From Myanmar to the ER: What My Body and the World Are Teaching Me
A meditation on pain, presence, and the spaces in between
Dear friends and fellow travelers,
September didn’t shout—but it still hit hard.
A fractured vertebra. New cancer growth. No loud unraveling—just the quiet force of reality asserting itself. Whether I’m weaving through the chaos of Yangon or lying still in a New York hospital bed, life keeps stripping away the illusion of control.
I remember staring up at the ceiling tiles before one scan, counting the tiny holes in each panel, trying to quiet the panic in my chest. It’s strange what steadies us when the ground gives way.
This time, the twist is especially strange: in order to qualify for a promising clinical trial, the cancer actually has to get worse. So here I am, sitting in the weirdest kind of limbo—half-hoping for the thing I’ve spent months fearing. Waiting for decline, because it might open a door to more time.
It’s a brutal kind of math. But it’s honest.
And within all this uncertainty, I’ve stumbled into something that almost feels like peace. Not the tidy, everything’s-figured-out kind—but the quiet, hard-earned kind that comes from loosening my grip. Letting go of what was never really mine to hold. Accepting, again and again, that nothing stays put—not joy, not pain, not even this body I’ve called home.
If you’re new here, thank you for stepping into this space with me. I don’t have answers, but I have stories. And I’m grateful you're here to share in them.
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 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 fade—like dust brushed off after a long trip. But it didn’t. It hung on, growing from a small annoyance into something relentless. Simple things—getting out of bed, bending to feed my cat, sitting, standing—turned into calculated negotiations with pain. When even rest stopped helping, I called my oncologist. He didn’t hesitate: Go to the ER. Now.
As I found myself once again winding through the clinical maze of the U.S. healthcare system, my mind kept drifting to Myanmar because of what it taught me about living inside uncertainty, and the quiet strength it takes to keep adapting.
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 an unshakable resolve. Their resilience wasn’t built on certainty, but 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, 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 lawyers I worked with pressed on, even as they faced constant threats—bombings, military raids, enforced disappearances, and the ever-present weight of political violence. The country’s economic collapse compounded the hardship. Banks refused 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
At the heart of resilience is a confrontation with suffering. In Buddhism, suffering—dukkha—is seen as an inescapable part of being alive. But the teachings don’t stop there. They offer a path for transforming our relationship to pain. Instead of turning away, we’re invited to meet it with awareness and compassion, to recognize it as something deeply human. Meditation has helped me do that—to sit with pain, to witness it without being swallowed by it.
But this pain was different—unlike anything I’d known. After years of cancer treatments, surgeries, and 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 meet it like the tide—something I couldn’t control but might still observe. But these waves didn’t ebb. They crashed over me, relentless, like labor pains with no new life waiting on the other side.
I anchored myself to my breath, repeated my mantra, reached for every tool I’d been taught. But nothing held. The pain was swallowing me whole—along with the creeping thoughts: 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, the Buddhist teachings on impermanence, attachment, and aversion stopped being abstract ideas—they became lifelines. They reminded me that this pain, like everything else, was temporary. The more I clung to fear and fought against it, the more I suffered. My only task was to stay present. 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 barely imagine the strength it must take to move through a world that offers so little relief. I sent them compassion through metta—the Buddhist practice of extending loving-kindness to others.
It’s always been easier to offer kindness outward than to face my own vulnerabilities. But as the waves deepened, I saw that I needed to turn that same care inward. I had to live the very truth I so often share with my clients: that we are just as worthy of our own compassion as anyone else.
So I practiced what I preached. I acknowledged the pain for what it was—without piling on judgment. I placed a hand over my heart, offering myself the same compassion I would give to anyone else in such pain. I reminded myself that pain is part of the shared human condition—that none of us bears it alone.
When I sent metta to others in pain, this time I made sure to include myself. Instead of berating myself for struggling to meditate through it, I gave myself credit for the simple act of trying. I reflected on the shadow work I’ve done, the dark places I’ve traveled through, and how each of those journeys left me a little wiser, a little stronger.
Maybe this pain was just another passage—another reminder that growth often comes from sitting with the shadows, and trusting that they, too, have their lessons to offer.
Through these small steps, my relationship with the pain began to shift. The kindness I offered myself became an anchor, helping me meet the discomfort with more patience—moment by moment, breath by breath.
Rather than spiraling into fear about what the future might hold, I found grounding in the present. I turned my attention to the parts of my body untouched by pain, gently scanning each one and offering quiet gratitude for their strength and endurance.
These reflections reminded me: this body—this imperfect, enduring body—has carried me through a life rich with experience, including my most recent journeys to far corners of the world.
The diagnosis of my back condition came with a strange mix of relief and uncertainty. After the initial scan, the doctors feared the worst—either metastasis or septic arthritis. But within 24 hours, a follow-up MRI revealed something more manageable: a T12 fracture, not cancer. I exhaled, flooded with relief.
