Sometimes Bear and I look back on the past 8 months and just laugh. Other times I have a good old cry and he holds me, kisses me on the forehead and says, “I know, babe.”

It has been dreadful. Awful. Scary. Painful. Overwhelming. Frustrating. But also, somehow, one of the most treasured experiences of my life.

One day my friend Peter, a lovely and inspiring cancer-warrior and life-embracer, asked me, “Do you feel this experience has changed your life?” I didn’t even stop to think before responding:

“Yes, it has changed me deeply. I feel like I no longer fit in the life/habits/beliefs/thoughts/coping mechanisms I held before. I feel cracked open, in the best possible way, with all the unnecessary stuff spilling out. I told my husband I feel hollow, scoured, quiet, and I’m in no rush to fill up again. I’m reading and writing a lot, observing my reactions to things and just sitting quietly with them, waiting to see if these things are “me” and something to embrace, or just something to observe and let float past. I feel very hermit-y, like I need to protect this time of healing and change. There’s a lot of letting go, a lot of deep breaths, some bouts of anxiety when I get scared about where all this change is leading, yet also underlying peace that even in this upheaval, I am safe.”

I’ve read those words, my words, so many times since then. They’ve been a touchstone for me, a grounding place of truth that helped me accept, face, and deal with my entire life skidding to a halt, the removal of everything that normally comprises life to me, everything that made me, Me. No medieval events, no herbal workshops, very little writing work, no social life, no farm work, no art or cooking or creating. In one fell swoop, everything disappeared and I was left with silence and solitude. For the first time in my life, life was stripped away and I was alone with myself.

It has been the greatest gift.

At the beginning of all this, I pledged to myself that I would go through whatever I needed to go through to heal the deep things, the dark, festering, hidden things, to let everything come into the light once and for all. And I did. The tidal waves of emotion that accompanied that journey were epic. And gutting. And exhausting. And glorious. Anger, rage, fury. Loss, grief, agony. Anxiety, fear, terror. I let it all come, welcomed it, wept and screamed and slept, then sat in the incredible silence that followed. I really do feel scoured, as if an emotional hurricane has hurtled through me, obliterating everything in its path, leaving me feeling rather dazed and battered but beautifully clean and empty.

I feel whole. Connected. Grounded. Strong. Filled with deep love and forgiveness for my dear, weird, wonky, and rather lovely self. And the love I feel for my loves? Well, it’s so much nicer because it comes from a healed and healing place. I will never cease to be in awe of how much better we love others when we love ourselves beautifully.

This week I had a dream. Robbie appeared as a silvery ghost, shimmery and shining, and said, “Babe, it’s time to join the world again.” He gave me a hand up and as I stood, all the things that had anchored me before exploded in a spectacular fireworks show. There was no grief in it, no destruction, no loss, just a beautiful, celebratory ending of what was, and a glorious, light-filled space ready to be filled with the new. I woke with the biggest smile. That afternoon I was told that the surgical incision on my head that had not closed or healed after 8 weeks, had finally sealed and would soon be healed. That made me smile too.

I don’t know what comes next. I’m just taking each day as it comes, doing something good, something creative, something kind, and trusting that the next steps will take care of themselves.