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Finding My Second Wind

Oct7

For the first time in a long while, I feel a spark again.
It’s subtle, but it’s there — a second wind that’s guiding me toward something meaningful. I have a few projects on the horizon that I’m genuinely excited about, and that excitement feels… new. Familiar in a way, yet deeply different. Maybe that’s because this version of me — the one standing here now — isn’t who I used to be.

Over the past months, I’ve spent a lot of time looking inward. Trying to understand this “new me.” The one who carries both strength and fragility. The one who’s learning not to fight every twist in her path, but to flow with it — to dance with it.

A conversation with another member of the Stage 4 club shifted my perspective completely. He told me, “With Stage 4, you’re not a warrior, and you’re not a survivor — you’re a dancer.”
That really hand an impact on me and made me think. Then of course “YAAAAAAAASSSSSS!!!”

Because it’s true.
You stop trying to battle every cell, every scan, every fear — and instead, you learn to move with it. You sway between good days and bad, you rest when your body demands it, and you rise again when your spirit calls. You dance with life, with uncertainty, and yes, even with cancer.

Personally, I call my tumors and lesions “the parties.” They come and go, sometimes loud and wild, sometimes quiet and contained. Every so often, I check in — just to make sure they’re not getting out of control. It’s my way of keeping humor and grace alive in the middle of chaos.

Through reflection (and a lot of honesty), I’m finally starting to come to terms with who I am now — and even more, I’m beginning to appreciate what I’ve been through. Every setback, every scar, every “why me” moment has shaped this version of me that’s ready to create again.

The projects I’m working on are born from that journey. They come from the parts of me that have felt lost, found, broken, rebuilt, and redefined. I can’t wait to share them with you in the coming weeks — not just for those living with metastatic cancer, but for anyone trying to rediscover meaning in their own story.

Because maybe that’s what the second wind really is —
not the return of who we were, but the beginning of who we’re meant to become.

Grieving Your Youth

Sep16

I’m 55 years old, on the cusp of 56, and I feel like I’m standing in two worlds at once. In my mind, I’m still in my thirties—maybe late twenties on a good day. But when I look in the mirror or feel the way my body moves, I can’t deny the truth: youth has packed its bags and left the building.

I don’t have the tiny waist I once did. I’m no longer a size 6. My hair isn’t long and luxurious anymore, and my skin doesn’t glow like it used to. My back and hips don’t hold me up with the same ease, my knees are protesting daily, and my energy disappears faster than I’d like. My vision is fading, my hearing is slipping, and I walk into rooms forgetting why I’m there. Sometimes, I tell a story and lose my train of thought mid-sentence. The younger me would never have believed this was coming.

I’m grieving.

Not grieving my self—my mind, my spirit, my humor, or my essence—but grieving the body that once let me move through life with ease. The one that ran in heels, danced all night, climbed mountains without a second thought, and could pull together a day full of errands and still have energy left to go out at night. That body is gone, and I miss her.

I know people love to say things like:

“Age is just a number.”

“You’re only as old as you feel.”

“It beats the alternative.”

And sure, I get it. But those sayings feel like quick band-aids on a much deeper wound. Because the truth is, I’ve never been this old before. I don’t know how to carry the weight of it yet. I’m trying to figure out who I am now in this changed body, and it’s harder than I expected.

Yes, I could focus on wisdom. On all I’ve learned. On the fact that inside, I still feel vibrant and capable and full of ideas. And some days, that’s enough. But most days, my body pulls me back to reality: you can’t do everything you used to.

So, is it superficial to grieve this? Or is it something deeper, even profound?

I think it’s both. Grieving youth isn’t just about looks, or size, or energy. It’s about saying goodbye to the version of myself who moved through life effortlessly. It’s about learning to accept the trade-off—wisdom and perspective in exchange for aches, fatigue, and softness where firmness once lived.

