I haven’t written in a few days—not because anything’s wrong, but because, well… nothing is. Life has been weirdly normal. And I’m learning that “normal” is its own kind of gift.
Still, I know silence can sometimes sound like worry. So let me say this clearly: I’m okay. Things are good. Round three of chemo is in two days, and yeah, there’s some quiet anxiety humming beneath the surface. Not because I’m afraid, really, but because I don’t want to break the streak. So far, my body’s held up well. I’d like to keep it that way.
But if symptoms show up, I’ll deal with it like I always do—with dumb jokes, a corgi who only sort of likes me, and whatever version of a smile I can manage that day.
Right now, I’m writing this from bed. Tugboat is curled up at my feet, snoring like he’s had the rougher day between the two of us. It’s rare for him to choose my company, so even though he treats me like a vending machine with legs, I’m kind of loving this moment. There’s something quietly beautiful about sharing space with a little loaf of bread who doesn’t even know he’s comforting you.
Lately, people have asked how I’m doing mentally. The honest answer? Pretty good, most of the time. I’m not spiraling or lost in dread. I still laugh too much. I still complain about dumb stuff. I still end up explaining to Tugboat why the Amazon driver isn’t here to murder us both.
But I also think a lot more than I used to—about life, about death, about all the shit in between (pun absolutely intended).
And while I truly believe this cancer will one day be just another weird chapter in my story, I’ve had to accept that it could also be the end of it. That’s a hard sentence to write. We all know we’re going to die. But knowing you might get a more specific expiration date if things go sideways… that’s something else.
Strangely, though, I don’t see that thought as a burden. If anything, it’s changed how I see the world.
Because I’ve started noticing everything. Really noticing it. The small things. The overlooked things. The beautiful, everyday things that have always been there but never really registered.
Like the walk to my favorite coffee shop.
Every morning, I head out with Tugboat, listening to Judah Smith’s devotional and making my way to Nate’s. That walk used to be just a bridge from my bed to my desk. But now? Every breeze, every crack in the sidewalk, every wave from the yoga people next door feels intentional. Alive. Like God is whispering, “You’re still here. Pay attention.”
And I do. I pay attention to the smell of espresso and warm pavement. To the joy of that first sip. To the ridiculousness of Tugboat refusing to walk in a straight line. It’s all small and it’s all sacred now.
Food has changed for me too. Cancer doesn’t let me eat solid food often, and for someone who used to borderline worship food, that’s been hard. But on the days I can eat, I don’t reach for anything fancy. I reach for history.
Cornbread. Buttermilk biscuits. Frito pie.
These aren’t just comfort foods—they’re pieces of my past. Bites of childhood. And now, they taste like something more. Something earned. Something remembered. My taste buds are changing, and maybe so am I. I never used to feel grateful for biscuits. Now I do. Deeply.
Another unexpected joy? Working out.
For years, I dragged myself to 5 p.m. workouts with Dean, John, and Yanelle. I hated every minute of it. It was hot. It was hard. It was a lot. But now? I’m trying to rebuild the strength chemo keeps stealing, and those workouts have become sacred ground.
It’s not actually CrossFit—calm down, Ed—but we use the gear, and we move our bodies, and we sweat. A lot. And my friends don’t let me off the hook. They push me. They won’t let me hide behind the word “cancer.” And I love them for it. Even when I’m tired. Even when it sucks. Especially then.
So yeah. It’s been an uneventful week. But I’ve come to believe that uneventful is just another word for grace. This week didn’t have a dramatic twist or a breaking point or a medical revelation. It had coffee. And cornbread. And a corgi. And laughter. And workouts that made me feel a little more like myself again.
And it had you.
Because whether you’ve texted, called, checked in on my mom, sent a prayer, or just quietly kept me in your heart, you’ve made this weird and uncomfortable adventure a little more bearable. A little more beautiful.
Thank you for being part of it. For walking with me, even if from a distance. For helping me see the small things clearly.
I’m grateful. More than I know how to say.