Recovery, Gratitude, Ceremony: My 2025 Cancer Journey Reflections

2025: Recovery. Gratitude. Ceremony.

2026: Visionary. Consistent. Awakening.

Looking back at this year's journey, I find myself overwhelmed by the task of choosing just three words to define it. How can I compress months of physical therapy, family reunions, and celebrations into such a small space? Perhaps in the narrowed space of three chosen words, the truth of who I've become will shine more brightly than in any lengthy explanation.

After much consideration, I've selected my three guideposts for the new year: visionary, consistency, and awakening.

This past year has been defined by recovery. My physical therapy journey from August to December transformed me — I went from needing a rollator in early 2024 to requiring just a cane by August 2025. The sweetest moment came in September when my spine doctor said I could leave the cane behind, rekindling my confidence to walk city streets and brave the subway once more. Another victory: my bloodwork stabilized enough that my Darzelex treatments now happen only every couple of months — a quiet but significant milestone on my path to healing.

Gratitude fills me when I think of my wife's gentle nudging to reconnect with family in New Hampshire and Massachusetts. Around my sister's kitchen table, chopping vegetables side by side, we fell into fits of laughter over childhood memories. It was wonderful to see my cousins and go over family photos and stories. Though my spine complained and the ghost of shingles still haunts my nerves, I've come to see these discomforts as reminders of my survival. Even collapsing into those necessary two-hour recovery naps felt worthwhile — my body might have been depleted, but my spirit was overflowing.

Ceremony completes my trio of words. This past year, I've become a vessel for ritual moments that transform ordinary spaces into sacred ones. Strangers froze mid-step as my Tibetan bells rang through the Rudolph architectural exhibition, turning the Metropolitan Museum into a temple of sound.

I've become the steady voice beside final resting places, offering words that honor lives while comforting those left behind. Even my cousin's casual backyard wedding BBQ became holy ground when I stepped forward with an unplanned blessing, the circle of smiling guests becoming a living sanctuary amid the scent of gardens and grilled food. At art gallery openings, my bells cut through cocktail chatter, freezing conversations mid-sentence as the watercolor pieces suddenly commanded everyone's full attention.

Looking ahead, I am a visionary as someone who helps transform spaces into sanctuaries of health, healing, and beauty. One project on the horizon involves collaborating with a team to develop affordable housing at the former Creedmore psychiatric hospital — a place with a troubled history that we hope to reimagine. I often wonder: what does it take to transmute a space's painful past into something restorative? I'm also drawn to finally putting pen to paper for my memoir, exploring my ancestral roots and explaining how they've nourished me today, and explaining the vital connection to what my cultural tradition calls chi — the life force energy that sustains and empowers us all.

Consistency emerged as my second word — the quiet commitment to show up where I'm needed. Each week brings familiar touchpoints: the warm nods from my Bells family before we meditate together, the determined faces around housing blueprints at Broad Channel meetings, and the supportive silence in MM writing groups as someone prepares to share. These rhythms ground me in purpose.

And lastly, the third word is awakening. I've come to recognize my purpose to help others. I'm learning to be selective with my hours — saying no to draining social obligations while carving out time for the elderly neighbor who needs company. I've found compassion for difficult colleagues, understand my brother's awkward expressions of love, and reserve judgment for strangers on the subway. Above all else, I've begun cultivating the art of being fully present — setting my device aside, meeting gazes directly, and attuning myself to the emotional currents that flow beneath conversations.

This piece reflects the author’s personal experience and perspective. For medical advice, please consult your health care provider.

For more news on cancer updates, research and education, don’t forget to subscribe to CURE®’s newsletters here.