A Day in the Life: Growing Where I’m Planted

Most mornings, I step onto my flower-filled patio with a cup of coffee and my dog. I love watching the hummingbirds dance around their feeder while bees buzz busily among the flowers, and I tend to my garden. Watching the hummingbirds, I’m reminded that even the smallest beings can teach the biggest lessons—that joy, lightness, and presence often come in tiny, unexpected packages. The bees remind me that growth is a collaborative effort: the smallest of actions can help life flourish. My garden has become a sanctuary, a space where peace, curiosity, and reflection coexist.

I also photograph the animals that visit my garden and the unexpected wonders I find while walking in nature—birds, insects, and especially fungi. I am endlessly fascinated by fungi: how they emerge from dark, murky soil, transforming decay into life and connecting unseen networks beneath our feet. They remind me of resilience—of life pushing forward in unlikely places—and of living without my best friend. Fungi, like grief, quietly transform what seems lost into something new.

In many ways, my garden mirrors my life with Lynch syndrome. Most days, I feel strong, like the plants that thrive effortlessly around me; other days, I feel fragile, needing extra care and patience. And like the stubborn plants that refuse to bloom on my timetable, I remind myself that growth doesn’t always follow expectations. Aging has become, for me, a tremendous privilege and a gift—one made even more precious by loss. Having lost my brother at 35 from colorectal cancer due to Lynch syndrome, I am acutely aware of how fleeting life can be. Each year I live is a reminder to slow down and notice life more deeply. I savor the ordinary things most people probably take for granted. The simple act of walking, laughing with a friend, or spotting a cluster of fungi emerging from dark, rich soil are all things I do not take for granted. There’s a gift in carrying both joy and sorrow—honoring loss while still making room for curiosity, small pleasures, and connection.

My flowers, the fungi, even the small movements of bees remind me to tend to what is present, rather than lament what is missing—my ovaries, my best friend, control over life, or the certainty I once assumed I had.

Before my Lynch diagnosis, I didn’t give much thought to my health. I was running several miles a day, in graduate school, and feeling wildly optimistic about my future. I assumed my body would keep pace with me no matter how much I pushed it. That illusion shattered when I learned I carried a genetic mutation and later chose preventive surgeries to reduce my cancer risk. For over a decade, I’ve written for CureToday about the long-term effects of those decisions; more specifically, the hormone loss and the emotional toll of living with a hereditary cancer syndrome. While the challenges remain, I have developed an appreciation for my body and all it has enabled me to accomplish thus far.

Like gardening, life is a mixture of care, patience, adaptation, and evolution. Each season teaches me something new about resilience. My plants, fungi, bees, and hummingbirds remind me that tending is not only about survival but about creating conditions for thriving. That is true for me, too.

Tending to my garden is tending to myself. I cook meals for friends, finding joy in the act of creating and nourishing others. I take long walks with my dog, sometimes alone, with companions, to connect with the natural world. I read widely—especially about health, the microbiome, and other topics that spark curiosity. I paint, take art classes, watch Greek films, and sip coffee while exploring ideas that inspire me. Writing for Cure helps me process my experiences and share insights with others who may be facing similar challenges. My garden and my walks are reminders that beauty and growth can emerge even after difficulty, and that joy can coexist with sorrow.

Evenings are a time for reflection. I watch them from my patio, their colors swirling like a Turner painting, and the sky sparkles with gold, pink, and purple. They remind me that even at the end of a day, there is beauty and light—moments that make the hardships and sorrow feel softer, and that make it possible to move forward with hope and joy.

A strong history of familial cancer and Lynch syndrome are parts of my story, but they do not define it. Adaptation, resilience, evolution, and the willingness to carry sorrow while still finding joy do. My garden teaches me that blooming is not about perfection—it is about persistence. Storms come, seasons change, yet new life always pushes through the soil. That is the lesson I carry each day: as long as I keep tending, like the bees, the fungi, and my plants, I will continue to grow.

“Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; remember that what you now have was once among the things you only hoped for.” -Epicurus

This piece reflects the author’s personal experience and perspective. For medical advice, please consult your health care provider.

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