Sometimes I Miss Her
Sometimes I think about her. The girl I used to be.
The girl who never felt burned out.
Who was energized by a full calendar, not reduced by it.
Who never saw the inside of a doctor’s office or knew a single statistic by heart.
The girl who didn’t think twice about “wellness” or “balance” or “self-care”.
Because she felt free. And freedom was its own medicine.
I think about the girl who never had to brace herself for that “tough time of year”.
The girl who didn’t have to hibernate in October or shield her eyes from all things pink.
The girl who when she heard that someone had cancer, didn’t feel empathy burning a hole in her chest.
I think about the girl who never asked, “if something like this could happen, what else could?”
Because she didn’t have a “something like this”. Her somethings were reasonable, manageable.
The girl who assumed it would all work out for the best.
Who didn’t know any better.
Who never saw it coming.
Barreling along like a freight train. Destined for impact.
Sometimes I think about her. The girl I used to be.
And I miss her.
Photo: NYC, August 2019, two months before diagnosis