I’ve been absent here for weeks—not because I’ve run out of things to say, but because life swept me into an undertow, pulling me deep into its currents. I had imagined this winter as a time of joyful rhythms: Adrian home for the holidays, music filling the house, the warmth of shared meals, cozy evenings, and unhurried moments of connection and reflection. Instead, I found myself immersed in the stark, unrelenting world of hospital machines and fluorescent lights, my days reset to a rhythm of survival.
Four hospitalizations in as many weeks—a lung ablation spiraling into complications: lung collapse (x2), chest tubes, emphysema, pneumonia, and pleural effusion—compressed time into an unyielding blur of medical interventions. In the stillness of those days, my body revealed a quiet truth: resilience isn’t rooted in sheer strength but in the steady rhythms of recovery—a tireless labor that sustains me, even in my most vulnerable moments.
While none of this has been life-threatening—the ablation, in fact, holds the hope of extending the effectiveness of my current treatment—the body charts its own course through upheaval. The shock reverberated inward, awakening primal instincts: fear, vulnerability, and the uneasy surrender to what cannot be controlled. Pain, both physical and existential, emerged as a guide, leading me into shadowed paths of contemplation I neither sought nor could escape.
Hospitals distort time, unraveling its familiar structure. Outside, life carries on—holidays are celebrated, snow falls softly, the city hums its ceaseless tune. Amid this strange compression of time, I began to notice something unexpected—a clarity emerging in the stillness, as if the absence of distractions illuminated the quiet wisdom within, revealing that healing begins in the light of awareness.
This is wintering in its truest sense: a profound retreat where the world recedes, leaving the raw truth of body and spirit. Yet even in this stillness, there is light—subtle but enduring, illuminating the quiet work of healing. Clarity does not arrive as a gift but as a hard-won truth, forged through necessity. It emerges in the silence, revealing what endures when all else falls away. Wintering is not a season of desolation; it is a process of uncovering, a quiet reckoning with what matters most. In witnessing my body’s perseverance, I am reminded that healing is not a single moment of triumph but an ongoing rhythm—one that requires patience, trust, and the humility to let it unfold.
The Quiet Work of the Body
There are many times when my body has struggled—each breath a deliberate act, each heartbeat a reminder of its relentless labor to heal and endure. When my lung collapsed for the second time, breathing became a fragile negotiation between pain and survival. Yet, my body persisted, steadfast in its quiet, tireless work to tether me to the present. My lungs, once so trustworthy and reliable, had carried me across continents, through the disciplined grace of gymnastics, and into the silent wonder of the underwater world—where even the slightest adjustment of an in-breath could bring me closer to a creature’s beauty. Now, those moments, beyond my reach, take on a sharper edge in memory, etched into the fleeting story of this body, this breath, this life. Even in vulnerability, resilience endures—not in the boundless strength of the past, but in the steady, unyielding rhythm of a body that continues its quiet work, carrying me forward.
Cancer unravels the threads of certainty, dismantling the illusion of permanence I once trusted—the steady rhythm of breath, the boundless reservoir of energy, the quiet assurance that summers would always return. In their absence, I’ve come to anchor myself in subtler truths: the fragile beauty of a still moment, the gentle rhythms of recovery, and the quiet, steadfast labor of a body that persists despite its limitations. These are not the certainties I once clung to, but they are enough—fragile yet luminous, like the soft glow of a lantern illuminating the path through darkness, guiding me one step at a time.
Anchors in Beauty for a Season of Rest
Even as I leaned inward, the care and presence of others—Adrian especially—became a different kind of anchor, one rooted in connection and love. His steady, unwavering presence offered solace in a time when so much felt uncertain. Adrian moves effortlessly within the quiet choreography of hospital life, where time stretches and silence speaks volumes. His care has gently reshaped our dynamic, tilting the balance of caregiver and cared-for, and revealing the depth of connection that endures even when roles shift.
In this stillness, I’ve come to understand that care—both given and received—is not merely sustaining but transformative. It shapes the way we navigate life’s hardest seasons, revealing the quiet grace in our shared humanity. Adrian’s presence embodies the stillness needed to pause, heal, and prepare for what lies ahead—a care so profound it creates space for renewal, like the earth gathering strength beneath a blanket of snow.
Rest, I’m coming to understand, is not merely a personal necessity—it is a quiet act of defiance in a culture that glorifies overwork and endless consumption. It dares to challenge the ceaseless drive for productivity and opens a doorway to reimagining what it truly means to live a whole, meaningful life. As Tricia Hersey of The Nap Ministry so beautifully reminds us:
You were not just born to center your entire existence on work and labor. You were born to heal, to grow, to be of service to yourself and community, to practice, to experiment, to create, to have space, to dream, and to connect.
This perspective has profoundly reshaped my understanding of rest—not as idleness, but as a radical and essential practice of renewal. This medically necessitated wintering has given me the opportunity to turn inward, to sit with the quiet and discover the subtle ways life continues to flourish even in desolation.
In these moments of stillness, I find myself returning to Mary Oliver’s words, which have become a quiet mantra, a reminder that grace exists even in our most vulnerable moments:
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
This winter, I am learning to honor what this soft, battered animal of my body needs: rest, stillness, trust. Grace, as Mary Oliver reminds us, lies in the simple act of allowing ourselves to be—without striving, without judgment. And yet, even in the harshest seasons, there lies a quiet promise of renewal—waiting, like the first blossoms of spring, to emerge in their time.
As part of this ongoing practice of renewal, I’m heading to a retreat at Kripalu this weekend—on rest. Yes, a retreat dedicated to the elusive and increasingly rare art of rest. In a world that glorifies busyness, it’s no small thing to pause and allow space for stillness. My dear friend Carrie Grossman, a gifted teacher, spiritual guide and musician, will be leading the retreat. Carrie has a remarkable ability to turn even the simplest moments into sacred rituals, reminding us that rest is not indulgence but necessity—a profound act of love. If anyone can guide me toward truly embracing rest—and resisting the urge to multitask my recovery—it’s Carrie. Let’s see if I can come back a little more enlightened—or, at the very least, well-rested. 😊
Publishing any essay about my challenges feels deeply fraught, overshadowed by the vast and incomprehensible suffering that unfolds in the world around us. Wildfires consume homes in Los Angeles, wars uproot entire communities, and countless lives are reshaped by unimaginable losses. In this context, my struggles feel impossibly small, my reflections unworthy of note. Yet, if I gave in to this doubt, none of these essays would ever come to be. And perhaps that is the point: hardship is not a contest; it is a universal thread, weaving through each of our lives in profoundly different ways.
At its best, writing isn’t about elevating one story over another but about creating space for connection and understanding. It offers, however modestly, a glimpse into the shared human task of navigating uncertainty and vulnerability—whether that means recovering breath by breath or rebuilding from ashes. These words are never meant to overshadow greater tragedies but to honor the quiet resilience that unites us all. By naming what we endure, we invite others to do the same, reminding us that through sharing, we find solidarity in our struggles and strength in each other.
With love,
Stephanie
If you’ve made it this far, here’s your reward: a video from the day I got my chest tube out—because nothing says celebration like ditching a medical accessory:
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