Rebuilding

May 12, 2026

There’s a strange tension in my life right now. Physically, I feel good. Better than I have in a long time, honestly. I’m working through physical therapy, rebuilding strength, slowly increasing my cardio, trying to reclaim the parts of myself that treatment stripped away. Chemotherapy took more than hair and energy. It took endurance. It took muscle. It took the version of me that could disappear into the wilderness for two weeks with everything I needed strapped to my back and think nothing of the miles ahead.

That version of me is still there somewhere. I know that. Right now he’s just rebuilding.

I am improving in physical therapy. I can actually see the results now. The strength is returning to my body little by little, enough that I notice it in everyday things instead of just numbers on a chart or exercises on a worksheet. I’m trying to be smart about it and not overdo things. That can be difficult for me because mentally I always want to push harder and move faster than my body is ready for.

I’m also paying attention to what I eat. I’m back to around 195 pounds and eventually I’d like to get back down closer to 185. For now though, I keep getting told the same thing by the medical team: focus on balanced meals and healing first. The rest can come later.

They are probably right.

Still, I would be lying if I said part of me was not looking forward to getting my beach body back and reclaiming my sex symbol status. Humor helps. Sometimes you have to laugh a little after spending so much time in hospitals, treatment rooms, and waiting areas. Recovery needs moments of lightness too.

The hikes will come back. The strength will come back. The confidence in my body will come back too. Recovery is not dramatic most days. It is repetition. Small victories. One more exercise. One more walk without feeling exhausted. One more moment where your body reminds you that healing is happening, even if it is happening quietly.

Medically, things are moving in the right direction. The numbers continue to improve. We are slowly decreasing the amount of medications I need to boost my immune system because those numbers are getting close to normal again. That is a huge win. The kind of win that may not look dramatic from the outside, but means everything when you have spent months watching blood work and waiting for your body to recover.

I still have another scan coming up in a few weeks, and that will help determine the next course of action. Continue the current plan. Adjust it. Maybe move toward the next phase. Right now, a lot depends on those results.

That leaves me living in a strange kind of limbo.

It is an odd space to exist in because life outwardly looks normal again. I’m back to planning things. Thinking about hiking trails I want to revisit and trips I want to take. I can laugh, work, travel, and enjoy life again. Yet somewhere in the background there is always this quiet countdown to the next appointment, the next lab draw, the next scan result posted to a portal.

Cancer changes your relationship with time.

You stop looking too far ahead because you learn quickly that plans can change with a phone call. At the same time, you cannot stay frozen waiting for medical updates forever. So you learn to live in between. In between fear and hope. In between recovery and uncertainty. In between who you were and who you are becoming.

Some days that balance is easy. Other days it feels impossible.

I’m still cautious around large groups of people. I wear a mask when necessary. It makes me a little self-conscious sometimes, standing out in a crowd when most people have moved on from all of that. Still, I remind myself that caution is not weakness. It is part of recovery. Part of protecting the progress I have fought so hard to make.

Even the small things feel meaningful now.

My hair is growing back. We think I was losing some of it on top because that was still my “December hair.” Hair that had gone through the last heavy round of chemo before the CAR-T process. That treatment was designed to wipe out my immune system completely so it could rebuild. My hair probably never stood much of a chance against it either.

Now it is coming back.

That makes me happier than I expected it would.

Maybe that sounds a little vain, but I do not think it really is. Hair is one of those quiet parts of your identity you never think much about until it changes. I’m used to running my hands through it when I’m reading or thinking. It’s habit. Muscle memory. One of those small human routines tied to comfort and familiarity.

When cancer and treatment begin taking pieces of your routine, even tiny things matter when they return.

What I’m learning is that recovery has its own rhythm. You cannot force it. You cannot rush the process just because your mind is ready for life to return to normal. The body heals on its own timetable. Progress comes in layers, quietly stacking on top of one another until one day you realize you are stronger than you were a month ago.

Maybe that is the real challenge in all of this. Not waiting, but learning how to move forward without needing immediate certainty. Trusting the steady steps even when the destination is still unclear.

For most of my life, I have measured progress by distance covered, objectives completed, and mountains climbed. This season is teaching me to measure things differently. A good scan. Stronger blood work. A longer walk. A little more strength returning to my legs. Hair growing back. The ability to imagine future adventures again.

That is still movement forward. Quietly. Steadily. One step at a time.