Lost and Found: Navigating Life

I figured I would write tonight, as I have found myself once again neglecting my blog. I always tell myself I will keep up with it, that I will write more, that I will make time—but life has a way of pulling me in different directions. And yet, whenever I do sit down and let my thoughts flow onto the page, I feel lighter. This space is mine. It is where I can be honest, raw, and unfiltered. I know a few people read it, but deep down, even if no one did, I do not think I would care. Because this is not for them. It is for me.

Writing helps me take everything I have carefully packed away into neat little boxes in my mind and, just for a moment, open them. Sometimes, I do not even realize how much I have stored away until I start writing, and suddenly, it all spills out. I guess I have always been good at compartmentalizing—at placing my pain, my fears, my grief into tightly sealed spaces so they do not consume me. My brain feels like a perfectly organized closet. Everything has a place, every memory, every worry, every moment of frustration, tucked away so I can function, so I can move forward.

But lately? Lately, I have felt the urge to rip that closet apart. To pull everything off the shelves, scatter it across the floor, and just let myself feel it all. The urge to scream. To cry. To stop pretending that everything is okay when it is not.

And the truth is—I do not even know why. I just feel... lost.

That is the best way I can describe it. No matter how much I try, no matter how much I distract myself, I cannot seem to piece my life back together after my diagnosis. I know things will never be the same. I have accepted that. But there are moments when that reality hits me in a way that is almost unbearable. Some days, I can push through and tell myself that I am adjusting, that I am adapting, that I am making the most of the time I have. But other days, I just feel like something is broken. And no matter how hard I try, I cannot fix it.

I miss who I used to be. I miss the version of myself that did not have to think about any of this—the one who did not have to wear a device strapped to his head every day, the one who did not have to explain why he has no hair, the one who did not have to navigate a career that now feels uncertain, or redefine what the future even looks like. I miss feeling like my body was my own, like my identity was not tied to a diagnosis, like I could just exist without this constant reminder of what I am up against.

Sometimes, I catch myself thinking, Dude, shut up—it is just cancer. And for a brief second, I almost believe it. But then, there is silence. A silence so heavy it settles into my chest, and I feel the tears well up. Because it is not just cancer. It is my reality. It is the thing that has reshaped my entire existence, stolen parts of me I was not ready to lose, and forced me to carry a weight I never asked for.

And even though I try to stay positive, even though I remind myself that I am still here, still fighting, still pushing forward—there are moments when it all just feels... too much.

But here I am. Writing. Feeling. Acknowledging what I so often push down. And maybe that is the first step. Maybe healing is not about putting everything back exactly the way it was. Maybe it is about learning how to carry the broken pieces with me, how to shape something new from them instead of desperately trying to reconstruct the past.

Maybe my life is different now, but that does not mean it is any less meaningful. Maybe I do not have to have all the answers right now. Maybe I just have to keep going.

That is a lot of uncertainty. But if there is one thing I do know, it is that I will keep going. I will keep pushing forward, keep trying, keep writing—because no matter how much this diagnosis has taken from me, it has not taken me. Life moves on, and I refuse to be left behind.

Now, this is not some dramatic Lifetime movie, so I will leave it at that. No emotional fade to black—just me, still here, still kicking, and probably still forgetting where I put my damn phone