Five years ago today, I heard “no-evidence of disease” (cancer-free) for the first time. I was finishing my second year of law school. I was known as the girl with cancer who scheduled surgeries strategically to minimally disrupt the grueling academics. Cancer labeled me for three years and as a young 20-something, it became much of my identity.

Five years later and I don’t think about cancer as often.

I think about it whenever Jane snuggles against my neck or the cat brushes up against me, and I remember I still have no feeling in the majority of my neck.

I think about it when I message with the women around the world I walked through surgeries and failed radiation with remotely. To feel so close to women I have never met in person is something so hard to explain.

I think about it when I see my heart rate hovering just shy of 200 bpm on a light jog around the neighborhood. I remember that the medication that keeps me going daily also causes heart palpitations and a quickly elevated heart rate.

I think about it when I receive a new message from someone who stumbled on this blog after receiving their diagnosis. Questions so pure and raw that it transports me back to those early days when almost all I thought about was cancer.

But, I don’t think about cancer as often any more.

Over the last five years, I have been slowly learning more about myself and creating an identity beyond cancer. Some of the most obvious life-changing events that have shaped my identity include the following:

I became an attorney.
I started working at a nonprofit advocating for people with disabilities.
I got married.
I had a daughter.

However, below the surface there has been more at play in these last five years. I started dealing with chest-crushing anxiety, which became unbearable while studying for the Bar exam, settled down for a while, and resurfaced during this stay-at-home COVID-19 pandemic. There are times I can hardly breathe because of anxiety over work or relationships. I also slipped into postpartum depression, which I have barely scratched the surface in understanding in myself at this time.

While being home working full-time during COVID-19 and parenting a toddler full-time has been challenging, I’ve seen goodness.

I weaned Jane at 17 months and have started to emerge from some of the postpartum fog.
I started weekly mental health counseling for the first time.
I joined my second 8-week HIIT/nutrition program with Fit4Mom to help jump start my overall health and well-being.
I have enjoyed spending so much more time with my hilarious, sassy, smart, and goofy toddler.

I don’t think about cancer as often any more, but on this five-year cancer-free anniversary, I choose to think about it a little more. To sit in the hard parts. To celebrate the victories. To recognize that while it may not label me the same way it did, it still holds space in my story and that’s OK. There is a lot more story to live and I will move forward, with a lot of prayer and with a whole lot of therapy.

Dear Jane,

It is your first birthday today. Right now, you are napping in your crib after falling asleep nursing. You are so independent that even in your sleep, you wish to be on your own and in your crib as soon as possible. If you fall asleep in my arms, you usually push for your freedom to be asleep in your crib. But not this afternoon. I held you a little longer before letting you down, and you let me. Thank you for letting me savor you a little longer.

I have the sound on the monitor higher than usual right now so I can hear your quiet snores above the heater in your room. I want to remember those sighs.

zzz…shhh
zzz…shhh

The cadence calms me.

Over the last year, we have spent hours together in that brown and white chair in your room. Early mornings, late nights, and the hours in between.  From those early days when your dad and I had to stroke your cheek and move your arms in a circle to keep you alert so you would eat to the most recent days when you reach out to me after bedtime stories with dad for some nursing before bed. Each month was new. You grew, and I grew with you.

zzz…shhh
zzz…shhh

I am tender today knowing that these moments will now be fading as we start to wean. These moments with you were precious and life-giving while simultaneously being very hard for your momma physically and emotionally. I know this is the right time to start this transition for the both of us, but it does leave me tender, oh so tender.

zzz…shhh
zzz…shhh

Janie Lu, my sweet, smiley, bubbly, baby girl. You bring my life joy and laughter every day. You show me God’s goodness and bring me hope in some of my darkest moments. You humble me and are teaching me how to let go of some of my One tendencies for perfection and order (in everything – parenting, postpartum body/mind, work/life balance) in exchange for unstructured time with you. You have changed everything, and I cannot imagine life without you. Happy 1st Birthday!

Love,
Momma

 

 

It has been a long time since I have written – almost a year. Writing used to be my safest place and brought me great joy. However, those of you who have followed my story for several years know that my writing has trailed off to nearly non-existent. Why?

I have been trying to figure this out for some time. All I knew was that when I started law school five years ago, something shifted and my writing has not been the same since. This week, I came to a realization for the first time and here I am, trying to make sense of it through prose. Please be patient with me.

