I’m sitting in my favorite coffee shop in Austin — Nate’s Baked Goods. It’s a little bungalow house that’s been converted into a cozy coffee shop, and I love it for exactly that reason. It’s comfortable. Familiar. The kind of place where nothing is trying too hard. I come here a few times a week at a minimum, usually with buddies, and it’s where I like to start both good days and bad ones.
Today, I’m here by myself.
Austin has slowed down over the past week as Christmas gets closer. It’s a transplant town, and when the holidays roll around, a lot of people head home — wherever home happens to be for them. The city gets quieter as a result, and honestly, it’s really nice. I’ve always liked having people around, but as January 6th gets closer, the quiet feels like a small gift. Fewer conversations. Fewer check-ins. Fewer well-meaning questions about how I’m feeling or how I’m doing.
To be clear, I don’t mind talking about cancer. It would be pretty dense of me to say that, given the theme of this blog and how much time I’ve spent writing about it. I genuinely appreciate the concern — the texts, the prayers, the way people take time out of their lives to care about mine. That part still matters to me.
But over the last ten months, my identity has slowly shifted into something I didn’t ask for: AJ — the guy with cancer… and Tugboat.
I used to enjoy sympathy before all of this started. I don’t know why, and I won’t pretend that’s a flattering thing to admit, but it’s true. These days, while I still appreciate the sentiment behind it, I don’t enjoy it the way I once did. Somewhere along the way, sympathy stopped feeling comforting and started feeling limiting — like it was quietly shrinking me down to one story.
Recently, someone sent me a video — one of those things I’d normally scroll past without a second thought. It’s some random guy who kind of looks like Channing Tatum, which already felt suspicious. In the video, he talks about making it through just one more hard day and how that alone is something to be proud of. He says your future self needs you, but your past self doesn’t. The goal isn’t to be perfect — it’s just to carry on and aim to get a little better each day.
I don’t usually subscribe to clickbait motivation, but this one stuck with me.
These quiet days — the ones without constant conversations about what’s wrong — have given me space to think about what’s right. And I realized two things.
First, as much as I appreciate sympathy when people offer it, I’d choose admiration over it every time if given the option.
And second, when I actually take inventory, I have a lot to be proud of.
I’m not going to list those things out. That feels arrogant and also exhausting. But in the aggregate — and that word matters — I’ve gotten better at something every single day since all of this shit started. Yes, that was absolutely a pun.
Have there been rocky days? Of course. There were a few recently where my brain went down some truly idiotic rabbit holes. That still happens. But when I zoom out instead of fixating on the noise, I’m proud of where I am this morning — sitting in a quiet coffee shop, drinking my coffee, writing this, planning out a few small things I’ll do today to be just a little better tomorrow than I am right now.
I’m doing okay.
I’m not defined by my cancer.
I’m optimistic about what comes next — with cancer and without it — and I’m doing my best to get better each day, whether that improvement has anything to do with cancer at all.
And honestly, the day I’m most looking forward to isn’t some dramatic milestone or perfectly clean scan. It’s the day I get to be defined again by all the same stupid things that defined me before cancer. There are so so so many stupid things to choose from on that day…
That will be a good day.
That will be a day worth admiring.