Tomorrow’s the big day—my total hip replacement. I’ve been through surgeries before—seven of them, in fact. Four major. You’d think I’d be a seasoned pro by now. But nope. I’m sitting here this morning with a hot coffee in one hand and a lump in my throat, wondering why this one feels so different.
Maybe it’s because it’s not just about a hip.
I keep trying to tell myself I shouldn’t be this nervous. That it’s a standard procedure, that I’ll be up and walking again in no time. But nerves don’t care about statistics. They care about what you’ve lived through—and I’ve lived through enough to know that healing is never just physical.
Back in December of 2018, I was diagnosed with cervical cancer. One week after the biopsy came back positive, I was on an operating table for a total hysterectomy.
And everyone around me meant well. “It’s common.” “You’re done having kids.” “You won’t even notice it’s gone.”
Right. I won’t notice it’s gone.
It’s just, you know, THE CENTRAL COMMAND CENTRE OF MY WOMANHOOD. No biggie.
My guy friends—bless their well-meaning male souls—tried to be supportive. But let’s be real—this isn’t something you can fully “get” unless you’ve lived it. When one of them said something along the lines of, “It’s okay, you’ll still be you,” I replied, “Okay, picture this—you get your balls chopped off. Still feel like a man?”
You could see the pause. The mental gears grinding. The slow, dawning horror. And then that little nod. “...Yeah. Fair.”
That surgery didn’t just take an organ—it stripped away something much deeper. For a year after, I felt like I didn’t know who I was. I’d look in the mirror and see a stranger. Someone who used to be vibrant, sensual, feminine—now just hollowed out and stitched together. I wasn’t mourning the loss of an organ. I was mourning the loss of me.
And it’s hard to explain that to people who haven’t been through it. Who think, because you look okay, you must be okay.
It took me a long time to come back from that. To start feeling connected to myself again. To feel like a woman again, on my own terms. And just when I finally started to find that version of me—strong, self-assured, grounded—my hip flared up.
And just like that, I went from “Am I still a woman?” to “Am I suddenly 90?”
Seriously. It was like I blew past midlife and landed straight in the shuffleboard league. One minute I was hiking and dancing, the next I was checking which chairs had armrests strong enough to push off from. And the icy porch fall? Just the universe’s way of putting a cherry on top.
For five years, this has been my quiet battle. A war of slow limitations. Little losses that add up. And somewhere along the way, I started believing that my active life—the one that made me feel free and capable—might be over.
Until something shifted.
Somewhere between the surgeon saying “We’re replacing your hip” and me deciding to bike across southern Ontario, something lit a fire under my ass. I don’t even know what happened—one minute I was limping, the next I was on a mission. It was like I got thrown back into my old self’s body. You know—the one I lost somewhere along the road of grief, surgeries, and relentless life curveballs.
I changed my diet. I hit the gym. I ran on a treadmill… okay, I hobbled. But I did it.
I pulled off my bike journey. And in the middle of all that madness, I finished writing a full novel—600+ pages of my soul spilled onto paper. I honestly don’t know how I managed to pull any of it off. It felt like I was living on borrowed time.
And now here I am. Sitting in the quiet, editing pages of that novel, sipping coffee, trying not to spiral about what’s coming next.
I don’t want to be negative. But I won’t lie—I’m tired.
Tired of always having to rise from the ashes. Tired of being the one who turns every disaster into a personal growth moment.
I’ve taken so many shit piles in this life and turned them into gold, it’s honestly starting to feel like a full-time job. Tell me that’s not magic. Or maybe just trauma with a good attitude.
All I really want is for the universe to send me one thing that’s beautiful and easy and doesn’t come with a side of existential crisis.
If you’re reading this, I want you to know: I wasn’t born a fighter. I didn’t come into this world with armour and grit. I was shaped by life. Forged by every hard thing I never asked for.
And yeah—I’ll fight to come back from this too. I’ll do whatever it takes to return to the life I’ve rebuilt over and over again. But this time, I’m not going to pretend I’m fine just to make it easier for other people to watch.
I’m scared.
I’m exhausted.
But I’m still here.
Still showing up. Still swinging. Still hoping there’s light on the other side of this operating room.
Because even though this surgery is common, I’m not.
My fears are real. And they matter.
And if you’re in that place too—whatever your version of this is—I see you. I honour you.
Just don’t let yourself drift so far you wake up in the middle of the lake, wondering how the hell you got there.
Be honest. Be scared. And then—when you're ready—swim.