Lessons in Uncertainty: From Myanmar to the ER
Lessons in Uncertainty: From Myanmar to the ER
Navigating Fragility, Resilience, and the Unexpected
Dear Friends and Fellow Travelers,
How is it already September? I hope this message finds you somewhere between thriving and simply getting by—because wherever you are on that spectrum, it’s all welcome here.
Life rarely follows the path we expect. Lately, mine has taken a sharp turn: a fractured vertebra and new cancer growth have stripped away any remaining illusions of control. Whether navigating the chaotic streets of Yangon or the quiet sterility of a hospital, the fragility of life has become impossible to ignore. When your body no longer functions as it once did, you’re left to adapt, confront vulnerability head-on, and find a way to make peace with the unknown.
At this moment, I find myself in a paradox: waiting for what I fear most to become my best hope for survival. To qualify for a clinical trial, my lung metastasis must advance—an unsettling twist, where the very progression I dread holds the key to the next treatment. But life is full of these contradictions, where joy and suffering move side by side, neither negating the other. Over time, I’ve come to see that real freedom lies not in control, but in accepting impermanence—recognizing that everything, like the changing seasons, comes and goes in its own time. In that acceptance, I’ve found an unexpected peace.
If you’re new here, welcome. Feel free to explore my earlier posts where I’ve shared more about my diagnosis and how this journey began. I’m grateful to have you here, sharing in this space with me.
From Yangon to the ER
In the crowded streets of Yangon, a misstep on the uneven pavement sent a jolt of pain up my spine, yanking me from the city’s frenetic energy and into the sharp, sobering reality of my body’s fragility. The blur of cars and motorbikes, the clamor of street vendors, the thick monsoon air—everything seemed to dissolve, leaving only the raw reminder of how precarious our footing can be, how quickly the ground beneath us shifts.
Back in New York, I hoped the pain would disappear, like dust shaken off after a long journey. But it clung, evolving from a minor nuisance into an unrelenting force. Simple movements—rising from bed, bending to feed my cat, sitting, standing—became a careful negotiation with pain. When rest brought no relief, I called my oncologist, who insisted I go to the ER immediately. As I navigated the clinical maze of the U.S. healthcare system, my mind kept drifting back to Myanmar—not for the severity of its challenges, but for the shared experience of living in constant uncertainty and the deep resilience required to adapt.
In Myanmar, unpredictability permeates daily life. Political violence, crackdowns, and arbitrary detentions are constants. Yet, the lawyers I worked with persisted in their pursuit of justice with a quiet, unshakable resolve. Their resilience wasn’t built on certainty, but on the capacity to navigate a landscape where the rules constantly shift. As I faced my own battles, I found myself drawing strength from their example, all too aware that my challenges paled in comparison.
In the ER, unpredictability took an intimate shape—acute pain, nausea, unclear diagnoses, long hours of waiting beneath the sterile glow of fluorescent lights. Unlike Myanmar, where each misstep could carry the risk of physical danger, here it was the threat of uncontrollable pain, the fear of what each test might reveal. Despite the relative safety of New York, I felt disoriented by the disequilibrium within my own body. Yet in both settings, resilience was necessary, especially when the way forward was shrouded in uncertainty.
Myanmar: Resilience in the Face of Chaos
In Myanmar, I witnessed extraordinary forms of resilience. The legal aid lawyers I worked with pressed on, even as they faced constant threats—bombings, military raids, enforced disappearances, and the omnipresent weight of political violence. The country’s economic collapse compounded the hardship. Banks failed to distribute cash, leaving entire communities scrambling to survive, while power outages turned cities into sweltering furnaces. Some of the lawyers, once defenders of displaced communities, had now become displaced themselves.
Yet, amid the chaos, they found the strength to carry on, advocating for those who had lost nearly everything. In Myanmar, resilience isn’t just a personal battle—it’s a collective response to a hostile reality, a shared commitment to continue to uphold justice and resist oppression. It takes many forms, but it always requires courage—courage that dwarfs the fears I face about my health.
Meeting Pain with Presence in the ER
In both Myanmar and the ER, resilience took different forms, but the core was the same: the confrontation with suffering. Buddhism teaches that suffering, or dukkha, is woven into the fabric of life. Yet, these teachings also offer a way to transform our relationship with pain. Instead of resisting it, we’re encouraged to meet it with awareness and compassion, recognizing it as a shared human experience. Meditation has taught me to sit with pain, to watch it without being consumed by it.