Here’s the truth I’ve landed on: I don’t have to like it. But I do have to accept it. People live, hopefully grow old, and eventually, we die. The body ages even while the spirit stays young. Somewhere in that messy middle is where I am—learning to honor who I was, while still embracing who I’m becoming.

And maybe that’s the real work of this stage of life: to let yourself grieve what’s gone, without letting it rob you of the joy that’s still here.

The Difference No One Talks About

Sep8

When people talk about cancer, the story almost always centers on survivorship. There’s a beginning, a middle, and an end. A diagnosis, a battle, and a victory. Survivors ring bells, declare themselves warriors who “beat cancer,” and step back into a version of normal life. Yes, there’s fear of recurrence. Yes, there ay be follow-up scans every six months or a year if something doesn’t feel right. Yes, there may be medications with side effects—but for most, those meds have a finish line, often five years down the road.

Stage IV is different.

There is no finish line. There is no “last day of treatment.” There is no bell to ring. Cancer doesn’t leave; it moves in. It’s not something you beat—it’s something you live with. Sometimes it quiets down, sometimes it flares up, but it is always there.

Stage IV means:

Infusions that don’t end. Scans more often. Constant blood work watching white blood cell counts and tumor markers. Stopping and starting meds because your body can’t handle it and the fear that everything will get out of control, and sometimes it does. Medications that are lifelong, not temporary. Radiation to stop growth on occasion. Exhaustion that never fully lifts. The knowledge that cancer is not a visitor that might come back—it already has.

For survivors, the narrative is one of triumph: “I fought and I won.” For those of us living with Stage IV, the narrative is different. It’s about endurance. Adaptation. Learning how to carry cancer alongside life, even when the load feels unbearable. Sometimes the disease wins ground. Sometimes it’s held in control. But it never leaves the room.

This isn’t about minimizing what early-stage survivors go through—their fight is real. But the lived reality of Stage IV is different. It’s not about beating cancer once and for all. It’s about learning to live fully while cancer stays.

Grieving the Old Me with Stage IV Cancer

Sep1

Grief with stage IV cancer isn’t just about death—it’s about losing pieces of yourself while you’re still here.

I grieve the life I had. The ability to plan a day and actually do it. The energy to say yes without wondering if I’ll be too fatigued, in pain, or stuck at another surprise blood draw. I watch people go on with their lives and sometimes wish I could just jump in without a second thought.

Instead, trips are shorter, closer, slower. They’re built with rest breaks and backup plans. My daily schedule has shifted from “here’s my whole day” to “here’s what I might try this week.” And when I don’t get it all done, it feels like failure—like I wasn’t enough.

The truth is, cancer has taught me a brutal lesson: energy isn’t just physical. Emotional energy drains faster than running a marathon. My body is fighting behind the scenes 24/7. And my brain? Let’s just say it’s its own exhausting full-time job.

So now I live in a rhythm: do a thing, rest, recharge, repeat. High-energy, pre-cancer me would’ve laughed at the idea of needing recovery time after folding laundry. Yet here I am, with a bullet journal (yes, I caved) trying to map out energy like its currency. I may not be able to control my body but I can take charge of how I respond to it.

This grief isn’t the same as mourning a death, but it is mourning—the loss of my old self, of the version of me who didn’t have to measure every ounce of energy just to exist. And yeah, it sucks.

But I’m still here. I’m still me—just reshaped. Different. Learning to live in this “new normal.” (ugh! I hate that term…must find something else like ‘The Realness Era’ or ‘Life 2.0 – with glitches’) And maybe the most defiant thing I can do is name the grief, feel it, and still keep moving forward, just a little slower and without a plan.

And this my friends is what it is to be resilient. One of the most important lessons to learn from your time on this rock.

Extra Padding: Flaw or Built-In Protection?

Aug21

I’ve been down on myself about weight lately. Then I fell, bruised my hip, and realized—thank goodness I landed on a “padded” spot.

