Second Chances

 

Oliver was my whole world. My soul dog. The greatest love I've ever known.

So he was always going to be hard to replace. His are big shoes paws to fill.

Meet Chance, the littlest gentleman to bounce into my heart.

Chance deserved a second chance at life and my heart deserves a second chance at true love. So in all the ways, we both rescued one another - just as it should be.

It's hard to welcome a new dog into your life. Or at least it is for me. But I thought what better time when I'm developing a brand new routine, when I'm surrounded by community and still fighting a feeling of loneliness from time to time, and when I've had some space to grieve. 

Chance is just under 13 lbs and will get to indulge in lots of yummy food and treats as he works his way up to a more healthy weight of 15 or 16 lbs. 

Chance bounces around all the time and he's likely a Boston Terrier, so my mom has nicknamed him Bean. 

He needs a little extra time and love as he learns grass is WAY preferred to rugs and hardwood. And we're keeping him nice and warm with doggie hoodie's while his hair grows back, having needed a total shave due to mistreatment and neglect.

But he sleeps through the night, tucked safely into his crate (inside the most quiet apartment I've ever lived in which has nothing to do with this pawsome introduction but I needed to mention it because it's bringing me insane joy) and he makes me happy every time I get to scoop him into my arms.

He has the sweetest eyes and his disposition will melt your heart.

We are each other's second chance in every sense of the word.

Thankful

 

I have an exceptional amount to be thankful for on this day of Thanksgiving.

Most people who know me well know I've spent the majority of the last eight of these holidays alone. 

I don't say that to create feelings of pity. I'm not asking for anyone to feel badly for me.

But life just went that way and it is my truth. 

So first and foremost, I am overflowing with gratitude that this year I will be at a table surrounded by immediate family and friends. 

It, for many, is the status quo of a major national holiday but it has not been for me for a very, very long time. 

Thanks to my brother, his future wife, my very best friend, my nephew, and my parents, I have a beautiful, warm, inviting home to welcome me back each time I open the door or open my eyes in the morning. And to welcome all those in my community - my village. 

If you know me well, you know I'm an introvert. If you believe me to be anything else you either do not know me well or you are well-fooled. I am not a social bug, have JOMO, and will happily stay tucked into my home vs going out every chance I get.

And yet, fascinatingly, I am surrounded by social bugs. And because of them all having more friends than people I even know I am surrounded by love and kindness, even if only via a text message.

So for that I am exceptionally thankful.

So today, I am very appreciative of the people, the safety I feel, the gift of love (big and small - I have someone to introduce you to next time), and for the stability of my health right now.

I hope you have many things and people to be grateful for as well and I wish you, and yours, a very Happy Thanksgiving.

An emotion I wasn't expecting

 Life can be fascinating. Emotions can surprise you. Sometimes we spend so much time sitting in a certain feeling it seems that is all we can feel. Certainly I'm referring to myself but I know I'm not alone.

And one emotion - a feeling if you will - that hit me hard a few days after I arrived back on the east coast is homesickness. Which caught me more off-guard than I can find words to express.

It wasn't home for long but the Bay Area, specifically a little spot tucked into the Peninsula, was where I called home for almost a year and a half. It was designed to be for much, much longer. But not unlike the time with Oliver that came to an end - though that was far more anticipated - my time there was limited. 

I miss two things. 

I don't know that it would be fair to list one first and then the other, as if one is more important.

No photo represents both better. 

I spent close to three months counting down the days (literally, one by one) til I was to get on a plane and fly for the final time to the east coast. And I didn't feel sad about it. I wasn't thinking about what I was leaving behind. I was exclusively focused on what I was moving toward. 

And then the last week came.

The way my school treated me from the moment I got a phone call that changed my whole life to the moment I walked off campus for the final time just over a week ago has been nothing short of extraordinary. And without realizing it, the people I'm closest to became the second thing I came to see would be hard to walk away from.

The other is sunshine. But while the people in my life on the east coast will now fill my days with memories, joy, comfort, company, and allow me to feel much less lonely, it was also the people there that filled me up.

I didn't deeply connect to how much they were also serving as sunshine. So perhaps the more appropriate thing to say is I'm missing the sunshine, and it encompasses all of what I'm at a loss for. 

(people of the east coast don't fret, I'm fully aware the sun makes plenty of appearances - in fact today is the first day of rain since my arrival). 

It's a metaphor, yes.

(but also it is f*ing cold here)

The day the photograph above, with the rainbow, was taken was a big event day for our admission team. Hundreds of people were on campus to meet us, to learn about the school, and to (in some cases) make big decisions about whether they should apply for admission for their daughter.

It poured. 

I don't mean it rained. I mean more water fell from the sky that morning than had probably fallen in months. 

Talk about inconvenient when it comes to an open campus where one is required to be outdoors to move from building to building.