When I moved to Chicago for law school, I just graduated from Biola University, a small Christian college in southern California, where I excelled academically, spiritually, emotionally, and relationally. I had also just finished several years of competing in RCC indoor percussion and various world-class drum corps, fine-tuning my mallet percussion skills dozens of hours a week, and feeling absolute confidence that I could play my part well…really well. I was so confident in who I was, the God-given gifts I was given, and my place in this world.

It was so easy for me to write during this time. I felt alive and sitting down to write was freeing. Creativity came easily and words came naturally. But then came law school.

My junior year of undergrad, in an only-God way, my passion for social justice and advocating for people to be free from sexual exploitation and human trafficking (and honestly my admiration for International Justice Mission) lead me to law school. I never wanted to be an attorney. I wanted to be an investigative journalist. I wanted to write about injustices around the world, tell important stories, and propose solutions.

However, after a life-changing trip to the Dominican Republic for a book project my junior year of college, I felt a strong pull to go to law school to advocate for these vulnerable populations. I tried to ignore the voice because it was terrifying. Law school?! It was so far outside of my comfort zone that I knew this small voice was not from me and despite every bone in my body wanting to run away, I listened.

I said “Yes,” and pretty soon I was googling “how to go to law school,” taking the LSAT, and applying for admission to law schools all over the country. I knew it was going to be hard. I knew it was going to be life-changing in many respects, but I was not prepared or the depth of this adjustment or the trauma that would be associated.

Law school was very difficult for me, not just intellectually but also physically and emotionally. I was still dealing with thyroid cancer the first two of the three years, which drained me physically. But, more drastically, law school instilled in me some immense anxiety – like short-of-breath, often-on-the-verge-of-a-panic-attack kind of anxiety – mixed with perpetual self-doubt, constant lack of self-worth, and deep feelings of misplacement.

I was SO far outside of my familiarity, learning about things I had never heard of, surrounded by brilliant, competitive minds, and every day felt like a struggle just to survive. How could this be where I was meant to be?

I knew from the beginning that I wanted to work in public interest law / legal aid (for a nonprofit working with low-income individuals, providing free legal assistance). So, from the start, I got plugged into this community and I was all-in. Honestly, it was a survival tactic. It was my desperate attempt to find like-minded social justice-y, do good-y people who I could relate to more easily.

It was this community that reminded me that the end goal, being a legal aid attorney, could be worth the pain and anxiety of those three years (and let’s not even talk about the Bar exam).  So, I continued and made it through those difficult years. But, not without long-term consequences.

When you’re a legal aid attorney, there is a lot of focus on being trauma-informed in your practice. All our clients have varying levels of trauma when they come to you for free legal assistance. You hear their stories all-day, every day, as you try to provide them legal assistance they desperately need.

After a while, horrific stories of abuse / neglect/ exploitation land on your ear less drastically and you find yourself numb. I work with low income clients with disabilities who have been sexually abused or trafficked. My every day involves stories of trauma from clients who have experienced unimaginable pain. I expect it and most days I leave the office thinking I’m leaving the work there, that I’ve learned not to internalize the stories, and that I understand the impact of these stories on my mental health.

I have been to many CLEs (continuing legal education courses) on secondary /vicarious trauma, etc. and self-care, and how exposure to the trauma of others on a regularly basis can adversely impact your mental health if you don’t focus on self-care simultaneously. I have heard all kinds of examples and been given numerous tools for recognizing and responding to this experience.

Until this week, my ego prevented me from admitting that maybe I was not recognizing or responding to my personal experience. For the first time, I saw an example that indicated a “lack of creativity” as a sign of secondary / vicarious trauma.

That struck a nerve.

Is this why my writing / playing music / desire to complete crafts or projects has been stifled these few years? It makes so much sense now.

When I come home from work, I find myself too emotionally exhausted to think about writing or creating in any other medium. I’ve carried guilt with this for some time.

“You’re just lazy.”

“Just write.”

“Just play.”

“Just. Do. It.”

But I find that I can’t physically or emotionally muster up the strength to create or produce anything else. I’m just tired. Physically. Emotionally. Completely wiped.

I can’t tell you the number of times I have sat down to write and just stared at the screen with complete exhaustion. The thought of trying to put together a cohesive thought was daunting. So, I closed my laptop and went about my business.

