I’m writing again. This time, I’m not documenting disaster. I’m chronicling new life.
Katie Over Cancer started as a way to broadcast answers to a thousand questions from people who knew me, loved me, and wanted to help. I was overwhelmed by texts and phone calls, so I thought I’d simply be communicating logistics and data points. What began as an exercise in efficiency—a way to quickly, easily, and accurately share information in one place—became a sacred space where I found myself.
I wrote about fear and pain and the disarming uncertainty of a life lived with disease. To survive, I had to find something heavier to anchor into. Cancer forced adjustment. To keep going, I had to change how I confronted the fear in front of me. Most of the time, that meant breaking life down into fractions. I had to recalibrate my thinking entirely. I couldn’t get swept away by fear or grief. Panic was a luxury I couldn’t afford. I had to stay clear about what was happening and what came next. I had to discern what was actually true, what was imagined, what was emotional, and what was temporary while I was still conscious and alert so my heart and soul could fight when I wasn’t.
Living like that saved me. I’ve confronted death a dozen times, and I’m still here. But now there’s another chapter of life to live: more work, more growth, more depth to tunnel through. I am restless. I cannot live a tepid life. My soul craves deep bravery about who I am, how the world works, and how I live now that I’ve been to the edges of life. Now that I know death, how do I want to live?
In some ways, those questions have already been answered for me. I am no longer battling a life-threatening disease. I am no longer married to Tom. With him, I lost a family and a life I loved. I’ve had to walk away from much of the career and business I built. I live in a different house, in a different city. I lost almost everything.
None of this is what I wanted. The end of my marriage has been the most disruptive and heartbreaking loss of my life. I broke under that heartache. Years of unhealed pain overwhelmed me, and I simply and completely fell apart.
Heartache has required an even greater personal recalibration than cancer. I’ve not only had to find strength; I’ve had to do it in isolation. I wasn’t ashamed of being sick. I was ashamed of collapsing under the weight of grief. My support system evaporated, my finances dried up, and I invited in terrible experiences through terrible choices made with good intentions but ultimately aimed at avoiding pain. I lost so much so quickly that I became dangerously unmoored. With cancer, I knew what I was fighting for. With grief, I lost most of what I thought made life worth living. Untethered, I whipped wildly in the wind, tearing my seams and fraying my edges until there was only battered, fragmented pieces of me left.
Eventually, in that hellscape, I had to make another decision: I could live or die under the weight of my grief. I fought as hard as I could for as long as I could. I tried to pull myself together and I would crumble in anguish when that still wasn’t enough to upright me. When all my wrestling and raging couldn’t save me, I did the only thing left: I surrendered.
Letting go of what I cannot control has changed me. I’m still getting used to it. I’m still learning how to live a life that is small in expectation and large in love. I still carry shards of grief in my heart that sometimes sharpen my tongue, and I still practice the art of bringing my focus back inward. I have to find peace and calm to painfully let go of what no longer serves me.
While I still dance with pain and do battle with personal expansion, life on this side of meaning has been the honor of my life. It sustains me. It holds my fragile frame together when the storm rolls in. I’ve had to learn who I am and make conscious decisions about who I want to be. I fight every day for a future that will only exist if I remain extraordinarily brave and keenly focused. I sow seeds of humility, patience, curiosity, and kindness. My love is richer. I share my heart with more presence and compassion. I dream big, audacious dreams that light me up from head to toe. I choose hope even though my trailing data would advise that I seek shelter. There is no way I am going back to small living. I will live and die by this code of untamed passion and want. I will love fiercely. I will laugh heartily. I will be grateful and joyful for this life or I will not have it at all.
Welcome to this epoch of revolution and resilience. Twice I have been taken to my knees. Twice I have pleaded with stars while tears stream and an ache squeezes the life out of my chest. Both times I have been reminded of the home I carry within my own heart.
Oh Well Hell is my homecoming. I am learning to love here first. From that, everything else flows. You are welcome here. You are safe. Most importantly, you are loved.
Well, Hell 