(Or: How I Panicked Quietly, Hid in my Shell, and Eventually Came Back Out)

I’ve been quiet lately.

And before anyone offers something reasonable and emotionally evolved like “Rest is important”, let me clarify. This wasn’t that. This wasn’t intentional rest. This was fear getting the best of me.

When I get scared, I don’t spiral publicly. I don’t cry on the internet. I don’t send dramatic “I’m not okay” texts. I disappear. I tuck tail and get out of dodge. Well, actually.. no. That’s not accurate. I don’t leave. I turtle.

Everything comes in. Head. Arms. Legs. Emotions. Hopes. Plans. Social skills. Just whoop– straight into my shell. No processing. No sharing. No decisions. Just quiet survival mode and a vague sense that if I stay very still, maybe nothing else bad will happen. (Now, this has never once worked, but my nervous system insists we try it every time.)

So, if I’ve felt a little MIA-in my life, on here, everywhere-that’s why. This is what fear looks like for me. Quiet. Contained. Bare minimum energy. Showing up, technically, but not really being present anywhere while I do. I didn’t even realize how far inside my shell I’d crawled until I started trying to come back out.

First, let me say, I hope everyone had a wonderful Christmas. I actually did, and that feels worth mentioning. Last year’s holidays were a complete dumpster fire compared to this year’s. They came with a fun little side quest call “How will my body betray me today?”

You know, will I have energy? Will I be in pain? Will I need to sit down after five minutes or will I just quietly disassociate while pretending everything is fine? Very festive. Very magical.

This year? Shockingly calm. No internal countdown clock. No quiet panic about whether I’d make it through the day. I got that news the week before Christmas. It wasn’t cancer- and it felt like a full-body exhale. The kind where your shoulders drop before you even realize they’ve been living up around your ears. Naturally, the universe said, “cool. Now let’s talk about literally everything else.”

I’ve basically been MIA in my own life for the last six weeks, actually probably longer. Autopilot mode. Bare minimum effort. Doing all the things, showing up for everyone. Checking the boxes-while slowly, quietly shoving myself to the back burner like an afterthought. Listen, I know better. I teach better. But knowing something and doing something are two very different skill sets.

Also-is this what an autoimmune flare-up feels like? Total exhaustion? Brain fog like crazy. Joints aching for absolutely no good reason? Feeling like you got hit by a truck you never saw coming, but somehow you’re still expected to function like a normal adult?

Because if so, I would like to formally request a warning label. Or a siren. Or at the very least a pop-up notification that says, “Hey bestie, maybe don’t push through this one.”

Getting diagnosed with neuroendocrine cancer is scary in a very specific way. Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just deeply unsettling. The “what in the actual hell is that and why is it in my body?” kind. There was Googling. And more Googling. And the Googling of things I absolutely should not have Googled at 2am.

What really messed with me wasn’t just the cancer. It was realizing there was still something else wrong. Something undefined. Something with no name. I didn’t know what my next move was then, and if I’m being honest, I still don’t.

What I do know is how good I felt earlier this year. I was leaning into a more inflammation prevention diet. I was actually taking time for meditation and prayer everyday. My head was clearer. My body felt calmer. I was less reactive. Less exhausted. Less like a raccoon trapped in flight- or- flight with a planner. Instead, now, I was doing my meditation in the car-rider pick up line, and my prayers were looking more and more like a mental grocery list.

Then fall came. It got cold. Life got busy. My calendar filled up like it was personally offended by free time. Games. Practices. Work nights. Cleaning the house. Holiday chaos. Running everywhere like I wasn’t already hanging on by a thread. Somewhere in there, I quietly shoved myself into last place.

No wonder I got sick again.

Here’s the part that makes me mad: I noticed it happening. I felt myself slipping. I knew I was pushing me aside, and I still let it happen. Apparently, self-awareness does not automatically equal self-discipline.

Then the 6 month scan came back. And when I say “came back, ” I mean what the actual freak hell is going on here came back. Fractured vertebrae. Lesions on another one. And an 8 a.m. phone call from my oncologist on a Saturday. Which, in case you were wondering, is never good news. Never. This was a week before Thanksgiving. I was at an out-of-state lacrosse tournament for my daughter. On the sidelines. With snacks. Like a normal human.