I was sharing some of this with Andrew the other day and he kindly asked what we could do to make this better. I’m truly not sure. I’m still a young attorney and I know over time I will find more space to recognize when I need to focus on self-care and to learn better ways to not internalize so much of the daily trauma I hear in the office each day.

But, I told him, this revelation was absolutely liberating to me, because I was beginning to think I lost all my creative juices when I entered law school and then the legal profession. I felt lazy and became frustrated with my inability to create more regularly or on-command.

Maybe (just maybe) my words, my creativity, my voice have just been buried temporarily in my personal trauma related to cancer + law school and the secondary / vicarious trauma that has compounded on this experience through my first couple years as a legal aid attorney.

So friends, here I am, wearing my heart on my sleeve. Typing furiously on the airplane en route to speak at a conference. But for the first time in a long time, I had the itch to write. I felt that frantic nudge to pull out my computer and just start typing and I haven’t had that nudge in years.

I count this a success and a little bit of self-awareness goes a long way I think? And so does a little grace for myself and kinder self-talk.

I know this won’t be resolved overnight. I know I won’t be back at full creative capacity for some time, but for the first time in a long time, I don’t think all is lost. I think the creativity is still there, just buried, and I’ll give myself more compassion while trying to uncover it.

I learned long ago that I process life through writing. Before law school, this came easy. I could sit in a coffee shop,  and words would practically jump onto the page. It was effortless, and by the end, I had a better understanding of myself and the season I was walking through at that time. I would exhale a sigh of relief and feel confident that I could face my day with greater understanding of my spiritual, emotional, and physical health, and with greater sensitivity to what God was trying to teach me.

When law school began, extracurricular writing went out the window. My words became fewer and writing in solitude became more of a chore and brought much less joy.  My anxiety and stress increased exponentially as the pressure of law school fully consumed me, steadily chipping away at my spirit, emotions, and body. While slowly crumbling internally, I steadily built walls around my heart and spirit to protect myself from appearing weak or like I did not belong.

As fear overwhelmed me daily, I did not use the same cathartic writing process to gain a deeper understanding of myself. As a result, I did not exhale the same sigh of relief that came with feeling close to the Father’s heart through solitude, and I slowly became distant. My relationship with Him became stale and dry.

One year ago today, Andrew and I finished the Bar exam. I knew this would mark the start of a new beginning (assuming we passed, of course). On the week of the exam, I was so anxious that I developed stress hives. I couldn’t sleep, I lost my appetite, and I was absolutely distressed. I did everything the bar prep course called me to do (and then some), but I had no confidence in my ability to pass.

Fast forward – Andrew and I got married a month later. We both passed the Bar and became licensed attorneys. I started my first legal job, working with people with disabilities who have been sexually abused or sex trafficked in Illinois (exactly what I hoped to do entering law school). Slowly, a new normal began to set, but I continued to feel a little distant and not fully myself.

Right in the thick of trying to figure out this new normal, Andrew and I committed to running across the state of Washington with Venture  to help provide food for refugees in southeast Asia at the border of Thailand and Myanmar.

Many of you remember my first Venture trip in 2012, a cycling trip benefiting International Justice Mission where we rode from Cincinnati, Ohio to IJM’s headquarters in Washington D.C. This trip was life-changing for me in many ways. Most importantly, it introduced to me to my Venture family and over the last 5 years, this family has taught me what it means to live in raw community.

THIS is what I have longed for every year since that bike trip in 2012, but my health and schedule would not allow another trip. I longed to return to my community, to build a larger community with new teammates, and to share this dear part of my story with Andrew.

So we did it. This month, we ran an epic relay across Washington.

17 teammates
350 miles run together
100 miles run individually

We returned on Sunday night, and I have had trouble processing. I sat down today and tried to figure out why, and that when I just started to write.

And write.

And write.

Words came a little easier today.

This trip was different from the cycling trip. I think primarily, because I am in a completely different stage of life. Before, I was fresh out of undergrad. I just moved from California to Chicago, and the world was incredibly exciting. I was supposed to start law school after the cycling tour, and I was off chasing big dreams. I was going to change the world, or else! I was in the best physical shape of my life, and I felt incredibly close to Jesus – I believed deeply that I was following his call in my life. It was all. so. good.

Going into this trip, I did not realize how much baggage I was carrying from the last several years until a few days into the trip.