But this pain was different—unlike anything I had encountered before. After years of cancer treatments, surgeries, and the inevitable injuries from endurance sports, I thought I had a grasp on pain. But this was something else entirely: paralyzing, radiating through my body, accompanied by migraines and waves of nausea. I tried to focus, to treat the pain like the ebb and flow of the tides—something I couldn’t control but could at least observe. Yet the waves were relentless, crashing over me like labor pains without the promise of new life on the other side. I anchored myself to my breath, repeated my mantra, but nothing seemed to take hold. The pain was swallowing me whole, along with thoughts like: Is this it? Is this my life now—paralyzed, confined to bed, unable to move?
Video: Navigating a migraine in the ER
In those moments, Buddhist teachings on impermanence, attachment, and aversion became more than abstract concepts—they became my lifelines. They reminded me that, like all things, this pain was temporary. The more I clung to fear and resisted it, the more suffering I would experience. My only task was to stay present, focusing on one breath at a time, trusting that, like all things, this too would pass.
As I lay there, my thoughts turned to those who live with chronic pain every day. I could hardly fathom the strength it must take to navigate a world that offers so little relief. I sent them compassion through metta—the Buddhist practice of extending loving-kindness to others. It’s easier to offer kindness outward than to face my own vulnerabilities, but as the pain deepened, I realized I needed to turn that same care inward. I had to honor the same principle I regularly share with my clients: we are as deserving of our own compassion as anyone else.
So I practiced what I preached. I acknowledged the pain for what it was, without layering it with judgment. I placed my hand over my heart, offering myself the same compassion I would extend to anyone else in such pain. I reminded myself that pain is part of the shared human condition—none of us bears it alone. When I sent metta to others in pain, this time, I made sure to include myself. Instead of frustration at my difficulty meditating through the pain, I gave myself credit for the simple act of trying. I reflected on the shadow work I’ve done, on the dark places I’ve traveled through, and how each journey has left me a little wiser, a little stronger. This pain, I realized, was probably just another passage—a reminder that growth often emerges from sitting with the shadows and trusting that they, too, have their lessons to offer.
Through these steps my relationship with the pain began to change. The kindness I extended inward became an anchor, allowing me to navigate the discomfort with more patience—moment by moment, breath by breath. Instead of spiraling into fear about what the future might hold, I found grounding in the present. I focused on the parts of my body that remained unaffected by the pain, conducting a quiet body scan and offering gratitude for their strength and endurance. These reflections reminded me that this body had safely carried me through a life rich with experience, including my most recent journeys to distant corners of the world.
The diagnosis of my back condition came with a strange blend of relief and uncertainty. After the initial scan, the doctors feared the worst—either metastasis or septic arthritis. Yet, within 24 hours, a follow-up MRI revealed something more manageable: a T12 fracture, not cancer. I felt a wave of relief. Still, the specter of treatment-induced osteoporosis or osteopenia lingered—a sobering reminder that while this immediate challenge could soon be over, the long-term toll of cancer treatments on my body would endure.
After the better part of a week in hospital, with a promised back procedure repeatedly delayed, I pressed for discharge the moment I could keep food down. Armed with pain medication and an outpatient surgery scheduled for three weeks later, I made my exit.
It’s in moments like these—when the illusion of stability is shattered—that you’re confronted with the fragility of both the body and life itself. Yet within that fragility, a kind of clarity emerges: a heightened awareness of what remains, of what still holds firm amid the uncertainty. There’s a strange grace in recognizing that nothing is guaranteed, and perhaps because of that, what endures becomes even more precious.
Video: When your appetite finally returns but the hospital puts you on the toddler brunch plan.
Embracing the Unknown: From a Fractured Spine to Amma's Healing Touch
Despite lingering pain, I made my way to the Javits Center for Darshan with Amma, the spiritual leader whose embrace has brought comfort to over 40 million people. Guided there by a dear friend, I was reminded that often the most profound care lies in the simple act of asking for it. Amma’s presence—a seamless fusion of spirituality and humanitarian action—mirrored the very values that have shaped my life’s work. It was a reminder that resilience often springs from connection, drawing from the deep well of compassion that flows within us and between us.
When it was my turn for Darshan, Amma’s embrace felt both intimate and infinite, dissolving any sense of separation between us. It wasn’t merely a hug—it was a profound moment of unconditional love, as if I had returned to something both long-forgotten and deeply familiar. The weight of my fears lifted, replaced by a quiet, unspoken peace that seemed to settle in the very core of my being.
After embracing me, Amma leaned in and whispered something in Malayalam to her assistant, who turned to me and quietly asked, “Cancer? What stage?” Then, Amma embraced me again, as if she understood something deeper without the need for words. I had heard of her extraordinary intuition, but now I was witnessing it firsthand. She then handed me prasad—a rose petal, sweets, and a rudraksha bracelet—each gift imbued with her blessings.
