I used to think I needed healing, love, money—or even just a little peace of mind—to feel whole.

But then cancer came and stripped me down to breath, bone, and prayer.

At 53, I was diagnosed with Stage 3A lung cancer. Not because I had symptoms—there weren’t any—but because God whispered something into my spirit. I listened, got the screening, and there it was: a spot on my upper left lung.

I was working a new job, smiling, blending in, trying to hold it all together. I didn’t look sick. I didn’t feel sick. But my body was fighting something silently, and only God knew it. He always knows.

The days that followed were a blur—scans, biopsies, whispers of EGFR mutation, and a surgery date that felt too real, too soon. I cried when no one was watching. Not because I feared dying—but because I wasn’t sure I’d ever really lived.

I’d spent so much of my life performing: showing up strong, being the caregiver, keeping things together. I thought if I worked hard enough, loved deeply enough, or proved myself just a little more, I’d finally feel whole. But beneath all that noise was a woman who hadn’t truly let go. Not of control. Not of pain. Not even of people who had long since let go of me.

Then came the chemo. The scars. The hair thinning. The mouth sores. The moments of waking up in the middle of the night, tasting metal and fear and loneliness all at once.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, God showed up—not as lightning, not as a miracle, but as quiet.

There was a moment—I remember it like a scar that sings—when I was lying on my side, too weak to move, and I whispered, “God, I can’t do this.”

And in that stillness, I felt it.

Peace.

Not the kind you earn. Not the kind you fake. Not the kind you write about in devotionals. But the kind that settles in your bones when you’ve got absolutely nothing left but breath and faith.

That was the moment I realized: I didn’t need more time, more strength, more answers.

God was enough.

He had been enough the entire time.

I just didn’t know it until I lost everything I thought I needed.

Now, post-cancer, at 54, things are different. I don’t chase people anymore. I don’t tolerate lukewarm friendships or spiritual detours. I no longer apologize for being soft, or for being bold. I’ve learned to sit in silence with God and call that abundance.

My body has changed. My breath is precious. My left lung is gone. And yet, I have never felt more alive.

I’m not angry. I’m awake.

And I know now that healing isn’t always about getting back what you lost. Sometimes, it’s about finding out what was carrying you all along.

I’m 54. I’m a survivor. I’m still a little scarred, a little soft, and yes, sometimes still scared.

But I am not empty.

I am full—with God, with grace, and with a peace that no diagnosis, no loss, no loneliness can take from me.

The day I realized God was enough was the day I truly began to live.

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