I cannot take any credit for the photo with the rainbow. But someone was willing to go outside as soon as the rain paused. And what they captured is one of the most beautiful ways, without words, I can describe the school I have been privileged and proud to work for. 

Leaving on a jetplane

 

To me this image best represents how I feel, and have been feeling for about three months. 

I was pretty defiant and incredibly determined to make this whole I live alone on the west coast and I'm fine thing work when I was first diagnosed. Some of you reading this are nodding your head, because you were specifically part of those conversations. And I'm guessing others of you have certainly heard this by now.

Of course, when I first was diagnosed I had a terminally ill dog in my life and for obvious reasons, wasn't going anywhere unnecessarily. 

But that is only part of the reason. The other was sheer determination not to let anything else get in the way of my career, or to lose the life I had decided was for me.

Today, I'm officially making my way back - a day I have been anxiously and eagerly anticipating for weeks. 

It's finally here. I've sorted through everything, selling it, donating it, or boxing it up. I've turned services off, closed accounts, shipped my car, officially changed my address (why do they charge you to do that?) and squeezed as much as I can into suitcases to head....home.

Tonight, I will sleep in the one place that over the last nine months has allowed me to truly rest. Eat dinner with my family. And wake up the next day knowing there's no return ticket.

So why does this image feel so perfect to express how I am feeling in this moment...

Because I am putting my whole heart - that feels lit up with joyous anticipation - firmly into the hands of those who I know will hold it carefully and help me shine.

Edgework

 I had a Head of School at one of my former schools who used this term, Edgework, a lot. So I have to give credit to him for introducing this concept to me. I am paraphrasing, but he would say edgework is having one foot on solid ground - likely firmly planted in your comfort zone - where you know you're safe and if anything goes wrong you'll be okay. The other is dangling off the edge, willing to step into the unknown, unfamiliar, or even uncertain.

My favorite Peloton instructor says this a lot. I probably did not fully appreciate what she meant until earlier this year. I would have agreed, but I didn't feel it inside me like I do now. 

Leanne Hainsby-Alldis, and of course a few other favorites too, has been an important part of my life since September 2021. I actually got a Peloton bike when Oliver was facing a difficult surgery that was going to limit his movement and change the way he needed me. That is to say, he needed me around a lot more than was typical. I figured an easy way to cut out time apart was to workout at home - this coming from a girl who taught studio classes for years, and appreciated them as a client too.

I fell in love from the start. And I'd never even been on a spin bike in my whole life.

Peloton has been there for me much like a good friend. And that's because even on some of my most lousy days I show up to the bike. That doesn't always mean I'm taking a ride. And even if I am I'm probably not working out even close to the way I used to. Some days it's a meditation. Others it's a Barre class. And some days I feel good enough to pick up a light set of weights.

I've learned when I put in the time to move, I feel better - even if I still feel like garbage. I've realised it combats loneliness. And boredom too.

And whether it's made any difference at all to my situation, I feel stronger and it brings me joy. 

(and no I'm not getting some sort of kick back for promoting Peloton but I'm even more obsessed than I sound - ask around.)

Leanne (we're on a first name basis in my head) writes a weekly newsletter (if you feel so inclined, subscribe here), which she started about three months or so ago, and of course like her motivation on the bike I soak up her wisdom on the page.

So I wanted to share a part of her latest piece because it resonates so deeply this last week I'm on the west coast. She has battled cancer, yet she's referring to something totally different here. Despite the fact that she's talking about one thing, and I'm thinking about another, it felt powerful.

I'm standing right on the edge of change, not quite in my old world anymore, but not yet in the new one either. It's a strange space to live in. Physically, my body is feeling it (and for me we're talking massive anxiety), but emotionally I'm still catching up. Everything looks the same, but somehow, everything feels different. It's calm one minute, overwhelming the next. You can't focus, but you can't stop overthinking. A quiet hum of anticipation that sits somewhere between excitement and fear. I can feel it in my body - this mix of gratitude, nerves, joy, uncertainty, all wrapped up together...there's a lot of talk about 'new beginnings' but not enough about the waiting that comes before them. The bit where you're holding your breath, where you know life is about to expand in ways you can't prepare for...

Dare I say, there's a quiet grief in change too, even when it's the kind you've hoped and prayed for. You're saying goodbye to a version of yourself you've known so well. It's all going to look and feel different...just on the edge of it, I find myself nostalgic and a little sh*t scared at the same time.

I've loved this version of me, and I'm sure parts of me will always be there, but I can feel I'm ready to make space for something new. It's strange how you can feel so sure and so uncertain all at once. I've been trying to tell myself you don't have to have it all figured out to walk forward. You just have to keep stepping.

Change always asks something of us. It asks us to soften, to surrender a bit of control, to lower standards (we set upon ourselves) a little, to trust the ground will still be there when we take the next step. The last few weeks are the hardest to explain, but this is where it starts. Letting go. Becoming.

