Pool szn

Have you ever done a “real age” test? My insurance company has one on their site which they incentivize participants to do. I’ve consistently been a “real age” of 34. Woot.

And for a long time, I felt that.

I recently retook the assessment and, guess what, still 34.

Now I know it’s bogus.

While my mind and spirit are about there — young enough to be carefree and spirited, old enough to make (at least somewhat) good choices — my body has catapulted into senior citizenship.

Oy.

Menopause is like a sponge that takes all the WD-40 out of your joints and uploads a groan track to your brain. After sitting for a mere 20 minutes I can’t get up smoothly or quickly — or quietly!

As a pre-menopausal person, I would see this happen and think: they should’ve stayed active.

But this stiffness is so much more than a lack of toned muscles. You can’t understand it until it happens.

I can walk out the front door and break into a run, knocking out three miles in no time at all, but I can’t get out of my desk chair after an hour-long meeting.

As with most life phases, no one can ever really prepare you for the chapter you’re about to begin. When talking about growing up, becoming a parent, aging, we focus on the positive, exciting aspects and block the bad out or feel guilty for complaining or burdening others with our negativity.

Especially if you’re a woman.

Each phase is wildly different from the next. From the prescribed control and structure of childhood and teenage years into the freedom, chaos, and possibilities of young adulthood into figuring out how to share a life with a partner, to compromise, plan, and then into shaping the life, or lives, of offspring.

The only thing that stays the same is that everything changes.

And change is hard.

And life, being synonymous with change, is hard.

As I’m reflecting on all the changes I’ve been through recently, such as those that have left me stiff and grumpy, I’m realizing — and somewhat shocked by the realization — that the hardest change has been in our address.

We’re all still adjusting to this change and very much missing our old house.

Yet as I sit by the pool on this beautiful, sunny Sunday morning — with no play dates, parties, lessons, games or plans of any kind — it’s getting a little easier.

Listening to pure 90s nostalgia on a shitty free speaker (I have a five-star rated Bluetooth one just inside, but this one sounds more authentic, more like listening to K92 all summer in my second-floor bedroom with the glow-in-the-dark bead curtain) warms me with a peace and calm that this change, like all of the changes I’ve endured — and enjoyed — throughout my life will be what I make it.

And so it will be golden.

Because I say it is to be so.

Watching the puffy white clouds float across the bluest sky I’ve seen in a while, I’m letting the calm wash over me and I’m appreciating exactly where I am — physically and metaphorically.

I’ve realized something about life after a cancer battle: as much as you want to hear it, no one can tell you you’re fine and it won’t come back.

I mean, they can. But you won’t believe it. Because it is something that simply can not be said with certainty.

But yet, it’ll be what you want to hear.

Until one day it clicks. It could happen again. But now you’re not afraid to say that. To know it.

Because if it does, you will fight it and be strong.

That is what I do know to be certain. I will live my life to the fullest and be healthy and careful (without living a bubble-wrapped life) and know that, while inconvenient and definitely not fun, a recurrence doesn’t have to be terrifying.

The possibility of a recurrence and the fear of it had become worse than treating cancer. The anxiety of every bruise, bump, pain, symptom was driving me crazy. I got an emergency ultrasound when I found a lump (which was painful — a big cancer red flag) only to find out it was a metal clip placed during biopsy. I felt like an idiot (albeit an incredibly relieved idiot), but it helped to snap things back into perspective where they had slipped.

Life is precious. Focus on what’s important. Put your time, effort, and heart into what matters.

It took strength to beat cancer. But rather than diminishing my strength, the fight gave me more strength — like working a muscle. With that strength came more resolve, more wisdom. I care a lot less about bullshit that doesn’t matter. I’m letting go of the codependent, people-pleasing tendencies that have kept me busy and anxious throughout the years.

And I feel strong.