Carried by the Wind: Exhale (Offering 12.2)
Remission, relief, and learning to let go.
After a year and a half of holding our breath, the word came: complete remission. What followed was cautious relief, a solo trip for Shon and Seren, me home sick, and alone in a quiet house. There I finally stopped—and painted my way into something new.
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Exhale
Months after our mountain adventure, in winter 2023—after a year and a half of holding our breath through doctor’s appointments, chemo, and so much uncertainty—we cautiously allowed ourselves to exhale.
Shon had just received the results of his latest CT scan and a call from his oncologist, Hootie: He was in complete remission from cancer.
As we took in this news, the relief was staggering—exhaustion released like a dam breaking under the pressure of its own weight. Still, it was a cautious relief. We would need time to trust that we were through the storm. To celebrate, we packed our swimsuits and headed to our favorite rustic resort on the Washington coast. There, we tried to wrap our heads and hearts around this incredible news. We splashed and laughed in the pool with Seren. Felt tension release with the hot steam of the sauna. Breathed in the cold mist as we sang our gratitude to the ocean, tears mingling with ocean spray as El Mar accepted our grief and relief. Later, we shared decadent desserts on the bluff above the ocean with Jen’s family, Seren’s eyes alight as the server torched the top of her crème brûlée.
We returned home from the ocean clearer and lighter, but I still felt untethered.
That February, Shon, finally feeling well enough to get on a plane, took Seren to Iowa to visit family. It was their first overnight solo adventure together and marked a significant milestone in Shon’s recovery. As they packed to leave, I felt my need for control rise—questions ready to spill from my lips: Did you pack all of your medicines? Enough snacks for Seren? Her favorite stuffie? Warm clothes? At the last moment, I stopped myself. After over a year of being cared for, Shon needed me to trust that he could do this on his own. I didn’t want to diminish the huge and gratifying moment this was for him. I needed to believe he had everything covered—and if something was left behind, they’d figure it out. So I kept my questions to myself, poured all my love into them as I drove them to the airport, and hugged them as tightly as I could before watching them walk away together.
Finally, I had time to rest. But I hardly knew how. My immune system took over, and I got sick, giving me little choice but to slow down. Alone in my quiet house, wrapped in blankets, I finally stopped moving.
In my slowness that week, I found that part of me was terrified of stepping into this ever-growing role as an Artist and Change Maker. Instead of trying to dismiss this fear or push it away, I welcomed it. I gave her a home.
I literally painted a home for her.
I pulled out an old canvas I’d been working on but never finished. There was an iridescent spiral over dark paint, leaf prints flowing towards the center. Quickly, I sketched a figure, seated in meditation, then used dark brown to fill in the figure, covering much of the spiral. I got out my dried alder leaves and coated them one by one in orange and red hues, then pressed them to the canvas, overlapping the impressions until the entire figure was filled. I pulled paint down from the folded legs and leaves, rooting the figure into the cosmos. I paused to consider what I’d done, knowing it wasn’t complete. Then, I dipped my brush into blue pearl, and painted a stream winding from the figure’s head, down through the body and over the roots. Finally, I painted a child leaping over the stream, filled with joy, knowing she was safe and loved.
As I painted Home, I began to process my fear, my grief, the stress from the previous year. I found myself becoming increasingly excited and ready to follow my curiosity, to see where this new knowing would take me. I exhaled, inviting ease into this transition—into the doubt, the uncertainty, the stressful moments of my day.
When I picked Shon and Seren up from the airport, there was a new lightness in Shon’s eyes. Seren regaled me with stories of their adventures playing in the snow and soaring through the air at the trampoline park. I soaked in her voice and Shon’s steady presence, feeling into the delight and rightness of having them home with me again. I exhaled as I drew them close, grounding myself in our shared love.
I didn’t know it yet, but that exhale had already made space for something new—something meant to travel.
When something you’ve been bracing for finally lifts—how do you learn to exhale?