The audacity of hope

 

I'm absolutely sure I look like I have it together way more than I do. Most of us probably can align with that statement. But because I'm going through a tough health challenge, turning my life upside down (again), and navigating a new normal every day I'm in my own head a lot about ... well, a lot.

The anxiety in my body feels like it's had too much caffeine, especially at night. And for someone who takes great care not to consume any caffeine after 12:00 p.m., it seems a little backwards that my mind (and sometimes my body) feels as though it's being injected with the stuff at all hours.

Right now, in the final days as I prepare to move, a lot of the anxiety is about the same kind of stuff you'd be worried about if you were moving. Except I'm really good at moving so I'm a little surprised it's making me come undone.

Sometimes when I have moved in the past it has felt like an admission of defeat. The job didn't work out, the living situation didn't go as planned, the experience wasn't what I had anticipated - or hoped for.

And it would be easy for this time feel like that - a defeat. Like once again a city or a new place welcomed me in and then spit me back out. 

And my natural tendency is to quietly and independently clean it up, make plans to fix it, and hold out hope that next time might go better. After so many times that could be viewed as audacious. 

This time would be no exception, and even more bold.

I actually realized over the summer I still believe in the dreams I've held for a long time. That losing Oliver, carrying the weight of a difficult disease, not being able to be who I thought I could be is not a reason not to continually hope that someday I will have those dreams realized or have them back.

For awhile I thought 'you have a lot of nerve believing you can have (fill in the blank).' 

When you're alone and you become fiercely independent out of the need to survive you might, like I have so often, forget to ask for help, or struggle to believe there are people who will actually do things for you simply because they realize you need the favor. Or you do things that might open the door for that kind of community and it doesn't work out, and the result is a shrinking from trying again.

So whether it's the immediate family, the close friend, the neighbor, or the colleague, I'm going to work on being more open to the support. It's not likely to lower my anxiety over the next twelve days (not that I'm counting) but it does give me hope.

I've decided I'll be audacious. 

I even plan to add a new dog to my life once I move. 

Call it what you want

 The actual, medical definition of cancer is a group of diseases characterized by the uncontrolled growth and spread of abnormal cells that can invade and damage healthy tissues and organs.

The personal definition of cancer is a little more murky and, I would argue, open to interpretation. 

If asked, it takes no time at all for me to come up with mine. 

I'd use descriptions like shocking, devastating, really (really) hard, painful, the thief of normalcy, mind blowing, uncomfortable, mean (not like the kid who stole your favorite snack on the playground kind of mean but like worse scenario your mind can conjure up type of mean). 

To me, it's like suddenly being asked to breath under water.

But if I'm being honest, I'd describe some other things I've experienced in life about the same way. Speaking only for myself, I can think of quite a few hard hits in my life that fit the above description just as well.

Let's take divorce. Statiscally, more than a few of you have that shared experience. And I'm willing to bet that after enough time passed (whatever 'enough' was for you) you looked back and thought that there was some benefit to it. Positive outcomes came from it, a better road became available to you. You might even consider it a gift.

Recently I got to spend a morning with a friend who has experienced cancer. He's on the other side of it. Blessed with the word remission attached to his journey, and has the benefit of more time since the original diagnosis. 

I spent a significant amount of our time together admitting that I've been wishing away time. Which, in a previous version of my life, I'd scold myself for. 

We're all probably guilty of it. "Let's just get through today, this week, this dinner, this phone call, this appointment...and then..." 

But if every day is a gift, I am guilty of sending too many back lately - unappreciated, unsavored. No one might blame me. If you know me at all you know my line on repeat is 'some days are better than others.' 

But if I'm being really truthful here, the bad days aren't so great because - well, obviously - they aren't great days. Probably because my symptoms are in charge and not allowing me to come up for air. And on the good days I often wonder whether the next will be a return to feeling lousy or if I'll get lucky enough and experience a repeat. 

He said "You might not be ready to hear this yet, but I think you may come to find that cancer is a gift."

You might need a moment to soak that idea in. You might not agree. You might not know whether you'd think so if you had to join this club. 

And you might be surprised that it took me not even a moment to say "I completely agree."

I love the west coast. I love sunshine (no one can argue we get more of it here), I love water (I'll take in the form of a beach, a lake, a babbling brook, whatever). I've spent close to twenty years seeking a life - an adventurous, meaningful, interesting, different life than the one offered to me prior to the move. 

I bought a paddleboard. Hiked in some beautiful places. Went on stunning walks with Oliver and friends. I've met a lot of wonderful people I'd never have come across otherwise. And I'm proud of how open-minded I am as result of being exposed to so much.

But I've missed many of the small moments, quite a few of the highs and the lows, the little things, unimportant things, and sometimes big things with the people who mattered long before I changed coasts. 

