Be it in silence and stillness, or in the loud, raucous act of living.

Photo: Justin and Lucy, Apple Cider Vinegar

It has been two months into the new year, and 2025 continues to kick my ass.

I had previously written that January is a month of polarities—(usually) joy at the newness the calendar year brings and the celebratory nature of birthdays, and worry and anxiety over my annual scans. This year, the scale tipped unfavorably toward the latter: I could barely downregulate; it was hard to find the mental and physical space to reconnect with myself, the side effects of the drugs I am on were compounding to the point where I was constantly in a fugue state, and I had to go for my scans.

For those of you who have not had mammograms before, let me tell you that it is an extremely unpleasant experience. Even for someone like me, with a high pain tolerance, having your breast squashed between two metal plates and flattened like a pancake tests your mettle. And if you’re like me, with hardened scar tissue on one side of your breast, the pain is… worse. And I’ll leave it at that.

The ultrasound is less painful by leaps and bounds but is no less anxiety-inducing. There is something incredibly nerve-wracking when the radiologist presses deep into a particular point in your breast or your armpit and lingers, or when she reapplies the gel and goes over the same area again and again. The monkey brain becomes frantic, struggles. Has she seen something? Am I going to have to receive bad news again? Is the nightmare repeating itself?

Once all of this is done, there’s that horrible liminal space between the day of your scans and the doctor’s appointment. This is the no-man’s land that you navigate with a boulder in your stomach and a dry throat. Life still has to go on—mind you, the emails have to be replied to, the trash has to be cleared, the dog has to be walked, and the bills have to be paid. Life has to be lived, and the grappling with reality—the entire, unvarnished reality of living with cancer—has to be reckoned with.

Every morning, for the week that I existed in this liminal space, I woke up at 3 a.m., my heart beating fast and my mouth open in a silent scream. I cannot remember my dream, though I sense that it is recurring.

I do not doubt that it closely resembles one of my past realities.

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