That got me thinking. As women age, our bones thin, become fragile, and breaks from osteoporosis or osteopenia become a real risk. Maybe that “extra padding” isn’t a flaw. Maybe it’s armor.

Think about pregnancy. Weight gain is natural—not just for the baby, but to protect the mother’s body too. It’s the same principle later in life.

So what if the extra padding isn’t something to fight? What if it’s your body’s way of keeping you safe?

What do you think—protection or problem? Change my mind.

Midlife Is Not a Crisis — It’s a Reintroduction

Jul31

We’ve all heard it: “midlife crisis.” The term brings to mind red convertibles, dramatic haircuts, or spontaneous life overhauls. But let’s be real, midlife isn’t a crisis. It’s a reintroduction.

At some point between 40 and 60, life nudges (or shoves) us into a new chapter. Kids grow up. Careers shift. Bodies change. People we love pass away. The roles that once defined us—mother, partner, employee, caretaker—begin to evolve or even vanish. And in all that change, the world expects us to carry on like nothing’s different. But everything is different.

Here’s the truth: midlife doesn’t break us. It reveals us.

It’s the moment we ask: Who am I now?

Not the person we had to be for others, not the version of ourselves that checked all the boxes, but the person beneath all that. The one who may have been on mute while everyone else came first.

This stage of life is less about reinvention and more about reintroduction. Getting reacquainted with our own thoughts, our own dreams, and our own needs. It’s about shedding the “shoulds” and asking: “What do I actually want now?” What makes me feel alive, at ease, curious, creative, sexy, powerful?

And let’s be clear, this isn’t always comfortable. Sometimes reintroduction feels more like starting over. It may come with grief, regret, or a sense of loss for who we were. But there’s freedom in that blank space. Because now, we get to choose with intention. We’ve got history, humor, heartbreak, and grit. And that makes this next version of ourselves richer, deeper, and bolder than the last.

When my son graduated high school, I found myself asking, “Now what?” For 18 years, I was Mom: carpool driver, snack maker, emotional anchor, and his biggest cheerleader. Most of my social life revolved around his activities. I was at the hockey rink three days a week, surrounded by other parents who became my friends through the years. Then suddenly… silence. No more schedules, no more games. Just me.

I remember half-joking that I was going to “adopt” a younger player just to stay part of that world. It was funny, but it also masked a real sense of loss.

As my son stepped into adulthood, I stayed on emotional stand-by, always ready to switch back into full-on mom mode if needed. And of course, I was still there for him—through the ups, the downs, and the messy in-betweens, but our relationship had changed. And I had to figure out who I was outside of that role. For a while, I floundered. Without the title of Mom-on-duty, I felt a little untethered. Just Erika.

But slowly, I started reconnecting with the parts of myself I’d tucked away. My husband and I began spending more intentional time together—hiking, kayaking, just being outdoors. Things we used to love but hadn’t made space for in years. It turns out, the things that filled me up were still there… I just needed to reintroduce myself to them.

If you’re in that in-between space—no longer in the thick of motherhood but not quite sure who you are now—know this: you’re not lost, you’re just in transition. It’s okay to grieve the life that centered around raising your child, even as you celebrate their independence. This is your chance to rediscover what makes you feel alive. To explore passions you put on hold, reconnect with your partner, or even make new friends who know you as more than just “someone’s mom.” It’s not the end of something—it’s the beginning of a beautiful reintroduction to yourself.

So no, midlife isn’t a crisis.

It’s a handshake. A hug. A homecoming.

Welcome back to yourself. You’ve been waiting.

In a mental limbo

Sep18

It’s been quite some time since I’ve contributed anything here. Been a bit busy with the business and trying to figure out what to do next! Trying to get a business up and running is a lot of work. In addition to the event planning (which is really just wedding planning at this point) I’ve been doing refinance signings. I’m not sure how I feel about that yet. But it’s something. Oh and the son got married 2 weeks ago, so I’ve been all over the place. It’s coming to the end of wedding season and I’m trying to come up with ways to promote the business as well as trying to figure out exactly which direction I want to go in with this. I live in an area that is very big on the DIY thing. Everyone thinks that planning is the same as organizing and decorating. Oh if it were only that much.

