PART I: BREAKING THE SILENCE

August 11, 2026

The Stillness Arc

Speaking about this openly is not easy. It is my life, my body, my fear, and my hope. It has taken me a year to find the courage to speak.

Today marks exactly one year since I survived an eight-hour surgery and four days in the hospital. Something in me says it is time to stop carrying this quietly and to share what this year has shaped in me.

More than two years ago, everything began with a blur of specialist appointments and confusing opinions. I searched for answers that never settled, like trying to hold water in my hands. Then, after long waits and misdiagnoses, a truth arrived without warning. A rare sarcoma. No cause. No explanation. A truth that did not solve my original symptoms, yet changed the shape of my life in an instant, like a sudden storm rolling in from a clear sky.

The months that followed were heavy and disorienting. Tests. Scans. Waiting rooms. The surgery. The slow, humbling recovery. I moved through something that felt like all seven stages of grief, sometimes all in a single afternoon. As a parent, the fear was sharper. When you have little ones depending on you, every unknown feels heavier.

My children were six and eight at the time. With my background in physiology, I tried to explain everything in simple terms. I remember looking at them and wondering how much they understood. I wondered how to prepare them for a future I was not sure I would see. I wondered how to say goodbye without saying goodbye. Later, I learned they understood all of it. They were scared too, quietly talking about it between themselves so they would not burden me. Children always know more than we think.

A few weeks after the surgery, I took a slow walk to the pharmacy. My body was healing, but every step felt deliberate. This was coming from someone who had already been through two C sections, someone who watched her surgeries through mirror reflections and regained mobility almost immediately. Yet this time felt different. Not only in my body, but in the rawness of the emotions that rose with each careful step.

The sun was warm. A soft summer breeze moved through the trees. Crickets hummed. Birds sang. I looked up at the sky and felt something I had not felt in a long time: it is good to be alive! That moment stayed with me. It felt like the world was whispering that I still had more to do here.

Although the surgery is behind me, my body still carries symptoms with no name and no diagnosis. The uncertainty, the pain, the struggle, they remain part of my everyday life. I am not sharing this for sympathy, and I do not want special treatment. I show up. I work hard. I am as strong and as sharp as anyone around me. Illness has never diminished my mind. I give my best because it matters to me.

I believe that doing our best work is an act of self respect. It is not about titles or promotions. It is about honoring the time we have. Time moves forward. It does not pause. It does not turn back. I do not want to waste it or take it for granted. I want my time on earth to matter. I want to make a difference, big or small, along the way.

I am a silver lining person. While my symptoms persist, the investigations revealed something that could be resected, and that discovery saved my life. I still cannot make sense of why this happened, but I want it to mean something. I want my story, my six new scars, my badge of honor, to carry a message.

I need to say this because:

1.       For anyone facing illness or caring for someone who is, especially parents:

As we age, being part of the sandwich generation is not easy. Caring for older loved ones and young children at the same time can feel overwhelming. And when illness enters the picture, you might even wish the burden fell on you instead of them.

If you are navigating tests, treatments, fear, exhaustion, or the unbearable weight of imagining your children’s future without you, I see you. I feel you. I hear you. I have lived that roller coaster physically, emotionally, and mentally. You are not alone. Someone else is walking a similar road, even if you cannot see them yet.

Reach out to someone you trust, a family member, a friend, or a support group, even if it is just for a listening ear. Let yourself be supported. Speaking up is powerful. Community is powerful. You do not need to carry everything in silence. And if you ever want to talk, you can reach out to me.

“My mind [body] and me, we don't get along sometimes

And it gets hard to breathe, but I wouldn't change my life

And all of the crashin' and burnin' and breakin', I know now

If somebody sees me like this, then they won't feel alone now.” Selena Gomez, My Mind and Me

2.       For those who are alive and well, please live your life:

Life is fragile, short, and unpredictable. That is not a cliché. It is a truth you only fully understand when your mortality sits beside you.

Almost twenty years ago, a friend with a terminal diagnosis told me from his hospital bed that he wished he had traveled more. His words stayed with me. After my own experience, I promised myself no more postponing joy. No more saving dreams for someday. No more waiting for life to become less busy or less complicated.

I do not want to reach the end of my life thinking I should have done more, or wondering what might have happened if only I had a little more time. I do not want regrets or what ifs.

If this story gives you anything, let it be this: Live your life. Connect with your loved ones. Create memories. Laugh more. Worry less. Follow what makes your heart light up.

Before my surgery, I read Holly Butcher’s message, written before she passed from sarcoma at twenty-seven. Her words remind me to really live, to let go of the small stuff, to be present, and to love deeply. Her message has become a guidepost for me, to live fully and cherish every moment.

3. Be kind. You never know what someone is carrying:

This year has shown me how much people hold quietly inside themselves. Illness. Fear. Grief. Exhaustion. Pain that has no name. Stories they have never spoken aloud. Most of what hurts is invisible, and most of what people carry is never shared.

Kindness does not need to be grand to matter. A gentle tone. A patient pause. A moment of understanding. These small gestures can soften someone’s day in ways we may never fully know. They can remind a person that they are seen. They can remind them that they matter.

Choose kindness. It always finds its way to where it is needed most.

And when someone is rude or unkind without reason, perhaps we can meet that moment with a bit of grace. Not because their behaviour is acceptable, but because we rarely know the battles they are fighting quietly. Offering forgiveness, or simply choosing not to carry their heaviness with us, is its own form of compassion. Protect your energy. Give your time to the people who lift you up.

Thank you for reading. This is me showing up. This is me hoping that someone out there feels a little less alone and a little more inspired to live fully.

From this moment on, I will wear my six new scars proudly. They remind me of resilience, survival, and the preciousness of breath. They call me to live well, love deeply, and never take a single moment for granted.

Please stay tuned for Part II, where I share a simple practice that may offer you a moment of peace.

P.S. My heartfelt gratitude goes to the GI surgical oncology team at Mount Sinai, with special thanks to Dr. Savtaj Brar and his team for their remarkable surgical skill and care. I am also deeply grateful to the gastroenterology teams at MacKenzie Health (Dr. Aman Arya) and at Scarborough General Hospital (Dr. Brian Chan), whose investigative insight led to the identification of the sarcoma.