A yellow light rose from my belly and hovered above me. My angel, my answers. She was beautiful, wafting over me, keeping me warm as tears streamed down my cheeks.

I don’t remember the drive home from the acupuncturist’s office that day. When I walked through the door of my home, I felt a peace I had not expected, given that I was being treated for breast cancer. I was free. The needles Dr. Chen had placed in a circle around my belly opened a door and allowed me to see inside.

From the moment I felt the lump in my breast in 2002, I knew it was not supposed to be there. Yet month after month I was told that I was “young and healthy” or that “a mammogram would show nothing. Your breasts are too dense; don’t bother.” I insisted on a biopsy, but was denied. But I never gave up. I never stopped pushing.

I listened to what that visitor in my left breast was telling me. As I lay in bed month after month, it would say, “Get me out.” On December 26, 2003, the lump was finally set free. A few days later, on New Year’s Eve, the call came. I knew from the moment I answered the phone what the doctor would say.

I don’t remember the drive to the doctor’s office that afternoon. When I walked through the door, his wife was there, with tears in her eyes. She hugged me and I wept.

“Am I dying?” were the first words out of my mouth to my surgeon.

“No, but you have decisions to make.”

    My brother was so upset, he cried, “Why you?” The only answer I could offer was “Why not me?” My husband was my rock, but the terror I saw in his eyes broke my heart.

I was 33 years old, newly married, with no children. We had just bought our first home. And we had just finished two torturous years of marriage counseling. I thought I was done turning inside out, but I realized that the process of life, the shedding of layers—that work is never done. And I decided that if this was to be my life’s work, I was going to embrace it completely.

I have always fundamentally liked who I am. I have always known I am strong. I was proud of being a “bad-ass renegade,” as my girlfriends loved to refer to me. As I entered the arena and put on my gloves, I knew I had to win.

Every ounce of me was awake—my issues, my dreams, my hopes, my soul. I was awake on every level of my being. This is how cancer changed my life.

    On April 26, 2004, I had my breasts removed. There where so many other options, but cancer taught me how to let go.

Trust me, there was plenty of wondering about what I had done to cause this. Was it the years of partying and late nights dancing with my girlfriends in the city? Was it some secret buried within the unknown ancestry of my mother, who was adopted? Was it all the emotional work I still had to deal with? My sadness about my childhood? My anger?

My life’s work became about all of these things, delivered in a tumor, one centimeter, hormone receptive. Ready, set, go.

It was such an overwhelming message. Cancer became the great motivator. A teacher and, on some strange level, a friend, a relationship. The work I had to do did not need to be all about cancer. It was work that was there all along. It was made up of all my sadness, hopes, and fears.

There was no place to hide. Getting high was out of the question and was something I had outgrown, but, damn, it sure was appealing during months of surgeries, doctors, and decisions. In a strange but comforting way, I was proud of myself. I suddenly understood “Just say no!” in a whole new way. For many years, the bad-ass renegade in me just did not know what the hell that meant.

On October 22, 2004, my dog Sweetie died of cancer. She had waited to show me how sick she was until after my double mastectomy in April. But it was Sweetie who showed me that in the face of cancer, there can be grace and dignity. Once again, cancer taught me how to let go.

I have always wanted truth in my life. I believe in the power we carry within ourselves to heal, to grow, to be good, and to be kind. I believe that we all impact one another, that we are connected. Cancer brought more meaning to all of what I carried inside. Cancer told me that life is precious. I have always thought so, but I don’t think I knew it like I know it now.