterectomy. Just got slammed with not one, but two autoimmune disorders. Mentally I was wrecked. Emotionally? Not far behind. I couldn’t find anything that helped. My friend kept saying “You need yoga.” And I was like, “Girl, I need a margarita and a nap.”

She ambushed me at my daughter’s birthday party-with my husband right there, so I had no way to back out. That’s how I ended up at my first Restorative class with Elizabeth. That class? Still my favorite. I will leave a birthday party, a family cookout, or a room mid-conversation-just to make it to this class on time. My “do-not-even-think-about-asking-me-to-miss-it” time.

That class is my weekly reset button. It’s where I check in with my body and ask it, “Hey, how we doing?” It’s where I stretch out all the crap the week tried to shove into me and replace it with peace. It’s my go-home-put-the-kettle-on-and-curl-up-with-a-good-book moment.

But, like everything else, life happened. I fell off. Then I’d get stressed out, and right on cue- Rachel would call: “Yoga class?” Like she was my personal spiritual alarm clock. Each time, I’d try to squeeze it in between laundry, lacrosse, work, dishes and just.. life.

Then last year, my body just… stopped. Like a hard shutdown. I truly thought I was dying. I had no clue what was happening. All I knew was: I had to figure it out. So, I did. ER visits, blood draws, staph infections, new doctors, more specialists than a Grey’s Anatomy reunion episode. I was forced to slow down and take inventory.

For once, I wasn’t the helper. I wasn’t the fixer. I was the one being fixed. I had to put myself first, and guess what? The world didn’t fall apart.

Recovery was brutal. I thought I’d bounce back in two weeks. Hilarious, right? Spoiler: I didn’t. Now we know those broken ribs weren’t helping either. But listen-I’m a tough cookie. I’ve survived worse. This? This I will conquer.

Here’s the part no one talks about: the emotional fallout. I cried every. damn. day. after surgery. I was a puddle of unresolved trauma and physical pain. I cried in church. I cried during yoga. I cried if the wind blew weird. And you know what? I still do, and it’s okay.

I went back to yoga three weeks after surgery. Not to warrior poses or handstands or anything wild. I went to the stretchy, supportive, “just let your body breathe” kind of class. I went back to Elizabeth’s, Sunday night Restorative class. I couldn’t twist. I couldn’t even roll to the right side. But I kept going.

Every class healed me. A little more. A little deeper. An essential oil blend here, a reading there-each one stitched me back together.

Yoga taught me how to listen again. To stop pushing. To stop proving.

Now, I can roll to my right side (most days, but still uncomfortable). My gym trainer still helps me get up sometimes, and yeah, that’s humbling, but not humiliating. Because I showed up.

Yoga has given me peace, self-love, and awe. Seriously-sometimes I just watch my body move and think, “Look at you go.” And I can’t wait to see what it can do next.

So no, I’m not letting some test or scan define me. I determine how I feel. I determine how I fight.

If you’ve never tried yoga, don’t write it off. It’s not just for super bendy, green juice-drinking women who live in Lululemon. It’s for healing. It’s for your soul. It’s for anyone who needs to remember what it feels like to feel again.

Go show yourself some love. Take off your shoes. Hit the mat. Breathe. Stretch. Heal.

You deserve it.

Namaste🧘🏻‍♀️

**Special shout out to my friend, Rachel -thank you for always asking no matter how many times or ways I said no.