Still Here.

The machine screams its presence, and despite ear protection, I startle, jarring the IV line taped to my arm and feeling its displeasure.

The giant purrs, and I shift a bit, repositioning my breastbone against the hard plastic divider separating my breasts.

It's uncomfortable.

But so is cancer.

I think of my Mamaw Bertie, who died in 1967, when the only treatment for her breast cancer was surgery. She refused.

I close my eyes as the machine begins to alternatively hum, spin, and then assault my ears with its mechanical staccato beats, its rhythm of fear matching my own. I slow my breathing and lie on my stomach, perfectly still as a stranger collects images of my breasts for the specialist who works across town. My dignity feels as anonymous as I do.

My schedule alternates every six months: one regular mammogram, then one breast MRI with contrast, all because my risk of breast cancer is higher than my fellow female crew members. Even with negative genetic testing, it sits close to 40%.

So, every six months I continue the cycle of preventative care. It's not cheap, and I'm still working with their billing department, who can't seem to understand why or how to bill both of my insurances.

It's inconvenient.

I have to take two days off work and arrange childcare for our special needs son.

But it's important.

One missed appointment could delay my care.

I refuse to leave this world one minute before I'm scheduled to.

My family is too important, and quite honestly, my life is too important to play the toddler's game of, "I don't want to!"

In her quiet office across town, my news is good.

No evidence of cancer.

I breathe out the air I didn't know I was holding.

As I leave the generic brick building, the brutal July sun hits me with its midsummer force.

One hundred and three degrees warms my cooled skin almost instantly.

I feel the gift of my life as sweat begins to form along my browline.

And I smile.

That afternoon I drove home grateful for ordinary things.

Sweat.

Sunshine.

Another six months.

Life is never perfect.

And still...

it is good.

Wholehearted Living was born from moments like these.

It's not about perfect health, perfect homes, or perfect families.

It's about finding peace, purpose, and joy right in the middle of ordinary life.

If that's what you're searching for too...

Welcome.

I'm glad you're here.