And yet, the shadow lingered. The fracture likely stemmed from treatment-induced osteoporosis or osteopenia—a quiet consequence of the therapies keeping me alive. It was a sobering reminder that while this particular crisis might soon pass, the long-term toll of cancer treatment on my body would continue to unfold.
After five days in the hospital—and a promised back procedure that was 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 crumbles—that you come face to face with the fragility of both body and life itself. And yet, within that fragility, a kind of clarity begins to surface: a sharpened 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 feels all the more sacred.
Video: When your appetite finally returns but the hospital put you on the toddler brunch plan.
From a Fractured Spine to Amma's Healing Touch
Despite the 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 some of the most profound care lies in the simple act of asking for it.
Amma’s presence—a seamless blend of spirituality and humanitarian action—reflected 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—like being gathered into something ancient and tender, something that had been waiting for me all along. It wasn’t just a hug. It was a homecoming.
In her arms, the edges between us dissolved, and for a moment, I forgot the heaviness I had been carrying. Fear gave way to stillness. And in its place, a quiet peace settled deep in my chest—wordless, steady, and true.
Just after our embrace, Amma leaned in and spoke softly in her native Malayalam to her assistant, who turned to me and gently asked, “Cancer? What stage?” Then Amma pulled me in again—no words, just presence. It was as if she already knew, as if her body recognized something mine had long been holding.
I had heard stories of her extraordinary intuition, but now I was living inside one. She placed prasad in my hands—a rose petal, a few sweets, and a rudraksha bracelet—each offering wrapped in blessing, each one a silent prayer for the road ahead.
The next day, I returned with my son, newly home from a summer spent working in Europe. When Amma embraced him with the same tenderness she had offered me, something in the air shifted. Grace deepened.
It felt as if the circle of compassion had quietly widened—wrapping around the two of us, and in some quiet, unseen way, around everyone we love. The world seemed softer then, more spacious. As if love itself had reached out a hand, gently gathering all it touched.
Just days ago, I was lying in a hospital bed, weighed down by pain and fear. And now, I stood here—watching Amma cradle my son in her arms. It felt as though life, in its quiet mystery, had been guiding me all along, leading me to this moment.
The contrast was stark: the sterile hush of hospital walls, and now, this warmth, this grace. Gratitude rose in me like a tide—steady, unstoppable—as if life itself was whispering: This, too, is part of the journey.
Impermanence and Resilience: Moving Through Fear with Courage
In Myanmar, I witnessed a quiet but undeniable resilience in so many of the people I met—a strength rooted not in certainty, but in courage, faith, and the bonds of community. Even amid violence and upheaval, they seemed to draw from an inner well, sustained by rituals and beliefs that served as anchors in the storm.
On weekends, we wandered through temples and shrines where people gathered—chanting prayers, lighting incense, offering alms, sharing meals. These acts weren’t merely devotional; they reflected something deeper: a 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 stay rooted in a world that won’t stop shifting beneath them. In a place where chaos is constant, practices like meditation, mantra, and the support of a spiritual community are more than comforts—they are lifelines.
Here, impermanence isn’t a distant concept. It’s a daily reality, heavy with consequence, where life can change in the span of a breath. And so, resilience isn’t about banishing fear, but learning to move through it—with courage in the heart and feet planted firmly on the ground.
A Shift in Time: Synchronicity in Healing
Just hours after Amma’s embrace, the call came from the hospital: my back procedure had been moved to the very next day. I hadn’t requested the change, but it arrived with a quiet sense of synchronicity—as if something unseen had gently rearranged the threads of time.
In Amma’s presence, they say, the ordinary has a way of dissolving into the sacred. Time bends, moments align, and life unfolds in ways we may not fully understand—but are invited to trust.
Back to hospital
The next morning, Adrian and I arrived at the hospital, where the day unfolded with unexpected efficiency. In an effort to lighten the mood, I asked the doctor how the cement used in my procedure differed from what’s poured on streets. He smiled, then shared a story—about his grandfather, a stone mason, and his father, who had spent his life 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 fog of medication and fleeting moments of clarity. Pain resurfaced without warning, each wave bringing with it a quiet dread: Had the procedure failed? Was I one of the few it wouldn’t help?
And yet—despite the uncertainty—I could stand. I could walk again. What had once felt distant, even impossible, became real. The pain hadn’t vanished, but it was no longer the merciless force it had been.
That small victory—the simple act of moving with less suffering—sparked a profound and tender gratitude. It reminded me, once again, that joy and pain can coexist. In those moments, gratitude wasn’t just about getting better—it was about realizing that even in pain, there can still be glimpses of joy, however fragile or fleeting.
the Tide Turns again: Treatment Resistance
As I began to settle into a new rhythm—pain still present, but manageable—a routine cancer scan shifted the landscape once again. The results were unmistakable: steady growth in the lung nodules, a sign that my cancer was likely developing resistance to the treatment that had once kept it at bay.