So there I am, clapping and cheering and pretending to be present, while my brain absolutely refuses to cooperate. If this cancer has metastasized to my spine this fast, how much time do I have left? All the things are running through my mind. Like, Chris doesn’t even know how to pay the bills. I’m not even 100% sure he knows where the new dentist office is. And as I watch my daughter play, I wonder how many more games I’ll be there to watch.

Would I be there to see her graduate? Would I be there for her wedding? But the question that wrecked me wasn’t about death- it was about connection. If I wasn’t here, who would she go to just to talk? Who would answer her random questions? Who would she sit with when life got heavy? That thought hit harder than anything else did.

So, I did what I did best this year: cried quietly, smiled anyway. Turned into Chris like I was saying something totally normal. Just so I could wipe away my tears and pull myself back together. Elite-level masking. Ten out of Ten performance. Would not recommend.

The drive home was filled with Googling, holding Chris’s hand, and pretending to sleep so I didn’t have to explain why I was crying again. Monday brought the gym with it, then I tapped out. I called in a friend to work for me, because emotionally I was done. I needed a day to process. EVERYTHING. To compare scans. Look at blood work. Call doctors. Pray. Ask God – again- Really? Again?

That’s when it finally clicked: I had slipped back into old habits. I was still working out. Still doing yoga. But I was just going through the motions. Not healing. Not checking in. Just surviving.

Meditation and stillness are a gift, and I had let that time slip away. Just so I could “get more done.” Because apparently, I relearn this lesson every few months instead of one and done.

The weeks that followed were filled with scans, X-rays, labs, and appointments. Somehow, each answer was weirder than the last. Cancer has been ruled out. Thank God. What we’re left with is inflammation, plain in my ribs and spine and a nervous system that has officially had enough.

So yeah. Hot Mess Express over here still standing. May question stability though.

I went weeks trying to calm myself off down. Do I just continue like this? Because how was I going wasn’t working. I was emotional, disconnected, feeding my feelings. Forgetting about faith, prayer, meditation-all the things I learned this year when I was actually paying attention.

Then I went to church. We had missed due to snow, but I was happy to be going back. The message was about walking in the wasteland. Which felt personal. Rude, even. I cried through the entire service- like I had been doing lately. At this point it’s basically expected.

The service was about walking through your wasteland, and being stripped down to nothing. About the transformation that happens while you are in it. After church, I went to yoga. You’re always asked to set an intention for your practice. I chose surrender. I surrendered my fear, the worry, the constant need to be strong. I basically said, “Here. You take this. I’m exhausted.”

For the first time in months, I felt peace. Not answers. Not clarity. Just peace.

Here’s what I’m learning. Again:

You can hit the reset button as many times as you need to. You just can’t stop hitting it. Ever.

I was so busy worrying about who would take care of things if I got sicker- or if I wasn’t here-that I forgot to take care of myself now. If I want to show up for others, if I want to be a safe place for anyone who needs it, I have to start by showing up for myself.

Even when it’s messy. Even when I fall off track. Even when I have to start over- again. So for now, I’m slowly poking my head back out of the shell. Not sprinting. Not pretending I’ve got it all figured out. Just breathing, resetting and reminding myself that I’m allowed to take up space in my own life.

Worst case? I retreat, reset and come back again. Which apparently is my thing.

The other thing I know-and the reason I’m dusting off my microphone and working on my podcast is.

None of us are alone in this. Not in fear. Not in healing. Not in the quiet spiraling moments we don’t post about. We all fight fear, get knocked down and retreat sometimes. But how we come out of it-how we reset, surrender and keep showing up-that’s what defines us.

I don’t have all the answers. I’m still figuring things out. Still healing. Still learning how to listen to my body instead of fighting it. But know this: You’re not weak for being scared. You’re not broken for needing to reset, and you’re not alone in this fight.

So I’ll keep telling my story- honestly, sarcastically, imperfectly-and if it helps even one person feel less alone, then it’s worth it.

Keep fighting. I will too.