Spring Forward: How I Stay Grounded and Hopeful with Lynch Syndrome

“If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant; if we did not sometimes taste adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome.” - Anne Bradstreet

Spring is finally here—the air feels softer, the light lingers longer and the birds are finally singing. For many, this season is about organizing closets or planting flowers. But for those living with Lynch syndrome, the most common hereditary cancer syndrome, spring takes on a different meaning. It's not solely about tidying up the house—it's about being hopeful and vigilant with your health.

Lynch syndrome doesn't come with a guidebook. It's complex, invisible and demands attention—I choose to face it head-on, not because I'm fearless, but because I know that early detection can save my life. This year, I started spring with two acts of radical self-care: I had my annual colonoscopy and endoscopy. These aren't things most people put on their spring refresh checklist—but for me, they're non-negotiable. Being a previvor means getting ahead of cancer before it has a chance to start. It means being proactive in the face of fear, even when anxiety creeps in during prep, the wait and the unknown. And this time? The scopes were all clear!

Living with Lynch syndrome means living with a heightened awareness of your body, your risks and your choices. It's not just a medical label—it's a lens that touches nearly every aspect of my life. But it doesn't define me. Over time, I've built habits, rituals and boundaries that help me stay grounded, connected, and well, even amid uncertainty. Here's what that looks like for me:

1. I hike most days. Movement clears my head and reconnects me to something bigger than myself. With every step, I feel more present, more alive. Being out in nature reminds me that I'm more than just a medical file or a set of statistics—I'm a whole person living a full, dynamic life.
2. I eat with care—not perfectly, but intentionally. I've seen food as fuel and medicine—a daily opportunity to support my body with love, strengthen it and give it the tools it needs to thrive. Eating well is one of the most consistent acts of self-care I can offer myself. Loads of Greek yogurt, green juices, mushrooms and veggies keep me healthy.
3. I tend to my plants. There's something profoundly healing about nurturing life. Watching my plants respond to light, water and attention reminds me that I can grow and transform. Caring for plants has become one of my most grounding rituals. With each leaf that unfurls or flower that blooms, I'm reminded that life is full of potential—even when it feels slow or hidden.
4. I choose my people wisely. I surround myself with those who uplift, energize and accept me. Life is too short—and my bandwidth too precious—to be spent on people who drain me. I've learned to avoid negativity and lean into safe and supportive relationships.
5. I prioritize rest. Sleep isn't a luxury—it's a necessity. It's how I heal, how I process, and how I stay resilient. Rest is the reset button I hit to remain steady through the emotional and physical gravity of living with a hereditary cancer syndrome.
6. I practice gratitude. Even when things feel heavy, especially then, gratitude helps me locate moments of light, no matter how small. It shifts my focus from fear to appreciation, and that shift matters more than I ever realized.
7. I stay curious. Knowledge gives me control in a world where so much feels uncertain. I read, research, and ask questions constantly. That curiosity led me to create a Substack—a space to share the latest news, research, resources, and reflections about Lynch syndrome. I wanted to make it easier for others like me to stay informed and empowered without getting lost in medical jargon or worst-case scenarios. If I can help even one person feel less alone or more equipped to advocate for themselves, it's worth it.
8. I set boundaries. I've learned to honor my limits and protect my peace. Boundaries aren't walls—they're filters. They help me decide what's worth my time, energy and emotional investment. Saying no is a form of self-respect.
9. I laugh. Humor helps me survive the hard stuff. It doesn't erase the fear or pain but makes them feel more manageable. Laughter reminds me that I'm still here, still human, capable of joy even when things feel overwhelming.
10. I check in with my body. I've learned to listen closely. My body speaks in whispers long before it screams, and I've trained myself to notice those signals. I no longer push through or ignore the discomfort. Tuning in—not tuning out—is one of the most essential survival skills I've developed.

Living with Lynch isn't easy, but it's not all doom and gloom. It's a call to live deliberately, to care more deeply, and to make choices that honor both the fragility and the resilience of being alive. This is how I do it—day by day, moment by moment. If you're navigating Lynch too, or just trying to live more intentionally with whatever you're carrying, I see you. I'm with you. And I hope that what I share will make your life with Lynch syndrome a little bit easier.

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