I spent a year chasing some future version of myself that would finally feel “healed,” but instead, I burned out. After a few health setbacks, I was forced to pause. To be still. To ask myself: If setbacks are inevitable—whether in health, work, or love—what’s within my control? What can I build into my life, no matter the circumstances, that brings me joy and makes me feel most like myself?

It felt quite late when I landed in Thailand. I had been on a flight for two days, if you include the time travel. Bangkok was waking up for its evening shift when I left the airport. As we drove to the hotel, the sky was dark, the streets lined with vendors selling everything from the usual t-shirts to tourist souvenirs to household objects like batteries and pots and pans! The excitement was beyond real… Thailand was on my bucket list for so long. I was ready for anything.

I have always been a girly-girl with a preference for feminine fashion. I loved creating fun, flirty looks for ordinary days. I loved heels for everyday wear (yes, even while working in the vineyard), and I loved wearing sexy outfits that showed off my boobs. My breasts were gorgeous, almost perfect – the kind that had a natural, yet full, teardrop shape with perky nipples. Until cancer happened. Twice.

This time was different. I was not sure what it was. I just knew it was not supposed to be there. “What the hell is this?” was my first thought, as I stood in front of the mirror — naked — feeling on my nippleless left breast. I went around and around, up, and down, even felt under my armpit. I massaged the right side — there’s no nipple there either. Only to feel nothing. I immediately thought — not again!

I don’t like a lot of things about myself; I’m one of those people who intrinsically dismiss their value and worth due to a less-than-optimal and abusive upbringing. But there’s one thing I do love about myself despite a long and tangled history: my thick, naturally curly (though often worn straight), shiny, healthy, unique auburn hair.

I stood in the bathroom staring at my own eyes in the mirror while my 2-year-old daughter “brushed” her teeth (read: vaguely chewed on her toothbrush). A week ago this part of the bedtime routine was driving me insane.