The next day, I returned with my son, fresh from his summer working in Europe. As Amma embraced him with the same tenderness she had shown me, the sense of grace deepened. In that moment, it was as if the circle of compassion widened—gently encircling us both, and by some quiet extension, everyone we hold dear. The world felt larger and softer, a space where love stretched out like a hand, welcoming all it touched.
Just days ago, I lay in a hospital bed, heavy with pain and fear. And now, here I stood, watching Amma cradle my son in her arms. It was as though life, in its quiet mystery, had conspired to bring me to this very moment. The contrast was striking—the heaviness of those hospital walls, and now, this lightness, this grace. Gratitude rose in me, swelling like a tide, as if life whispered, This, too, is part of the journey.
Impermanence and Resilience: Moving Through Fear with Courage
In Myanmar, I encountered an undeniable resilience in so many of the people I met, a strength deeply rooted in their courage, faith and sense of community. Even amid violence and uncertainty, they seemed to draw from an inner reservoir, sustained by rituals and beliefs that offered an anchor in the chaos. On weekends, we wandered through temples and shrines as people gathered—chanting prayers, lighting incense, offering alms, and sharing meals. These practices were not just acts of devotion; they embodied a deeper, collective understanding—an enduring connection to something far greater than the instability of the present moment.
Hearing stories of perseverance under immense pressure reveals how people find ways to stay grounded in a world constantly shifting around them. In a place where chaos is the norm, practices like meditation, mantra, and the strength of a spiritual community aren’t just sources of comfort—they are vital lifelines. Here, impermanence carries a unique gravity, as life can shift in an instant. It’s not about erasing fear, but about moving through it with both courage and grounded resolve.
A Shift in Time: Synchronicity in Healing
Just hours after Amma’s embrace, the call from the hospital arrived: my back procedure had been moved to the next day. I hadn’t asked for this shift, but it carried with it an undeniable sense of synchronicity, as if something unseen had quietly rearranged the threads of time. In Amma’s presence, they say, the ordinary often dissolves into something far deeper, a place where time bends and moments align in ways we cannot always explain but are meant to trust.
The next morning, Adrian and I arrived at the hospital, where the day unfolded with unexpected efficiency. In an attempt to lighten the mood, I asked the doctor how the cement used in my procedure differed from what’s poured on streets. He smiled and shared a story about his grandfather, a stone mason, and his father, who had spent a lifetime in the cement business. It felt natural, he said, to carry on the family trade in this way, a thread of continuity through generations. His calm assurance, steeped in this legacy, offered me a quiet hope—that this procedure might finally bring relief.
In the weeks following the operation, I drifted between the haze of medication and moments of clarity. Pain resurfaced unpredictably, each wave raising the unsettling question: had the procedure failed? Was I among those for whom it might not work?Yet, despite the uncertainty, I found myself able to stand and walk again—an achievement that had once felt distant, if not impossible. Though the pain lingered, it was a shadow of the relentless agony I had endured before. That small victory—the simple act of moving with less suffering—sparked a profound sense of gratitude. It reminded me once again that joy and pain can, and often do, coexist. In those moments, gratitude wasn’t just an acknowledgment of progress but a recognition that even amid hardship, there is room for joy, however fragile or fleeting.
When the Tide Turns: Confronting Treatment Resistance
As I began to settle into the new rhythm of life—pain present yet managed—a routine cancer scan brought a sobering shift in the landscape. The results were clear: steady growth in my lung nodules, a signal that my cancer was likely developing resistance to the treatment that had once held it in check. This is the reality of Stage 4 Cholangiocarcinoma, notorious for evolving through genetic mutations, allowing the cancer to slip past therapies that were once effective. It’s a familiar story in oncology, where progress often comes with the shadow of inevitable resistance.
At my next appointment, my oncologist’s tone shifted—more direct than usual. The last three scans had all shown steady growth in my lung nodules. The message was unmistakable: the treatment was losing effectiveness. Anticipating this moment, I had already done my research, identifying a promising clinical trial that hadn’t yet crossed my doctor’s radar. I shared the details.
But when I reached out to the trial sites, an irony began to surface: I didn’t yet qualify. My cancer needed to advance further. It was a bitter truth, one where fear and hope became inextricably linked, leaving me in a peculiar limbo—waiting for the very progression I usually dread, now recast as my best chance for more time.
