Cell-ebrating Five Years of New Cells

Learning to live the life that is truly mine

It feels surreal that five years ago today, I lay in a hospital bed receiving donor cells from my brother — cells that would take root in my body and begin to heal me. Five years since undergoing a stem cell transplant to eliminate blood cancer from my body.

Taking a daily hallway walk during my month-long hospital stay.

And yet, today I sit in a hospital chair again receiving an infusion to help my suppressed immune system fight off illness.

Time feels like it both flies and drags — like I’ve come so far, and yet I’m still tethered to where I began. It feels like I’m healed and also still fighting for health.

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At the five-year mark, I thought I would have Mary Oliver-ed my life — figured out how to live my “one wild and precious life.” It seems like after a life-altering illness, you’re supposed to come away changed, enlightened, transformed. Or maybe that’s just what I hoped.

I remember, in the middle of the hardest part of being sick, worrying about all the ways it might change me. But what terrified me more was the thought that it wouldn’t change me. I was constantly thinking about how I would reinvent myself and my life.

It feels like I’m supposed to be a better version of who I was before I got sick. I am supposed to find a way to channel all the challenge into something beautiful, sacred, and maybe even productive. I’m supposed to notice every bit of beauty, be present always, savor every moment with my kids (read: never lose my temper or snap), chase passion because life is short, and find profound meaning in everything. I should be more and better than before.

I know this is a ridiculous pressure I’m putting on myself. And still, I do it. I think of people like Suleika Jaouad and Kate Bowler — people I admire deeply — who are in terrible battles and somehow find ways to create, connect, and turn their pain into something good.

Isn’t that our problem in so many parts of life? We think there is a way we should do something; a way we should feel. But we each can only live in our reality. Each encounter with cancer is different—its highs, lows, complications, and healing paths. And I’m realizing this is also true in the recovery phase. We carry different obligations, hopes, support systems, and limitations.

I wonder what it would look like if we could all let go of our “shoulds.” Not just those of us who face medical struggles, but all of us who worry about a specific script of how life should look.

What if we released “should” and instead lived in the reality of what is? What if we could look at our lives and name the pain, the suffering, the joy, and the beauty—without needing to wrap it in meaning or performance? What if we stopped trying to live the life we’re supposed to live, and started living the life that’s truly ours? Can we stop doing what we should and start chasing what brings us joy and connection?

I think that’s what I’m working toward, five years post-transplant. Not some idealized, prescribed version of a cancer survivor’s life. Just my life. This life. Rooted in what is, not what I think should be.

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I’m not where I thought I would be five years post transplant – physically or emotionally. I thought I would be finished with infusions and immune suppressants. I thought I’d be someone softer, wiser, transformed. This isn’t where I saw the five-year plan.

And yet, life is good.

It’s messy, loud, chaotic, and wild—and also gentle, kind, and real. It is quiet conversations with my daughter and arguments about screen time. It is laughter from my son and middle-of-the-night wake ups. It’s sitting in an infusion chair and lifting heavy weights at the gym. It’s deep friendships and aching for the ones I’ve lost. It’s heartbreak, anger, and tears—and also hope, hugs, love, and promise.

All of it swirls together into something whole. Something beautiful.

And I am so deeply thankful.

Cheers to five years!

xo,
m

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