So in addition to all that I’ve been kind of struggling with my lack of care and thought about the whole cancer thing. I talk to people who have been through it and I don’t seem to really care about it as much as I think I should. I mean yes it happened. Yes, it was horrible. Yes, I never want to go through it again. But I’m finding that I’m moving on. Anniversaries are coming up and I look back and yes I get emotional over it. I think about how hard it was and how far I’ve come.  I haven’t gone to a support group meeting in forever. And it’s not for any other reason other than I suppose I don’t really need the support anymore. But I start thinking, yeah, you don’t, but maybe you can help someone going through it who needs some sort of positivity. But then I think I don’t want to get pulled back into all that. I honestly and selfishly just want to put it behind me. Not to the point of pretending it never happened, but to just move on from it. I suppose it would be something like not wanting to live in the past or dwelling on it. But is that really what’s happening there? I mean there has got to be some balance there. This is one of those instances where you don’t have to go to extremes.

I just find it interesting that mentally this is where I am. I feel like I have no fear with things. I’m in this weird mental limbo. It’s like I don’t think, I just do things. Yet I over think and plan everything. I have a very strong lust for life and “just do it” kind of attitude but at the same time, I’m just numb. It’s a very interesting place. I feel like I’m trying so desperately to get out of the woods, but I’m not quite to the edge yet. Just when I think everything is “normal” something reels me back in to remind me. So I wonder if this is going to be my “new normal” or if I’m still in a transition. It seems like it all happened so long ago, yet I haven’t been out of treatment a year yet.

I sometimes feel like I jumped into things too soon. I have those “what the hell did I do?” moments. But then the panic stops and I feel like if I didn’t jump into things I wouldn’t be as far along with getting back to some sort of normalcy. I’m sure I’m totally over thinking all this. I need to just go with things and see where they take me!

So with that, I guess I can pick up on my little Diva journey where I left off. I still think it’s funny that this whole blog started off as a weight loss journey to reclaim my confidence back and this is how it played out. SOOOOO…..what have we learned from this little detour? Eat right. Exercise. Manage stress. Stay positive. Do what makes you happy. Live life to the fullest. You need to have a truly balanced life all around.

 

And so we resume Making of a Diva….

 

The Zen of Hiking

Jul11

Two weekends ago we went on our first major hike since we have been here. And as usual, every time I hike I get very introspective. My mind starts to think about each step and how the hike I’m on parallels my life. The last hike I did this on was to Finch Lake in Colorado. 5 miles in and 5 miles back. It was probably the hardest hike I’ve ever been on. This hike to St. Mary Peak would probably be ranked number 2.  A very closer number 2.

The hike was 3.5 miles uphill. And then another 3.5 miles back downhill. And when I say hill I mean mountain. When I first start out I have a lot of energy and hope that this is going to be a piece of cake and will breeze right through.  Then about 1/2 mile into it I start to get tired. I stop a lot along the way to catch my breath. I get to a point where I don’t think I continue and that’s when the zen of the hike sets in. I start to correlate the hike to life. If I can go through cancer, I can hike up this mountain. If I quit it will have beat me. What if I had done that when I was going through treatment? Then I begin to realize that the journey of the hike is very similar to life’s journey. You get to a point where you are just exhausted; physically and mentally you are done. You start to make deals with yourself if you get to the end. The worst part of the journey is when you can see the end in sight, but it still seems so far away. You are out of breath, your legs hurt and you just sit there on ponder if it’s worth it. Then you realize that you have come this far and you have no choice but to continue and complete this journey.  When you finally make it to the top, your legs are shaking, your chest hurts but you have a renewed sense of accomplishment. You rest and take it easy for a bit. You enjoy the view. You soak up the success of your accomplishment. But it is short lived and now you must move on and continue to complete the journey. You must go downhill.

