Still, I Walk, I Breathe, I Heal

Sitting in our backyard on this first day of March, I let the warmth of the sun wrap around me while a cool breeze drifts through, carrying the scent of fresh earth and new beginnings. The contrast is soothing—sunlight kissing my skin, the breeze offering gentle relief, a perfect balance between warmth and crispness. I’ve been out here for a while, soaking in the fresh air, feeling the gentle heat against my skin—at least, the parts of me that are allowed to feel it. A wide-brimmed hat shields my face, a necessary precaution now.

Birds flit all around me, each species carrying its own personality. The blue jays, bold and territorial, chase away smaller birds with sharp cries, their presence commanding and unyielding. In contrast, the hummingbirds move with grace, their delicate wings fluttering so quickly they seem to disappear between beats. Their tiny, powerful bodies dance through the air, swift and elegant, undeterred by the larger birds’ aggression. The wind rustles the trees, stirring the leaves with a whisper, as if nature itself is speaking in hushed tones.

Just days ago, I sat in a dermatology office, facing a reality I hadn’t expected but am deeply grateful to have caught in time. The spots on my face and nose that had quietly concerned me turned out to be pre-cancerous. Emerald Goldsmith, the PA, was incredible—steady, kind, and reassuring as she applied liquid nitrogen to freeze them away. A necessary discomfort for a greater peace of mind.

I owe this moment of relief to Krista, who suggested that I have my skin checked. She was right. I listened, and because of that, I caught it before it had the chance to turn into something worse.

Now, as I sit here, watching the birds, breathing in the crisp, cool air, I feel nothing but gratitude—for the sun’s warmth, for the breeze that carries reminders of change, for the simple beauty surrounding me, and for the gentle nudges that remind me taking care of ourselves, even in the smallest ways, can make all the difference.

My face is blistering and sore, each spot a reminder of what was caught in time. The healing process will look worse before it gets better—that’s what they told me. No makeup for a week or two, which shouldn’t be a big deal, but if I’m being honest, it is. I know I should focus on gratitude, and I do, but vanity still lingers in the background. The mirror reflects something raw, something I wasn’t quite prepared to see.

Despite it all, we’ve continued our morning two-mile walks. The rhythm of my steps, the crisp air filling my lungs, the familiar path—it’s all grounding. But I move through it a little differently now. I pull my hoodie up, shielding my face from any passersby. This morning, I added big sunglasses, hoping to disappear just a little. The world doesn’t need to see me like this, and maybe, for now, I don’t need to see it seeing me.

There’s something humbling about healing, about being forced to slow down and surrender to the process. No shortcuts, no quick fixes—just time, patience, and trust. The cool March breeze reminds me that change is always in motion, even when we can’t see it. I remind myself that discomfort is temporary, that in a few weeks, this will be behind me. And yet, in this moment, I feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with my skin.

Still, I walk. I breathe. I heal.