Confronting the Thief of Peace

Yesterday was such a beautiful day.

I started the morning with my kids, laughing in a messy kitchen, talking as the sounds and smells of sizzling sausage filled up the room. It wasn’t an explosively exciting day, but it was lovely in its simplicity. I cleaned the house while listening to a podcast—one of my favorite ways to decompress—and I loved every moment.

As the air warmed slightly, I decided to leave home for a hike on my favorite mountain. The timing was accidentally perfect. Finishing my hike, I got to watch the sun dip down behind the trees, painting the sky with bursts of orange, yellow, and red—colors so exquisite they almost didn’t feel real.

It was one of those days that make you love life—a day so full of beauty and simple joy that it fills you with hopeful energy. There was pride in my heart, but by the time I got home, I was pretty freaking exhausted. So I jumped in the shower, letting the hot water wash away whatever the forest had sent home with me.

There wasn’t an ounce of anxiety in my body—that is, until I felt it.

Something on the lower side of my breast didn’t feel normal.

…is that a lump?

For those who don’t know me, after a two-year run with breast cancer, I had a bilateral radical mastectomy. I’ve been in remission for five years now, and my cancer is unlikely to return. But in this moment, standing in the shower, my brain refused to believe that.

The word was loud and relentless in my mind: Cancer.

It echoed through my entire body. I couldn’t shake the encroaching feeling that if this was real, it was going to be bad. My mind went from zero to a hundred thousand. Fear is one hell of a drug.

Just like that, all the work I’d done—building inner strength, discernment, and resilience—came tumbling down like a building shaken to the ground in an earthquake. I became a raw, stripped-down version of myself, operating out of terror and scarcity.

And in that moment, my boyfriend called. He just wanted to catch up on the day. He had no idea a storm was raging inside me, and I decided it was best not to tell him. The truth is, I didn’t know how.

In the past, I learned to make myself small, keeping my burdens light in relationships—a skill honed over years of believing my value came from making others happy.

Taking weight off others, never adding more, was how I kept my marriage going.

Even though I no longer believe that and know I can trust in my current relationship, fear was whispering, and I was listening:

Don’t be too much. Don’t be heavy.

So instead of being honest with the person I love about the fact that I was actively terrified, I shoved it all down and tried be casual.

Because you know, that’s super healthy.

As you can imagine, the conversation was weird. I felt that happening which made me act even weirder.

Before we hung up, Matt told me he loved me. But he also gently let me know it felt like he was talking to a stranger. He wanted to know what was wrong.

And that’s when it all came pouring out—like a ripped-open bag of marbles. Matt responded with grace, as he always does. The man is very emotionally aware. He offered assurance, which I tried to receive, but his comfort couldn’t keep up with my spiral.

I spent the whole night tossing and turning as fear continued to snowball: fear of cancer, fear of screwing up my relationship, fear of dying, fear of dying alone. The whole time, I forgot the one thing I know to be true about fear from experience:

Fear is a liar.

This morning, I woke up, and guess what? The lump is practically gone. I can barely feel it now, which is wonderful news because that’s not something cancer does.

Of course, I’m feeling incredibly grateful, but also a tad embarrassed…because all that fear?

It lied to me.

It lied, and I wholeheartedly believed it.

Fear barged into my mind, wreaked havoc, and left without consequence. It didn’t pay rent, clean up, or offer anything good in return.

And here’s the thing: If fear were an actual person, I wouldn’t let them into my house. Probably not even my neighborhood. They lie to me half the time, steal my peace, and are seriously the worst freaking houseguest. But still, I roll out the welcome mat—

Please, do come in! Derail my life!

Why do I do this? Why do any of us? Why would we trust someone who constantly lies to make decisions about our lives?

I’ve done so much healing over the years. I’ve learned to temper grief, insecurity, and anger.

But fear? It still takes the reins.

It’s frustrating to realize how easily I let it happen, how often I’ve been blind to its hold.

I don’t want to let fear win anymore. I don’t want my joy to be stolen. I’m going to have to heal this wound, and to be honest, I don’t know where to start. But what I do know is that growth isn’t linear. It’s a long-winding, up-and-down journey. It requires honesty and the courage to face that mountain, even when the path ahead is unclear.

Acknowledging how fear has taken over my life is a humbling part of this process. But in that very acknowledgment, in those raw moments of truth, that’s where growth begins.

So, this is me looking ahead at that mountain, and taking the very first step.

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Dear friends,

It means the world to me that you’re here. Fear often tells me to hold back, but sharing these pieces of my heart is my way of pushing past it, step by step.

I’ll always keep my words open and accessible because encouragement shouldn’t come with a pay wall.

For those of who volunteer your financial support, thank you for helping me continue this journey. Thank you for keeping the lights on, and most especially for showing up alongside me in this process of growth.

With love and gratitude,

Mary Katherine