I am sitting on my couch this morning, repeated sounds of YouTube videos echoing from my son’s playroom (home-schooling win.) My daughter is in her room taking a calculus test, which I cannot take any credit for — even though I’d like to — as she is self-motivated and responsible on her own accord. It is her senior year and the last week has brought her heartache and loss, alongside many high school and college seniors globally. We have simmered in that pain and moved through it together. A week into our limited contact at home among its many inconveniences and hardships, I’ve discovered a world of exemplified gratitude for the reminder and value of uncertainty.
At 38 years old, I was diagnosed with breast cancer and underwent a double mastectomy. In a matter of seconds, my life’s perspective shifted from, “What am I going to make for dinner tonight?” to, “Am I going to die?” In fact, that was the only question I asked the case manager who delivered the news to me and my loved ones in a sterile hospital basement conference room. The well-intended woman told me no, however I knew she could not grant me the certainty I was seeking in reactive desperation. I knew that I would need to learn to manage the always cerebrally present, but rarely emotively embraced, question of ultimate uncertainty … mortality.
Three years later, in reflection, I look back to that time and my personal evolvement as one of the greatest gifts in my life. Don’t mistake that as gratitude for cancer, that was not cool. However, allowing myself to eventually accept the absolute lack of control over my life’s duration due to my diagnosis created a ripple effect of present tense living and a sense of control over the only thing I learned I could control, myself.
I developed and have maintained a sense of empowerment to change what I could control. I began regular therapy. I learned to set boundaries with people who did not bring me joy. I took the largest risk of my life and opened my own company — and it was terrifying. I forgave myself for past mistakes and began viewing them through a lens of necessary growth. I became more generous as I understood money to be a luxury I would never take with me. I began to look at my body as a vessel to my spirit and took the care of my body with seriousness and urgency. I began to live.
The time we are living in feels much like the way I felt when receiving my diagnosis; it feels like standing on the edge of the high dive for the first time, at the community pool with a group of friends daring you to jump. We are not sure what will happen after the jump. Will it hurt? Will I recover? How will I know what to do next? Can I swim to the side on my own?
As we stand, toes wiggling over the edge, we don’t have answers that give us any guarantees. That feels incredibly uncomfortable. Our body responds to this discomfort with opposition and begins to tense up and lean back toward the safety of the ladder. We turn behind us and see the certainty that existed prior to climbing out on the edge and we long for that peace, yet we must jump. We eventually choose to trust ourselves to be OK with the whatever type of landing occurs. It may be painful; we may even belly flop. Yet, even the most painful of landings lead us to a lesson in holding tightly to ourselves as we jump.
The only certainty of humanity is uncertainty. We are biologically programmed to resist it by controlling, justifying, blaming and projecting. I get it. I feel that way, too. However, we have the innate power to choose to surrender to the fear of uncertainty. We get to determine whether we jump into the unknown and utilize the lessons and gifts it can offer, or we can choose to give into the resistance and stay stuck on the edge of the board. It really is that simple. Let’s allow ourselves to feel and express our fears and hesitations aloud, because when we give them a voice and place to live, they no longer control us. We are free to jump. With that leap, we are empowered to trust the certainty of ourselves.
Jenny Howe is a therapist and mental health consultant.