I ‘ve been thinking about embodiment a lot lately, i.e., mind-body connection. Or, in my laymen’s terms, the theory and practice of being present in and connected to your body. One of the things that’s been really hard for me in this season is feeling betrayed by my body. I’ve wrestled a lot with how I will ever learn to trust my body again… I’ve always taken such good care of it and it went and stabbed me in the back and got cancer. I’m used to feeling pretty present and comfortable in my own skin, especially since I started exercising more and practicing yoga and meditation in the past few years. It’s been extremely disorienting to feel a deep disconnect from my body in this season, like I can’t trust it or feel safe in my own skin.

I was sharing some of these feelings with my girlfriends the other weekend (side note: I have the best friends in the world) and my friend Katie brought up an episode of the Liturgists podcast on embodiment.  The whole episode is really interesting, but at about 1:06:40, Hillary McBride (who I just adore) reads an embodiment exercise of sorts, apologizing and thanking her body for various things.  It’s really powerful and it made me long to be back in that space, to feel at one with myself and with who God made me to be. I felt inspired to write my own exercise, and thought it might be helpful to share. I’d highly recommend the experience for anyone… it was really powerful and healing for me. It took some time, but it helped me find a profound level of compassion and kindness for myself. I had been seeing my body as the perpetrator, only to find out that it was both the victim and the conquerer. Here goes:

Dear Body,

I’m sorry that this happened to you. I’m sorry that the enemy got inside.

I’m sorry that this world is fallen and you became prey to the cruel evidence of that.

You did nothing to deserve this.

You did not do this to yourself or to me, and I’m sorry for blaming you for it. 

I’m sorry for the trauma you have experienced and endured; the unending pricks and pokes, the scans and tests and chemo over and over again. The hours in bed.

I’m sorry for believing that you failed me. This was not your fault.

Thank you for the strength you’ve shown through this trauma.  Thank you for enduring.

You are amazing, and capable of so much more than I give you credit for.

Thank you for carrying life inside of you, even when cancer was simultaneously growing.

Thank you for beautifully birthing a healthy, perfect baby girl.  For nourishing her and sacrificing for her. You are brimming with strength.

Thank you for telling me that something was very wrong.

Thank you for fighting.

We are in this together and, aside from God, we will be the only ones who ever fully know the depth of pain and beauty that this season has created within us.

Thank you. I love you just as you are. 

This post was written by Bethany. This is our fifth update on Bethany’s cancer journey, to see older posts scroll down. Thanks for reading.

September 6

One strange thing about chemo and cancer is that as you get better, it doesn’t get easier. Chemo is chemo, and it knocks you to the ground every time, regardless of your progress.  I have three more chemo treatments left.  The countdown is like a mantra, on repeat in my head. “Three, two, one… three, two, one…” I only have to do this super hard, disgusting thing that I hate three more times. The end of treatment is in sight, but I also have to come to terms that cancer will now always be a part of my life.  The follow-up appointments, the way it will shape our family and our ministry, the fear that it could come back 5 or 55 years down the road. I hate it and I’m grateful for it all at the same time- the mixture of pain and depth that it’s created in our lives. I wish that I could end treatment and just wipe my hands clean of the whole experience, but I know that won’t be the case.

I often say to Ben that cancer is the club I desperately don’t want to be in… like, I’m in the club but I’m not showing up to the meetings.  I’m not ready to run a 5k for research or add “cancer survivor” to my instagram bio. I need some space. I’m longing for a season that is free from cancer and its restrictions, I’m longing for what it feels like to get to day 15 and not have to go back in for treatment. I’m hoping that space can bring me to a better place of acceptance.

The other day in counseling, I was processing a lot of things and I found myself succinctly saying something that had been swirling around in my head, but felt so good to say out loud, so simply and direct. I can find myself somewhat paralyzed by daily decisions… should we really own a microwave? Use normal sunscreen? Dry shampoo? Breathe the air in California? It all comes with a cancer warning. Sometimes I think I’m a complete fool for not throwing out every “toxic” thing in our house and replacing it with some essential oil-based substitute that will cost 4 times as much. It suddenly feels extremely urgent to get rid of anything in my life that could possibly invite this horrible thing back in.  Then, just as suddenly, I swing in the exact opposite direction.  I refuse to let my life be dictated by fear. I refuse to let cancer control so much of my life and my emotions and my spending. I know that there is a middle ground to all of this, but it’s very hard for me to settle into.  Anyway, what I said out loud to my therapist is, “I desperately want to make sure that this never ever happens to me again, and I desperately don’t want my life to be controlled by it, either.” Those things feel at odds to me most of the time, and I can’t seem to pick a camp.

I think the essential struggle of it is wrapped up in the confusing reality that I am a healthy person who got cancer. I eat really well, work out, buy organic, sleep 8 hours a night. I’ve never had surgery or broken a bone, and now I have to check the box on medical history forms that I’ve had cancer.  It still fails to compute.

It’s all very confusing and hard and strange but I am seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. As treatment ends, I know that I will still be processing all of this for a while to come, that it might be hard for me to engage with people who think that since my treatment is over, then everything must automatically be great again. I have all sorts of apprehension about navigating life after chemo, but when I think about that light at the end, I don’t see those things.  I see me, and Ben, and Nora. I see the three of us, surrounded by the light, whole and happy and tired and together. Three, two, one.