Ran into an old friend this weekend; I hadn’t seen her in a while. I assumed she was too busy with clever important things, and I’d left her alone.

Turns she’d been unwell. I was sorry I hadn’t made an effort to see her—if only I’d realized!

She shrugged and confessed that she’d been keeping it hidden.

Ah.

I kept a lot of things tamped down during the cancer battle. I know Brene Brown sings the praises of vulnerability and no doubt she is right. But how many parts have to be exposed and vulnerable at once?

My Sensei taught me to avoid the fight if you can. If I see a situation in distance, I should use Run Fu and get out of there.

But if I am in it, be all it. Every move I can made, every strike, every dodge, be 100 percent in. That includes blocking and defending, and when the fight is on all things narrow down to the next action.

After cooperating with the doctor’s medical attacks, I wasn’t sure what else I could do. I chose to keep putting my face out there. I felt as though I didn’t have a right to struggle in public, like I ought to be embarrassed and hide my weakness. I fought it by showing up so that I “may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand”

There was cringe factor. There was learning to be ok with what that day brought me.

With the fight over, the world has expanded. My wounds are healing, and this warrior is returning to regular life. What just happened in these last three years?

I’ll admit I’m jumpy after the long fight, but I did pick and finish a project from before. I published my book, and remembered that part of me.

Last time I wrote a book I didn’t know how to talk about it. I didn’t have the courage to be all in. I’ve learned a lot, and the world has made space for me.

The fighter I’ve become has also learned to make space for myself. Whether and elbow or a knee, or an introduction to a stranger that I’d like to meet.