Embracing Impermanence: Finding Light in Uncertainty
In this space of waiting—caught between fear and hope—I lean on teachings that remind me life is a series of unfolding moments, none of which we can fully grasp or hold onto. My illness serves as a constant reminder of this impermanence. The cancer’s progression, the waiting for news—perhaps worse before better—feels like a continuous lesson in letting go, in accepting the flow of uncertainty, and finding peace within it.
Our bodies falter. They age, grow ill, and eventually, we let them go. In this space of waiting, the weight of that truth settles more deeply than ever. A body that was once strong now shifts in ways I hadn’t anticipated. But illness, decline, death—when they come naturally—are not betrayals. They’re simply part of being here, in this form, in this life. We are given a body, and it carries us as far as it can. And even as it fails, it remains part of the cycle—no less miraculous for its fragility.
These moments of uncertainty are never easy, but I’ve come to see them as part of the natural rhythm of life. The waves rise, the tides turn, and nothing remains fixed. There is a quiet peace in accepting that flow. Even here, in this space of waiting, there is room for more: presence, grace, and the unknown that lies ahead. In the darkest moments, light still exists—if we choose to see it.
Conclusion
This journey—from the bustling streets of Yangon and Mandalay to the sterile corridors of a New York hospital—has led me to reflect on the universality of pain and the resilience required to face it. In both places, uncertainty and fear are constant, and yet so is an unexpected resilience. Whether in the quiet resolve of those resisting oppression in Myanmar or my experience with illness, I am reminded of the profound capacity for human endurance and the strength that emerges in the face of hardship.
Yet, it would be disingenuous to equate my experience with the harsh realities faced by those living in conflict zones. Despite its challenges, my life is marked by privilege—the privilege of access to healthcare, moments of peace, and resources others lack. The struggles I face are real, but they are not the same. The strength I’ve witnessed in others—whether in war zones or spiritual sanctuaries—provides perspective, not comparison, and helps guide me through my own challenges with a deeper sense of humility and gratitude.
My desire to try to stay mobile is anchored in a deeper purpose. There are still just a few places I need to go—Afghanistan being one of the next. My aim is to support those facing challenges far greater than my own. This goal propels me forward, reminding me that resilience is a shared thread, whether we’re navigating personal battles or standing alongside others in the midst of conflict and adversity. It’s this thread that sustains my hope for what lies ahead.
Pain and suffering create connections that transcend borders and circumstances, weaving a shared human experience. But just as powerful are hope, love, and the desire for healing. Whether facing the grip of a repressive regime or battling an unrelenting illness, we are bound by a collective belief in the possibility of light beyond the darkness. It’s this faith that unites us, despite the differences in the struggles we endure.
Reflecting on these experiences, I’ve come to see that true strength doesn’t lie in overcoming pain or fear but in learning to live alongside them, accepting their presence as part of the journey. Resilience isn’t born from certainty; it grows from the quiet acceptance of life’s unpredictability, from trusting in the flow of what we cannot control. As we face our own struggles and bear witness to the hardships of others, may we continue with open hearts, cultivating compassion not only for ourselves but for the broader, shared human experience.
With this understanding comes a deeper responsibility—not merely to survive, but to act with empathy and solidarity. While resilience is a shared human trait, the conditions that shape it vary greatly. It is in recognizing these differences, and standing alongside those whose challenges far exceed our own, that we discover the most profound expressions of our common humanity.
Love, Stephanie
PS. Want to join me on this wild ride or lend your support? Feel free to leave a comment, share this post with your favorite people, or make a donation to the International Legal Foundation! After all, what better way to support someone navigating life’s curveballs than by helping those in real need? (Trust me, your good vibes will go much further than any care package ever could).
And as always, here are some questions for further reflection:
How do you navigate moments of uncertainty in your own life? What practices or beliefs help you stay grounded when the path ahead is unclear?
Have you ever drawn strength or inspiration from witnessing the resilience of others in difficult circumstances? How did that experience shape your perspective on your own challenges?
In times of suffering, how do you balance acceptance of the present moment with the desire for change or relief? What role do faith, spirituality, or mindfulness play in this process for you?
How can we honor the resilience of those facing struggles far greater than our own, and how might their stories inspire us to cultivate deeper empathy and take meaningful action?
Please feel free to share your thoughts and reflections in the comments!
With love, Stephanie
Video: Best hospital visitor ever, making the most useful use of hospital food!
Thank you Stephanie, for these words of insight from your journey. Sending you loving hugs.
Sending you so much love, dear one. Feeling encouraged, inspired & motivated to dig deep and think on your writing/questions. So glad you are showing compassion, care and empathy to yourself..
I hope you feel all the care & compassion being sent from those of us who love you! ❤️❤️❤️💕💕💕