I was tired. I was tired emotionally from work, physically from training, and spiritually from a season of dryness.

I was frustrated. I was frustrated because despite months and months of training, my body responded so much differently to the physical exertion. Being the stubborn person I am, this was emotionally taxing. Without my thyroid, I have little-to-no control over my energy levels, I am always very warm, and my thyroid medication makes my heart rate skyrocket and take a very long time to recover. I get frustrated having so little control over my body.

Yet, I also felt incredibly guilty when I felt these things, as one our sweet leaders ran our tour while fighting her own cancer battle. It felt so inappropriate for me to feel this way and I tried to suppress these thoughts and feelings.

I was sad. I was sad, because I was faced with the lingering pain related to my friend Sean’s murder. I shared his story on one of our runs, and I realized how much pain I continue to feel remembering his life and mourning his death.

I was confused. I was confused, because this new season of life has brought more questions than answers. Wasn’t everything supposed to fall into place after law school? Everything is supposed to make sense now, right? My legal fellowship is almost half over. What is next? Where will I work when this is over? Where will we live? Other big life questions were on repeat in my mind.

This trip slowly broke down my walls. My teammates were gracious with my whirlwind of emotions (thank you). We shared our testimonies in small groups as we ran. I talked about parts of my story that I never really talked about and shared memories that carried deep pain and deep shame for me. My teammates – my family – listened with open ears and gracious hearts. I felt the steady kneading of my heart and soul throughout the week. I felt my spirit lifting and re-opening, slowly, but steadily. I felt tender (something I have not been able to feel for years).

On my toughest day, we were at our housing site in Tacoma, Washington. Our leaders felt the weight of the day and thought we should do something a little different that evening. They asked Andrew, Anna, and I to lead worship for the group in the chapel. The three of us pulled together three songs (“Good Good Father,” “King of My Heart,” and “What A Beautiful Name”) in a few minutes. I played piano, Anna and I sang, and Andrew played bass on the organ. Our team sang and prayed. It was raw. It was real. Something shifted, and my heart softened a little more.

I still couldn’t process that evening until our last day. We debriefed as a team and attended church at Imago Dei in Portland, Oregon. That morning, they sang “King of My Heart,” and I could feel the Spirit moving in our team that morning, and it brought me back to that chapel a few nights before.

This is the start of a new season. A season that will be filled with more writing and intentional solitude. A season where I will allow myself to sit in tenderness, allow myself to feel deeply, and allow myself to break down these walls. It is time to lean in.

Thank you Andrew, for going on this adventure with me. Thank you for always being my biggest fan and for loving me even on my worst days. Thank you for seeing my needs before I even have a voice to share them. I am incredibly lucky to share life with you, and I am so thankful this trip is now part of our story. I love you.

Thank you team, for being so gracious with me. Thank you for making me laugh and for loving me well. Thank you for authentically leaning into Jesus and bringing me back to a tender place where I am better equipped to receive God’s love and give it out to others. As I continue to break down these walls I’ve built over the last few years, I will continue to think of you, to pray for you, and to love you.  Love, #2.

 

 

This is not a political post.

This weekend, I marched in the Women’s March in Chicago. Well, I guess we never marched, because over 250,000 showed up, and it wasn’t possible to march. So we rallied. And rallied. And rallied.

It is no surprise that this presidential election was impressively divisive, and there is great tension in our country. However, what I experienced at the March on Saturday was that women [and men] across all ideologies can still come together in unity. 

Did I agree with every sign displayed? No. Does that matter? No.

More than anything, the courage of 250,000 around me helped me face a shadow in my past for the first time. On Saturday, I decided to share something deeply personal for the first time publicly: I was sexually assaulted when I was 18 years-old. Typing those words makes me cringe. It is embarrassing, and I have written and erased these words again and again and again.

I did not realize until Saturday, that keeping this a secret and continuing to blame myself 9 years later is not healthy and in fact, it feels dishonest. As an advocate for people who have experienced sexual violence, it is time to own that experience. Even as I type this I keep justifying his behavior and thinking about what I could have done differently. This has to stop. The normalization of violence against women in our culture, especially by men in power, is something we all need to challenge daily.

This is why I march. We must do better. Our leaders must do better.

