The Next Chapter Is Written in Pencil

July 29, 2026

By the end of my appointments, the afternoon sun had finally broken through the clouds.

For most of the Wednesday morning, New York had been wrapped in low gray skies and a slow rain. During the Uber ride to Memorial Sloan Kettering, the city looked like the backdrop for a Batman movie. Buildings disappeared into the mist, the streets glistened with rain, and everything felt heavy.

But as the hours passed, something changed.

The clouds slowly surrendered, and sunlight began pouring through the window beside my chair. I could feel its warmth settling across my face and shoulders. It wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet. Gentle. Almost easy to miss if I hadn’t been sitting still.

As I closed my eyes for a moment, I found myself thinking that hope often arrives the same way.

Not all at once.

Not with flourishes and fanfare.

Just enough light to remind you it was there all along.

That moment stayed with me because this wasn’t just another appointment.

For the last year and a half, nearly every conversation has revolved around one question: How do we get you through this?

Every appointment focused on blood counts, PET scans, medications, side effects, clinical trials, and whether the treatment was working. My calendar became a collection of oncology visits, infusion days, lab draws, and physical therapy appointments. Life was measured in three week increments between trips to Memorial Sloan Kettering.

This visit, however, felt different from the very beginning.

Before the appointments even started, Tuesday evening brought something that has become increasingly precious: time with good friends. As it happened, they were in New York City for work, and we managed to steal a few hours together.

For a little while, there was no discussion of lab values, scans, or treatment plans. There was simply laughter, good conversation, and the comfort that comes from being with people who know me as more than a medical chart.

It reminded me that healing doesn’t happen only in hospitals.

Sometimes it happens in a hotel bar, with expensive watered down drinks and mocktails, with friends.

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Late on Tuesday I had a cognitive test. I passed. I still know the difference between a rhino, elephant and camel. I can still recite the five words I was given to remember: church, sun, red, book, face, and daisy.

The future remains uncertaim, and always will be for me and this diagnosis.

Cancer simply stripped away the illusion that tomorrow was guaranteed.

So I’ll keep planning. I’ll keep showing up for my appointments. I’ll keep listening to my physicians, taking care of my body, and doing everything I can to protect the gift I’ve been given.

I’ll continue to get busy living.

I’ll enjoy dinners with friends.

I’ll spend time with Maria and our boys.

I’ll keep chasing trails, writing stories, and appreciating ordinary moments that once seemed impossible.

Because the next chapter isn’t about what cancer took from me.

It’s about what I choose to do with everything it left behind.

As I left the hospital this afternoon, the clouds were still there.

They hadn’t disappeared.

They had simply parted long enough for the sunlight to reach me.

Maybe that’s what survivorship really is.

Not a cloudless sky.

Not pretending the storm never happened.

Just recognizing that the sun has never left.

Sometimes all we need is enough light to remind us to keep walking.