This is the reality of Stage 4 Cholangiocarcinoma—a cancer known for its cunning, its ability to evolve through genetic mutations and outmaneuver therapies that once worked. In oncology, it’s a familiar pattern: every step forward with a treatment carries the shadow of eventual 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 clear: the treatment was losing effectiveness.
I had anticipated this moment. I’d already begun researching next steps and had found a promising clinical trial—one my doctor hadn’t yet considered. I shared the details, hopeful.
But when I reached out to the trial sites, an irony emerged: I didn’t qualify. Not yet. My cancer hadn’t advanced far enough. It was a bitter paradox—where fear and hope became tangled, and I found myself in a strange kind of waiting. Hoping, now, for the very progression I’d always feared—because it might be the best doorway to more time.
Embracing Impermanence: Finding Light in Uncertainty
In this space of waiting—suspended between fear and hope—I return to the teachings that remind me: life unfolds moment by moment, and none of it can be grasped or held for long. My illness is a constant mirror of that truth. The progression of cancer, the waiting for news—perhaps worse before better—feels like a continual invitation to surrender. To let go. To soften into the flow of uncertainty and discover peace within it.
Our bodies falter. They age, grow ill, and eventually, we release them. In this waiting space for a new trial, the weight of that truth lands more deeply than ever before. A body that was once strong shifts in ways I hadn’t imagined. And yet, illness, decline, and even death—when they come naturally—are not betrayals. They are part of the contract of being here, in a body, in this life. We are gifted a vessel, and it carries us as far as it can. Even in its unraveling, it remains part of the cycle—no less miraculous for its fragility.
These moments of uncertainty are not easy, but I’ve come to see them as part of the rhythm of being alive. The waves rise. The tides turn. Nothing stays fixed. And in that movement, there is a quiet kind of peace. Even here, in this tender place of waiting, there is room for more: presence, grace, and the mystery of what lies ahead.
In the darkest moments, light still exists—if we choose to turn toward it.
Holding fragility and strength across borders and bodies
This journey—from the bustling streets of Yangon and Mandalay to the sterile corridors of a New York hospital—has invited me to reflect on the universality of pain and the quiet strength it calls forth. In both places, uncertainty and fear are constant companions. And yet, so is a quiet, often surprising strength. Whether in the steady courage of those resisting oppression in Myanmar or in my own experience of illness, I’m reminded of our shared human capacity to endure, to adapt, and to find meaning in the face of hardship.
At the same time, it would be disingenuous to equate my experience with the realities faced by those living in conflict zones. My life, even in its most difficult moments, is shaped by privilege—the privilege of access to care, to safety, to moments of rest. The pain I carry is real, but it exists within a very different context.
Still, the strength I’ve witnessed—in war zones, spiritual sanctuaries, and hospital rooms—has offered not comparison, but perspective. It’s helped me move through my own challenges with greater humility and a deeper gratitude for the interconnectedness of our human experience.
My desire to stay mobile is rooted in something deeper than physical healing. There are still a few places I feel the need to go—Afghanistan among them. My aim is to stand with those facing challenges far greater than my own.
Pain and suffering create connections that transcend borders and circumstances, weaving us into a shared human fabric. But just as powerful are hope, love, and the desire to heal. Whether confronting the grip of a repressive regime or enduring the weight of an unrelenting illness, we are bound by a quiet faith in the possibility of light beyond the darkness. That belief unites us, even as our struggles differ.
Through these experiences, I’ve come to understand that true strength isn’t found in vanquishing fear or pain, but in learning to live alongside them—accepting their presence as part of the path. Resilience doesn’t grow from certainty; it grows from the quiet trust that we can keep moving, even when the way is unclear.
As we face our own hardships and bear witness to the suffering of others, may we continue with open hearts—cultivating compassion not only for ourselves but for this broader, shared human journey.
With that compassion comes a deeper responsibility: not simply to survive, but to act—with empathy, with humility, and in solidarity. While resilience may be a universal trait, the circumstances that shape it are not. It is in recognizing these differences—and standing beside those whose burdens are heavier—that we encounter the most profound expressions of our common humanity.
Love, Stephanie
P.S. If this piece moved you and you’d like to lend your support, consider making a donation to the International Legal Foundation. What better way to stand with someone navigating life’s curveballs than by helping those facing injustice with far fewer resources?
And as always, a few questions for reflection:
How do you navigate 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 insight from the resilience of others in the face of hardship? How did witnessing their courage shift your perspective on your own challenges?
In times of suffering, how do you hold the tension between accepting what is and longing for relief or change? What role do spirituality or mindfulness play in that process?
How can we honor the resilience of those facing struggles far greater than our own? And how might their stories invite us into deeper empathy—and more meaningful action?
Video: Best hospital visitor ever!
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! ❤️❤️❤️💕💕💕