 

 

In September, I began my two-year Equal Justice Works fellowship sponsored by Greenberg Traurig, LLP to provide outreach and advocacy to people with disabilities to help this vulnerable population be free from sexual abuse and sex trafficking. My host organization is Equip for Equality, a nonprofit legal aid organization with a mission to advance the human and civil rights of people with disabilities.

Nearly four years ago, I realized people with disabilities are especially vulnerable to human trafficking and that there had been very little conversation beyond the summary issue statement. I was certain God was stirring this up in my heart.

I decided I wanted to create this fellowship to work directly on this issue and to creatively problem solve how to protect this vulnerable population from exploitation here in the US, especially here in Illinois and my beloved city Chicago.

I was thrilled and determined when I received the funding for this fellowship and was pumped to get started. But friends, I have to admit something. Creating something out of nothing is incredibly challenging, and I have struggled with immense self-doubt and worry that I will fail to make any impact over the next couple of years. #ThankYouLawSchoolForInsecurities

I felt alone and some days only my stubbornness to “make it work” kept me going. But then I received an email from a dear friend which seemed to change the direction of the wind:

You are not an island, you are not isolated, you are not lost – God is with you in each and every step. I am praying for clear direction, creative ideas, impactful relationships, much patience as you continue to learn and grow, and the deep, deep need to lean on your Heavenly Father as he carries you through this period of life. I also pray over your marriage, that the stresses and heartache that undoubtedly comes with your job is received with grace and compassion at home and with your husband.

Can I get an Amen?! That email was sent about a week ago, and I have printed it and placed it on my bulletin board at my office so I see it daily. You know what is amazing? That day, something shifted.

Since then, I received my first potential client referral. I also did my first substantive training on these issues to the Traumatic Brain Injury Advisory Council. They were incredibly encouraging and indicated the need for education into these issues within the disability community.

Then this week, I met a senior attorney part of a national disability rights organization who happened to be visiting from Washington DC, happened to already be on his way to our office to meet with another attorney, happened to be told that morning about my project by another organization and happened to be very interested in how we can work together on bringing national attention to this issue. [[read Jesus did this]]

And last night, I received the following email from a man in Korea:

Dear Lydia Sharp…

I heard that you are studying the trafficking of persons with disabilities. I am also a researcher of that issue. In 2014, Korean society was very shocked by ‘Salt farm slavery issue’.

I spent two months to investigate that trafficking issue. With the local police, I’d [found] the place of problem and investigated the issue, rescued the victims.

After that, I wrote some research papers about that issue. I recognized that Korean Society has no solution to solve that problem. The court punished most perpetrators very lightly, and released most of them. The victims became homeless without any support.

I approached that issue with the US Embassy in Seoul and reflected it in the [Trafficking in Persons] report [in] 2014 of US Department of State. And I visited the United States this year, invited by the US Department of State.

I am very glad that you are studying the problem of trafficking of persons with disabilities. Trafficking of persons with disabilities [is] very serious problem, but trafficking and disability are not being discussed together. The Palermo Protocol also does not reflect a disability perspective.

The problem of trafficking of persons with disabilities in Korea has not been solved yet. And I think it is the same worldwide. If you need additional information, I would like to help you, and I hope to exchange information and exchange continuously.

I mean, Wow! This man’s life work is unparalleled and his willingness to connect and collaborate across the world is just unbelievable. It helps cast away lingering self-doubt and insecurity in pursuing this unclear road. 

I not an island. 

I am not isolated. 

I am not lost. 

God is with me in each and every step. 

It will be difficult and it will take time, but I am confident this is where I am supposed to be.

 

Four years ago, I could not have predicted I would be sitting in a luxury hotel room in Washington DC after completing three full days of leadership training to launch my public interest law career.

Four years ago, I just completed quarantine for radiation treatment (which would fail), and I was adjusting to life without a thyroid. I was tired, and I was lonely in a city full of people. I was anxious to be in school, and I hated feeling like I was behind where I wanted to be.

Four years ago, I also could not have predicted I would meet my husband seven months later when I started law school (again). Yet, here we are.

As you can tell, I just changed the look of my site a little bit, and I updated my name. In law school, my blogging was rare, because…… law school. Now that I am out of school and settling into real life, I am hoping to get back into writing.

For now, here is a quick life update.

Andrew and I took the Bar exam July 26-27 and one month later, we got married on August 28 at Heritage Prairie Farm in Elburn, Illinois. The wedding was truly everything we could have hoped for and more. We had an intimate wedding, and people traveled from across the country to share in our day. We were loved so well.

