Closer Than Ever

Wellness. This is a word and concept that has eluded me for a long while now. Today marks my one-year anniversary of being on dasatinib, the chemo pill that is currently saving my life. While it is keeping my leukemia at bay, the medicine itself brings its own set of challenges. The last 14 months have been some of the hardest of my life, as I have learned how to navigate my new normal, as a cancer patient in ongoing treatment. The idea of wellness has been floating around in my mind more over the last year than it ever has in my life. What is it? What does it look like? How do I achieve it? How do I keep it? I’ve even wrestled with the idea of if wellness was even for me anymore. As I’ve struggled with these questions, I have sought God’s counsel and peace. For this blog post, I just wanted to briefly touch on what I’ve been learning, and what I will be taking with me into 2026 on the point of wellness.

Wellness is defined as “the quality or state of being in good health especially as an actively sought goal” (Merriam-Webster). Based on this definition, since my cancer diagnosis, I have not felt well. In fact, I have felt wrong every day for over 365 days. It is hard for me to admit, as it has been important to me to show all those who love me that I am doing okay. As I’ve thought and prayed though, I’ve come to question even that. Am I doing okay? Objectively, yes. I am alive and I am (for the most part) healthy. I am not in the hospital, I am not in need of a bone marrow transplant. I am able to live my life relatively normally. But do these things add up to wellness? That, I am not sure. I want to assure you, that as you read this, I am doing as well as I can be under the circumstances. As we go into 2026 though, I am feeling led to be more vulnerable with those I love and who love me. This is my attempt.

Cancer sucks. It hurts. It feels bad. My body is forever different than it once was. The term “new normal” feels almost gimmicky to me when I type it, but I really do have a new normal. My body is not the way it once was. I have written about my side effects, but I don’t feel as if I’ve ever been able to articulate how they really affect me day-to-day. While overall, I say I am well, I don’t feel okay. Ever. Not anymore at least. The very being of me has changed, and I can’t fully say how. It mystifies me, but all I can say is that chemo is rough. It is a hard thing to have to put into your body, especially every single day for over a year, and without a stopping point in sight. While I am immensely grateful for the medical advances that have brought me to where I am at now—where I get the opportunity to take this life-saving drug—it sucks bigtime!

The part of this all that continues to see me living in peace though, is Jesus. I’ve made short Facebook posts about this before, but I once again cannot accurately put into words how important it is to me now, that Jesus suffered physically for us. When I read about Jesus and his sacrifice, while my own illness does not actually mirror what he went through, it brings me supernatural peace, understanding, and gratitude. I have blood cancer, and Jesus’ blood is what saves my soul. The very thing that could end my life is what ultimately will save it. Isaiah 53:5 says, “but he was pierced for our transgressions; he was crushed for our iniquities; upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace, and with his wounds we are healed” (ESV).

I live every single day now with just the tiniest fraction of the pain and discomfort Jesus suffered for us, and it makes me feel closer to him than ever. I cannot compare our modern ailments with the entirety of Jesus’ sacrifice, where he quite literally died for us, but this feels as close as I will ever get to experiencing what he did, and it hurts. It hurts my heart. I have always had gratitude to my Savior, as his sacrifice saved us from having to do the same if we choose Him. Now though I cannot begin to express how my heart breaks for the Trinity. How my soul cries out to my God, lamenting and grieving, and sings out my praises, worship, and my thanksgiving.

After Jesus died, I believe that he rose again 3 days later. I believe he rose well—healed, restored, and full of peace. What a miracle. What a sickeningly, hauntingly beautiful thing that I get to believe in. I may live here on Earth, sick for now, and I may not be well in the most literal translation of the word, but look at my Savior. Look what happened to him, and what he made possible for us. Right now, I have to put poison into my body to save my life—I have to rely on that for today. It hurts and it feels achingly terrible most of the time. Someday though, someday I won’t have to. Whether I go into remission and get to stop the chemo eventually, or not. Whether I die, having put chemo into my body every single day for the next year, the next 10 years, or the next 60 years. No matter what happens, because of Jesus, someday I won’t need chemo. Someday, I will feel well again. When I say I am well, I will mean it with certainty. I won’t feel the pain or the weakness, I won’t feel the nausea, I won’t feel the fatigue and exhaustion. I won’t incessantly itch, or lie awake at night wishing I could fall asleep, only to be unable to get out of bed for the next 14 hours. I won’t be unable to stand up steady or walk in a straight line. I won’t have to stop and think for long moments before I can say what I am thinking. I won’t forget words and be unable to remember important tasks. I will be restored. I will be well. I will be well and I will be at peace. So for now, I may be unable to claim that wellness, but I can claim that peace. I can hold that promise in my heart, I can serve my God who loves me, and I can hope.

Going into 2026, I am focusing on that hope. I am going to do what I can to feel more well whenever I can. 2025 for me was about survival, in a very literal sense. It was focused on getting used to my medicine’s side effects and making sure my labs came back normal. It was about making sure my meds were the right dose, and that the amount of cancer cells was shrinking. Now that it has been a year and I can say that I am unfortunately used to all these horrible things, I can look forward with a different type of hope and peace than I had last year. My physical health is what it is, and I am feeling settled in that. I don’t dwell on my condition (though I do make a lot of jokes about it) or live in fear of how I will deal. I live and I keep moving forward. As my immediate physical health needs fall back into my new normal that I mentioned earlier, I can again focus on my emotional, relational, and spiritual needs. I am no longer fighting for survival like I was a year ago.

To those of you who have kept up with me and my precarious wellbeing, thank you for thinking of and praying for me. I ask that you continue to do so. As you’ve read, I still feel like crap all the time, but I don’t mind as much anymore. It sucks, but I am a big girl–one who trusts in Jesus, whom I call friend–and I know that I have the promise of more waiting for me, because I am a child of God. Whether or not I am healed on Earth or after, it will happen someday! With that I will leave you, but I hope you take from this that while I might not be entirely well, I am as well as can be at this moment. I plan to spend 2026 learning how to stretch that wellness and find more of it and know that I still have peace—and as long as I have that, I am well in the most important way I know how to be.

In 2025, this song really resonated with me and the feelings expressed in this post. Check it out :)

https://open.spotify.com/track/1ZQvwD5Mo2tnR6mf2fkseQ?si=0d281fce38a843d5

https://youtu.be/cw8757d5lfg?si=iCQTCKzJ1X8v6KhN