Six months ago today, I was in surgery. At this exact moment, I was lying in a hospital bed. I was rocking a very fashionable paper gown. I was pretending I wasn’t terrified. I was about to have a neuroendocrine cancer nodule removed from my right lung. I remembered thinking, great, just what I needed-another round of medical bingo. I had no idea that day would be the start of something bigger than just a scar. That was the day the fighter in me finally said, “Alright, we’re done with this crap. It’s time to live differently.”

Those first few weeks after surgery were rough – like, crying at commercials rough. It felt like God finally yelled, “Stop. Just Stop, Amber.” Honestly, He wasn’t wrong. I’d been sprinting through life like I was late to a meeting I didn’t even want to attend. Lying in that bed, I started asking “why.” Why me? Why again? Haven’t I punched enough holes on this suffering punch card? Deep down, I knew this was my divine timeout. I was on probation.

So, I did the only thing I knew I had any control over. I started reading about healing the nervous system. I explored trauma release and all the woo-woo stuff that went along with it. I found works for me. That’s when yoga came back into my life. The first time, after surgery, that I stepped onto the mat, I cried. Like not cute movie crying, I’m talking full body, red-nosed “is someone cutting onions?” crying. It cracked something open. I broke, and I fell in love again. Not with a person, but with my breath, my body, and my messy, healing self. This time yoga wasn’t about being flexible; it was about forgiving myself for all the years I wasn’t.

That part was harder than any pose. I had to face my past. The trauma, the secrets, and the pain I’d buried were so deep they probably had their own forwarding address. My abuse was something I carried like a shame badge for so long. I didn’t talk about it, didn’t acknowledge it, and definitely didn’t want to unpack it. When I finally started to open up, and really open up, to people who were struggling too, I realized something important. It was powerful to speak truth out loud. Every time I shared a piece of my story, it was like setting a stone down. Somehow, helping others carry theirs, made mine feel lighter.

This year, when I got sick again, I realized something big. I had been doing a great job helping everyone else heal, but I completely forgot to talk to myself. So, I did. That conversation? Whew. Brutal. Turns out, I can give a mean pep talk and an even meaner reality check. I had to forgive myself for how the trauma shaped me. I had to forgive how my childhood rewired my brain. I also had to forgive how unfair it all still felt. I used to hate that part. Now, I get it. I can see how every hard thing was carving me into who I was meant to be. Still wish God could’ve done it with a little less chaos, but hey-apparently I needed the deluxe “growth package.”

Leaving the corporate world years ago to do hair was my first real act of rebellion-and healing. I didn’t know it then, but being a hairstylist is kind of holy work. You get to literally lay hands on people. You make them feel better. Sometimes, you talk them off the ledge of a bad haircut or a worse breakup. I realized that what I loved most wasn’t the hair; it was the heart. I’ve always been drawn to helping people heal, even if it’s just by giving them bangs and a pep talk.

When I had to stop working after surgery, I didn’t know what to do with myself. There’s only so much Netflix and self-pity a girl can handle. So, I prayed. I meditated. I stared at the ceiling and thought deep thoughts like, “Wow, I really should have dusted that fan.” Somewhere in between all that stillness, I stared listening – really listening- to myself. I realized how long I’d ignored my own voice. Between the journaling, the breath work, and the yoga, I started to see little glimpses of the woman I used to be before life knocked me flat. Only now, she’s calmer, wiser, and still just as sarcastic.

My healing hasn’t been pretty. My right side still feels like a 2×4 some days, and rolling over without making a sound is still a work in progress. I’m learning to laugh about it. Healing is a lot like yoga- it’s difficult at first, but once you start breathing through it, something shifts. I’ve learned that patience is not my natural setting, but apparently, it’s the one God keeps putting me on repeat for.

Six months later, I can say this: I am softer, stronger, and more grateful than I’ve ever been. I’ve learned that everything changes when you start treating yourself like you’re worthy. When you feed your body like it’s the temple it is, when you speak kindly to yourself, when you rest without guilt. I used to think I was a survivor, but honestly that word doesn’t fit anymore. Survivors get through it. Warriors keep showing up, mascara smudged and hair in a messy bun, but still showing up. That’s me. I’ve fallen off the wagon of hope so many times, it probably has my name engraved on the seat. But, I keep climbing back on, because this life? As messy and unpredictable as it is, it’s still worth fighting for.

So yeah, six months ago, I was in surgery wondering if I’d ever feel normal again. Now, I’m here, living, laughing, stretching and crying- sometimes all in the same ten minutes. My body is healing. My soul is lighter. I finally feel like I’m stepping into the version of me I was always supposed to be. Maybe that’s the point of it all. It’s to stop surviving and start living. Even if your stretchy pants are the only thing holding you together while you do it.