I have these tiny bumps, almost like a tiny plague of boils that started on my fingers and have now covered all of them and across my palms, crept up my wrists and have now appeared on the tops of my feet. I don’t know if they’re a type of rash, reaction to medicine, skin irritation or what. All I know is that my body is in full revolt.

It’s been a tiring week, always wondering what new problem I’ll wake up to. On Monday I wasn’t even able to get my second infusion, my afternoon spent instead in isolation then in the respiratory wing getting chest x-rays and more tests, my cough from last week intensifying, light-headedness a frequent state. Breathing is hard. I’m calmed only by the existence of my emergency inhaler on my nightstand. It feels like a very small, but tangible lifeline.

I asked my friend Paola why my body hated me. She responded that my body loved me, and just needed extra attention. Well, she certainly has my attention. But I know what Paola was talking about, which was that even in its present state my body has and continues to carry me this far. That even broken things are working toward my healing, and that grace must extend to all parts of myself.

It’s a slow moving journey to stay rooted in those truths, but if there is one thing I have a lot of these days is time with myself. I’m sitting in the mess. I’m doing the work of healing. And while I know my neighbors hate it, that means sometimes singing and dancing around my living room to “Broken & Beautiful,” reminding myself that I don’t need to fix these things right now. I just need to witness, love, and keep trusting in new relations and new beginnings.

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