The Point Of Life Is To Live It
The river was frozen, massive chunks of ice floating silently between the large boats that sat in the river separating my hotel from the touristy shops across the way; the ones selling homemade dish towels, chocolate balls covered in sprinkles, and pomegranate juice. Stockholm in the winter shared the gray skies of the East Coast cities I was used to, but there was an understated glamor threaded through the cold winds, every window above the sidewalk revealing a curated cozy interior, heads bent over books placed under glowing table lamps, candlelight flickering on the sills.
I was there for a medical conference, sent overseas by my job to present an academic poster and meet with a number of physicians in my field with whom I had only ever emailed. Despite the city’s New York City–like thrum, I was exhausted and wanted only to go home. My hotel was beautiful and understated, my room small and accessed by an elevator in a gold cage. The shower was hot, and next to a heated towel rack, my hand could simply reach out and feel the soft warmth. The shower sits front and center in my memory from that trip because it was in that shower that I repeatedly ran my thumb over the rubbery spot at the top of my left breast, right under the silky skin, my mind wandering in all directions.
The truth was that I was desperate for time off from work. I wanted to be home when the kids got off the bus, to feel on top of the laundry, and to be well-slept. I had already made a massive and emotionally charged job change and was overwhelmed by confusion, realizing that despite all I had left behind, I was still tired and unable to manage my life as a working mom of three. There were so many people I wanted to please—the mentors who brought me up through medical school, residency, and fellowship, the patients I loved taking care of, my work friends who were like sisters to me, and the boss at my new job. I wanted myself, my kids, and my husband to be at the top of this list, but I struggled to put us all there; the professional conundrum always front and center in my mind, no matter how hard I tried to push it aside. I wondered if the lump under my thumb would change that.
Fast forward 21-months—through chemo, mastectomy, radiation, and more chemo. Through a port being inserted and eventually removed. Through my children’s birthdays, my youngest turning four and then five. My oldest leaving elementary school for middle school. My best friend finding out she was pregnant and having a baby shortly before losing her beloved dog. Through many wonderful trips to beaches, mountains, and ancient towns. Through life continuing in a way that was richer than ever before, filled with noticing and pure admiration for the present day. I had always appreciated a normal day—I always knew it could be the best day you’d ever have, that some calamity could come out of the blue, making any day that came after one filled with grief and fear.
But as cancer treatment marched on, the appreciation of the normal day no longer came from fear; it came from peaceful admiration, an actual enjoyment of the present day, my grip on the current moment loosening so that it could move and roll in my palm, becoming whatever it was meant to become.
The beginning of survivorship has been marked by a lifting of my existential problem-solving, my mind finally free from the impossible puzzle of how work fits into my life. As the game of life unfolded during treatment and I glided between many different physical states of health while life overall went on uninterrupted, at some point I realized that the exact details of the job don’t matter. It can be a means to an end, and my only goal can be to make sure that, even while working, I have time to notice the magic of sitting on my couch in the early morning hours with rain tapping at the windows and a candle flickering in its jar, my family members still asleep upstairs. If I could go back to Stockholm and meet the tired young woman with the weary smile in front of her academic poster, I would tell her this—that the point of life is to live it, and as long as she is noticing the boats floating by in the frozen river, she is already doing it right.🌿
Bridget Godwin
Physician, coach, researcher. Diagnosed in 2024 at 40. IDC, Stage II, Triple Positive. Current lines of treatment: Lupron, Anastrozole, and Zometa.
Bridget is a physician specializing in pediatric allergies that impact the GI tract, with additional training in integrative medicine, nutrition, and life coaching. She lives outside of Philadelphia with her husband and three children. She loves to shop at independent bookstores, read anything and everything, walk as much as possible, enjoy food with friends, dance in the kitchen, and, thanks to WILDFIRE, write and share her writing.
“The Point Of Life Is To Live It” is published in Wildfire Journal’s 2026 “Survivorship” issue. Order a print or digital copy of the full issue in our shop. Available in the subscribers’ library as well.