Down is much easier than up, right? I mean it will go quicker. Well, down has its own set of challenges. It may be easier in some ways, but you are still exhausted and worn down from the up journey. You have to pace yourself and try not to get too ambitious. You have a tendency to want to get it over with as fast as you can. But if you go too fast you risk tripping over rocks or stumps and possibly falling and really hurting yourself.  There are times when you still need to stop to get your bearings. So you constantly remind yourself to pace yourself and take it easy.

When you finally come to the end, your legs are burning, you are beyond exhausted and are unable to move for days afterward. You are beyond relieved that the hike is over. You have a sense of accomplishment but look back at each section that was troublesome for you and how you got through it.  You rest and plan your next adventure.

Now that we got the first hike of the season out of the way, I think from here on out I’m going to stick to shorter, less elevated hills. Let’s hope I can mimic that in life as well.

Social Media…

May25

downloadI’ve been spending quite a bit of time on social media these days.  Developing a “presence.” While I create and write stuff it also makes me think. So I guess it’s doing what creating and writing is supposed to do. So that’s a good thing I suppose. I’ve noticed that everyone is very busy these days doing something. Remember the old days when you would reach out and talk to friends and family on the phone to catch up and see what is going on? Or you would meet them in person somewhere? I was thinking how this seems to happen less and less. At first I was starting to take all this non communication from people personally.  But then it kind of hit me. No body needs to communicate directly any more. Most people post their day to day (minute by minute) happenings on Social Media. First, don’t I think it’s cute that anyone actually reads anything I put out there? But I’m going to humor myself and assume that people pay attention to my stuff.

I know I find myself doing this all the time. I read their Facebook posts so I kinda know what is going on with everybody. Some people have stopped posting on Facebook, so I just assume they want to be left alone, and it’s nothing more than just wanting to unplug from the world. Which is probably something I should try doing for a bit.  I know I try to reach out to people that I’m close to outside of the online world. And honestly there is only like 1 person that I don’t live with that I talk to on the phone to catch up. Really just because happenings are just too complex with some things to type… Everyone else, a text, a post response…something very non-intimate.

Then I start to think about the lack of communication in the dealings with people on a day to day basis. You would think with the world overly communicating that everyone would be super good at it. Well, not so much. It seems that everyone although very “vocal” on a keyboard, has trouble communicating with actual people. I suppose that makes sense. This would also explain why everyone is very self centered. Everything is about ME ME ME ME ME. People don’t know how to listen. This is because they don’t practice this. They don’t have to. They sit on a computer or their phone and have one way conversations. They pay no attention to what is actually being said or printed. People skim articles, emails and posts. They don’t know how to comprehend. To slow down enough and stop waiting to respond enough to pay attention to what is being said or written. I think we are seeing this not only with our friends and family, but in our businesses and our government. I also believe this is why there is so much misunderstanding in the world. I don’t think it’s necessarily that so many people think so differently about topics, it’s that no one is listening to one another about them.

social mediaThe art of listening. Of taking the time to focus on something other than your own thoughts and feelings. People may just learn a thing or two not only about who they are communicating with, but about themselves.

So that’s my little mini rant today. Over nothing specific or particular. Just something I was thinking about while I was self indulged in my own self, blocking out the reset of the world. So homework for myself. (Yeah, see how this has become a theme lately? weird) Anyway….homework…To talk less and listen more. To not be so anxious to share my thoughts while other people are talking so I’m not listening or paying attention to them.

Now again, my disclaimer: These are my opinions as I see them. Open to interpretation. And always willing to hear people’s thoughts or opinions.