The day after our wedding, we went to Switzerland for our honeymoon. We spent 10 days traveling through the country and its beauty exceeded our already high expectations.

On September 12, I started my Equal Justice Works fellowship, sponsored by Greenberg Traurig, at Equip for Equality. Through this fellowship, I get the privilege to start my legal career doing exactly what I want to do. I am advocating for people with disabilities to be free from human trafficking and sexual abuse.

On September 30, Andrew and I learned we both passed the Illinois Bar exam! Thank God. It feels surreal to settle into our marriage and our jobs knowing we will never test again. As a result, we have been able to volunteer more readily and fully in our church community and to offer our time in ways we have not been able to in three years. We love Chicago, and we love serving in our community.

So much can happen in a few short years and so much has happened. Thank you all for continuing this journey with me. I am excited to dive into this new chapter and to see where it leads.

 

 

This was a huge year. Some of the highlights include becoming cancer-free for the first time in three years, running my first half marathon, accidentally winning a Bahamas cruise (seriously, ask me about it), and getting engaged.

Such a big year ended on a difficult note when one of my best friends was murdered. I still manage to deny he is gone, and I don’t know when that will change. The funny thing about grief is each time feels like you are experiencing it for the first time, and the coping mechanisms you  learned from prior experiences do you little good. It is raw. It is organic. It is inexplicable.

When I am surrounded by people who knew Sean, loved him, and miss him dearly, it is easier for me to keep emotional distance from his absence. Their memories keep him present, and we laugh remembering all that he was to us.

But when I’m alone, that is when it becomes more real. I see his name on my speed dial and realize I can’t call him. I see his name on our wedding guest list and realize he won’t be there. I look at pictures from our Boulder visit this summer and realize it was the last time I saw him, and I will never see him again. One of my happiest memories is now colored with deep sadness.

I have a special waterproof mascara reserved for biopsy days, and I’ve worn it almost every day since Sean’s passing. Slowly, I’ve been able to wean myself off with some certainty I will make it through a day without weeping. Some days I make it, other days I don’t. Breathe in, breathe out.

No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing.

At other times it feels like being mildly drunk, or concussed. There is a sort of invisible blanket between the world and me. I find it hard to take in what anyone says. Or perhaps, hard to want to take it in. It is so uninteresting. Yet I want the others to be about me. I dread the moments when the house is empty. If only they would talk to one another and not to me. C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

I am thankful for Sean’s friendship and all of the years I got to spend with him. I am thankful for his humor, his intelligence, and his loyalty. I am thankful he called me friend for 14 years and made sure I knew I was valued. I am also thankful he and Andrew got to meet.

Next year will be an even bigger year. Andrew and I will graduate law school in May, take the Bar exam in July, get married in August, and honeymoon in Switzerland! It is going to be a whirlwind, and I cannot wait.

 

Yesterday, May 28, 2015, my endocrinologist came into the room and said:

Are you ready for a party?

For the first time in nearly three years, my thyroglobulin levels showed “undetectable” thyroid cancer. We will meet again in six months to see if anything changes, and if not, I will shift to yearly check ups.

I don’t know if I believe it.

It’s been a crazy three years. Four surgeries, unsuccessful radioactive iodine treatment, extensive nerve damage throughout my neck and right shoulder (which continues to get better), low energy, little metabolism, hundreds of needles, etc.

I am not the person I was when all of this began. I’ve tried to think of how to tell you how this experience has changed me, but I can’t find the words. All I know is 25 year-old Lydia is completely different from 22 year-old Lydia.

I’m overwhelmed looking back at all that has happened, and all of the people who have come alongside me from every part of my life. Thank you. Importantly, I also have a community from around the world who I connected with on Instagram right after diagnosis. It may sound so silly, but they changed everything. I know their stories, and they know mine. Our struggles, our triumphs…my little support group. Sometimes social media can be–dare I say–beautiful.

I can’t wait to see where life goes from here, without so many interruptions. I am still learning how to live in this new body, figuring out how to maximize energy and metabolism. Now, I can do this without any setbacks!

I can’t wait to dive into my final year of law school and to be fully present. What a change! I can breathe deeper already.

Thank you, Jesus. Thank you for your faithfulness.