Cancer has offered me the gift of rethinking what I want to focus on. Who I want to spend my days with - the good ones and the lousy ones. 

It has not come in a fantastic gift bag, and there are certainly no bows attached. But I believe I have been given a gift. With this move, it is my hope I will truly start to leave less of my days 'unopened.'

Endings and beginnings

 There's really no amount of time that could pass that would make my first piece of writing after losing Oliver easier. But I think I'm finally ready to try. I can't decide if I should be writing like the first episode of a series back after their summer break where you spend the first episode catching up from 'summer' (which in this case it mostly was) or if I skip the last few months and just move forward. 

Likely, it'll end up being a little bit of both.

Fall is my favorite season. I also love summer because the pace of life slows down, taking time off is normalized, and nothing feels as pressured. But autumn is the best. Spiced pumpkin chai lattes, leaves falling, pumpkins on the front porch, sweaters. I love it all. 

And this past summer and into the fall, I've been preparing for a truly new chapter - a new season if you will - of life. It's no secret to just about anyone who reads this blog (if there are any readers left - I would understand if you've disappeared since I did for awhile myself) that I'm closing the West Coast chapter in my life and returning to the East Coast.

I never dreamed I'd design a whole new life for myself only to find that just 15 months or so later I was boxing it up. At least not this time. When I moved to northern California in the summer of 2024 I had hopes of new friends, creating a name for myself at my new job, exploring new beaches and towns, finding my new favorite spots, and soaking in the sunshine. 

But that life was not meant to be.

Well, at least not entirely. I have met some amazing people. I poked my feet in the sand a handful of times. I feel grateful for the team I'm on and the work we've accomplished together. And we certainly have plenty of sun.

But in a couple weeks I'm going to make another move. It's different than all the other moves I've made. Some of them have been nothing but joy-filled. And admittedly, some have been nothing but a desperate need to make a change. This isn't different because it's both joy-filled and need based.

It's not even different because I'm moving thousands of miles away instead of just a few or hundreds. 

It's different because of the catalyst. 

When this all first started it felt like I'd prematurely rounded the corner into my final chapter. And maybe I have. I hope not. But whether I have or haven't, it's time to be near family. I'm lucky they all live in one city. And in a couple weeks I will join them and begin a new chapter - regardless of where it falls in the story. 

I'm glad to be back sharing that journey.

I am the luckiest.

Dogs are perfect. They forgive easily, love hard, ask almost nothing from us, think our arrival back in their presence is magical, and carry a rare kind of unfiltered, deep joy few can muster. 

Dogs have only one flaw. They don't stay here on earth with us nearly as long as we need them to. I needed Oliver to stay with me forever. Whatever my forever is. But that was never in the cards. Despite the knowledge that their will life will be relatively short, and the entry ticket comes with a required return, we willingly open our hearts to the kind of love that spills out and bursts like fire. 

Oliver gave me unconditional love like no one ever has, the kind of adoration that reminded me daily how much I mattered to him. He sat with me when I was sad, danced with me in times of happiness, let me rub him for as long as I wanted when I needed comfort, and made me laugh out loud in the most small, unimportant moments. 

Endlessly charming, even in his final months everyone who met him assumed he was still in his youth. And so many are surprised he is gone because despite intellectual awareness of his disease he never seemed ill. 

But in the last several weeks, I noticed incremental changes. He tried to hide them, never wanting to feel my hurt or fear. And yet, while his spirit never dampened and his soul remained as sweet as ever, his body decided it had offered enough time.

I've had a few other experiences in life that have left me feeling as ripped open, raw, and lost as I feel right now. And in the moments when the depth of the breathtakingly impossible pain seeps in, I remember the weight of him leaning into me. I hear him playing with his toys. Or barking at absolutely everything that moved. I remember that this precious, kind, trusting, beautiful soul found mine and I got not only ten wonderful years with him - but a final one with something I had been seeking for a long time: Peace. 

Being truly at peace, feeling safe and calm, can be easily taken for granted. He and I found that together in this final year, and I feel immensely grateful for it. Because of him I am better, stronger, wiser, healthier, happier, and know how incredibly fortunate I am. My life doesn't read like a streak of lucky breaks. But when it comes to Oliver, I am the luckiest.

Oliver Miles

fall 2014 - summer 2025

My soulmate, my angel, my greatest love.

The wait is the worst

 This last ten days have been hard, much harder than I let on to most. The waiting and wondering about a new health challenge was a lot to manage emotionally. 

And while I am writing to say I finally have the results and I do not have breast cancer - which is amazing - I want to acknowledge those who waited with me. 

Thank you to those who checked in and hoped for a good outcome with me. And most importantly for acknowledging that even when the result is good news, it can be unbelievably hard to avoid the fear that accompanies the wait. 

Time to exhale.