What Next

Dec27

I’ve been sitting here the last few days trying to figure out what my next steps are. What exactly it is I need to do and what I want to do. I was told at one point to look at this as having a blank slate. So I sit here staring at a blank slate wondering what my first stroke will be. I may be over thinking this. I feel like whatever color I choose or shape I create will define the remainder of my life. Logically I know this isn’t true. But I think I’m putting unnecessary pressure on myself to make sure I do everything just right. It’s like I want this next chapter to be perfect. I know that isn’t right. If I have learned anything I should go in with 3 paint brushes in each hand all different colors and just go nuts. Of course, that’s kind of how I’ve always lived my life it seems. I’ve never had a specific direction. I’ve always just flown by the seat of my pants and wait to see where things take me. I’ve never had a plan.  Which is just crazy for someone who seems to always be planning something. So I’ve been really taking a look at my life and myself. It’s been hard to look at myself from an outside point of view. Being totally objective. Being without personal emotional attachment.

Through treatment, I had been in a bit of a daze. I just went and did what I was told. I didn’t have to think too much about what to do and where I was going. The only thing I needed to know and be aware of is getting through all of it. My whole thought process was very simple, “whatever needs to be done to get this out of my body and make sure it never comes back…let’s do that.” It was all very simple. The drugs from chemo really affected my brain function. Surgery really messed with my mental state. Radiation wore me down mentally and physically. I sit here a month and a half after everything slowly coming out of all this fog. I still have trouble verbally communicating. I have the thought in my head but I can’t think of all the words I’m supposed to use.  Sometimes I can’t think of the order the words are supposed to be in. It’s like my brain and verbal function is not connected sometimes. Other things I have issues with are planning and multitasking. I purposely decided to cook specific things this holiday season because cooking, I have found, helps with all those functions. I have to plan it out and then do things in a specific order and at a specific time. That has helped. Of course, if something goes wrong I panic and then I lose my ability to communicate and reason. On the up side, it has shown me exactly where my weaknesses are and what I need to work on. I’ve been doing a lot of word games to try to help this. I also found some other games that help with order and reasoning.

Physically, I go back and forth between extreme fatigue and wanting to run a marathon. The physical part I’m not as concerned about. I go and work out at least 3-4 times a week at this point. I run, walk, swim and stretch.  Coming up here soon I’ll be upping the work outs a bit more. Weights for my upper body are a tricky thing yet. I tried but I have to be very careful. If I do too much my whole upper body swells.  I figured the swimming will help the upper body some. And I did start to do planks. Eventually, my upper body will be strong enough to start adding weights on dry land. But for now, we keep it in the water.

I’m trying to look at things as positively and realistically as possible. If I were to say 2017 is going to be a fabulous year and there will be nothing but good things happening I would be delusional. I look at 2016 as the year of being torn down. This means 2017 is the year to rebuild. It’s not going to be easy. There are going to be some roadblocks (there always are). It’s going to be a tough road.  Another battle…a different battle. I have to set realistic expectations of myself. Just like “oh treatments over now, it’s done and you can go back to your life” isn’t a reality (although how nice would that be). In reality, it’s “now that treatment is over what the hell am I left with here and how can I make this work.” The major problem that I’m finding is my mental state. This is my biggest hurdle. I find that I don’t seem to care about the same things as much as I did before. My priorities have shifted. The question is have they shifted so much that I’m not going to be able to function. I think there is a balance I have to develop.

For 2017 there are going to be a lot of changes. I want to say I’m never going to look back, but sometimes you have to look back to see how far you have come. I think the key is to not dwell on the past. Look fondly at the experience regardless of what that experience was. Remember the lessons you have learned from it, extract anything that could be useful for a current situation or one you are faced with, and then let it go and move on. Never dwell on the negative and get lost in the details of what happened. I don’t want to live there again. I’m hoping that each year will get easier. Right now appointments are every 3 months. As they become every 6 months and hopefully every year I will be able to relax and find my new place in this life and create things I never thought were possible.  Whatever….Right now I have to try to figure out how to live with this cloud over my head. Maybe someday that will go away too.