Digging Toward the Light

So, you haven’t heard from me for a while.
But trust me, I’ve been thinking about you.

I’ve been down in a deep, dark hole — the kind that swallows up your days, your plans, and your sense of humor. Pain took the wheel for a while, and confusion rode shotgun. It wasn’t pretty.

But here’s the thing about holes: if you can’t climb out, you can at least start digging toward the light.
And thanks to some pain meds that actually work, I’m doing just that — one shaky, stubborn scoop at a time.

You’d think that being this close to finishing chemo (only two more on the schedule!) would have me doing cartwheels down the hallway. Spoiler: it doesn’t.
Instead, I’m more afraid now than I was at the start.
Because what happens after?
What will the next PET scan show?
Will this be the end of treatment — forever, for now, or not at all?

So many questions, none with clear answers. And when you’re tired, those questions echo louder.

I’ll be honest: I look like I’ve been through a war zone — round-faced, square-bodied, and about seventy-five years older than my birth certificate says. Nothing fits, not my jeans, not my energy, not even my reflection some days.
But maybe that’s okay.
Maybe this version of me — the one with no eyelashes, no patience, and no filters — is exactly who I’m supposed to be right now.

Because here’s what I’ve learned in the dark:
Hope doesn’t live on the surface.
It hides deep down in the cracks of you, where the light can reach only when you’re still enough to notice.

And I think — just maybe — I’m starting to see a glimmer again.

So if you’re in your own hole right now, hold on.
Take the meds. Ask for help. Complain loudly. Laugh when you can.
And when the light starts to peek through, even just a little — don’t question it.
Just climb toward it.

I’ll meet you there.