You’re Allowed To Begin Again.

notes on coming undone, and returning anyway

I haven’t written much about myself lately. Not just because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t quite know how. These past few months haven’t just been about recovering from illness or loss (though both of those things have been difficult) - they’ve also been about surviving something less visible: weeks and weeks of election campaigning that cracked open parts of me I thought had long healed.

/.

During the campaign, I was stalked. Mildly assaulted. Harassed. Intimidated. Verbally abused. Over and over again. Not by people I’d debated or challenged but by strangers. Men I’d never interacted with stepping out of their front doors, leaving their garden gates, to follow me down the street, yelling, aggressively, awful things. Racist, sexist, conspiracy things. It was relentless. The kind of low-grade terror that creeps in through the gaps. And while I kept showing up - because that’s what I do - inside, something was breaking.

It triggered memories I’ve worked hard to live beyond. Past experiences of long domestic violence, of being made small, of not knowing how this will esculate. Of being attacked for nothing you’ve even done.

I cried for 3 weeks straight. It was foreign reaction - completely new - I’d not cried like that in literally decades from stress. Not because I’m weak. But because when you’re constantly under threat, even the strongest parts of you get tired. It made me question my beliefs. My work. My own philosophy. It made me ask: what have the last 4 years meant? And for a moment… a long moment… I didn’t know how to answer.

I’ve been trying to shake it off ever since. And slowly, I am.

I felt like I needed to get away, alone, to get back to myself.

///

A few days ago, I made it to Lake Como. I sat by the water and thought about another lake - Sandy Island. The iconic place where my life first split in 2. Where I heard the diagnosis that changed everything. But also where a whole community gathered around me and showed me a kind of love I didn’t yet believe I deserved. A place where healing wasn’t just about medicine, but about people reminding me that my life mattered. That I mattered. That I was deserving of love and care. Stuff I wasn’t sure then, if I did?

/

Time on Sandy has always moved differently. not in hours or emails or targets, but in light & laughter and the smell of pine. Sitting by Lake Como, I remembered that feeling. That not everything good has to be earned through pain. That being held, being seen, being loved can just happen. And that I’m still allowed to feel joy.

/

This week, I swam in the sea for the first time in months & months. Not “went in for a bit.” I swam. The Ligurian water was warm and impossibly clear. As I floated, I cried- again. but this time it was different. I wasn’t crying out of fear or grief. I was crying because I’m still here. After everything. That somehow, against the odds, I had made it to this very moment.

Since I got sick, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about time. The odds. The timelines. I have folders full of data, outcomes, protocols. In the beginning, I obsessed over them. I needed to know what I was up against. I needed to feel like I had some kind of control.

I don’t think about the numbers every day anymore, but they haven’t disappeared. They hum quietly under everything. Especially on days like this - when I’m eating fruit off the vine, when I wake up early enough to see the sunrise and stay up late enough to see the stars.

/

I hiked (slowly). Drank juice that tasted like sunlight. Ate focaccia that didn’t make sense and was somehow still perfect. Slept deeply (or not because I swear down 1 place was haunted). Felt the (spiritually) lighest I have in literally months and months. I’m eating food that feels like it’s trying to feed more than just hunger.

I feel more me than I have in a long time.

/

Being near and in the water helps. There’s something in me that trusts it. That believes in its way of healing. Being in the sea feels like being held by something older than fear. A reset button that doesn’t erase what’s come before but reminds you: you’re allowed to begin again.

/

There’s a kind of guilt that still bubbles up sometimes - when I feel joy, when I eat something so good it makes me close my eyes, when I laugh hard with friends. I used to feel bad about it, like I couldn’t open Facebook or share the great stuff because I felt like I had to be on 24/7 & essentially was. Like I hadn’t earned it. But I don’t feel that way today. Not here. Not now.

I’ve stopped waiting for the right moment. I’ve stopped asking if I deserve this much life.

I’m here. That’s enough.

As I head home tomorrow, I think back to over 10 years ago I was on a plane from NYC back home because I was *literally* dying.

Today I’ll be on a plane back home, despite some of the harms I’ve experienced over the past few months & beyond, I feel more alive than I have in a very long time.

/

So what’s next? That’s what everyone keeps asking me.

I’m Not sure yet. I’ll head back soon, get back into the hospital Tx, reorient. Keep writing. Keep resting. Keep loving the people I love. Try to spend more time outside. Try to not take any of it for granted - even the weird days. Especially the weird days.

And I’ll remember that: I have some time.
And if I use it well, it will be more than enough.