When the Ground Shifts

What we do when we can’t move forward or go back—only breathe.

Summary: This article introduces the central premise of the series—living in the liminal space after a Stage IV cancer diagnosis. It reflects on the initial shock, the disorientation that follows, and the moment you realize there’s no return to “before.” It’s about learning to pause, to breathe, and to find steadiness in uncertainty.

Facing a Stage IV cancer diagnosis is a life-altering experience, no question about it. It comes with its own vocabulary of pain: sharp, quiet, slow-burning. But it also brings something more difficult to articulate—uncertainty. And not the kind you can out-plan, outwork, or outmuscle.

This uncertainty now permeates every aspect of my life. Will I pass out from vertigo the moment I stand up? Will I fall on the stairs because my depth perception vanishes and the ground seems to tilt? Even something as seemingly simple as walking from one terminal to another—on this recent trip to Europe—becomes a test of will. The perspiration starts. My legs weaken. My breath shortens. And I begin to wonder: Will I make it to the next gate?

This is what it means to live in a body that no longer makes promises.

In my case, this journey is now entering its eighth year. There have been low moments—plenty—when I’ve asked myself: what’s the point?

Not in despair exactly, but in honest exhaustion.

In the moments between scans. In the middle of the night, when the body aches and the mind starts wandering. Or even in the stillness of the afternoon—when I sit down to write and nausea rolls in, wave after wave, each one stacking on the last. I reach for the daybed, just within arm’s length, and lie down until it passes.

What drives me to get back up and keep writing? I honestly don’t know.

Maybe it’s habit. Maybe it’s hope. Maybe it’s my old competitive nature, rearing its head—refusing to be seen as lacking, even now.

I haven’t walked the path of combat trauma. I haven’t battled addiction. I haven’t faced the unpredictability of bipolar disorder or schizophrenia. But I am living with terminal cancer. And what that means is that I wake up every day knowing something is growing inside me that will eventually win.

There is no resolution here. No victory lap. No getting “through” it. Only the confrontation—with fragility, with limitation, with time. This illness feels fundamentally different from anything I’ve experienced before.

In the past, my hardest journeys were ones I chose. Expeditions. Physical challenges. Projects. Even my divorce—painful as it was—unfolded in a world where I still had control. I could train. Prepare. Plan. I could tell myself, “If I just work hard enough, I’ll get through this.”

But how do you prepare for a journey you didn’t choose?

There’s no trail map for this. No guidebook. No basecamp. Just a body that falters. A future that refuses to be predicted. A life redefined not by goals, but by presence.

Unlike other hardships that might offer a path toward resolution or recovery, living with terminal cancer asks something different of me.

It asks me to surrender—not in defeat, but in acceptance. To meet uncertainty with grace. To live fully, knowing that time is finite. To reimagine what “moving forward” means when there’s no finish line to reach—only this moment, and then the next.

I want to be clear: I haven’t faced the trauma of combat. I haven’t battled addiction. I haven’t lived through the chaos of bipolar disorder or the disorientation of schizophrenia. Those are their own uniquely harrowing journeys—and I carry deep respect for anyone walking them.

But I am living with terminal cancer. And what that means is I’m face to face with something unrelenting. Not a battle I can win, not a puzzle I can solve—just a slow, continuous confrontation with impermanence. With decline. With the quiet, daily reality that no matter how much I love this life, I don’t get to keep it.

Unlike other hardships that may lead to recovery, redemption, or remission, this one is about living with what won’t get better. It’s not just the physical toll of the disease or the treatments—though those are immense. It’s the deeper reckoning with the loss of control. The unpredictability of what lies ahead. The delicate balance of holding onto joy while slowly releasing your grip on certainty.

So what do I hold on to, when the ground gives way?

Not certainty. Not strength in the traditional sense. But practice. Small, repeatable acts that tether me to the moment I’m in.

I write—sometimes in my journal, sometimes in fragments that never make it anywhere. The writing isn’t always profound. Sometimes it’s barely coherent. But it gives shape to the chaos. It’s a way of saying: I’m still here. I still have a voice.

I practice mindfulness—not because it brings peace, but because it brings presence. I sit. I breathe. I notice the air in the room. The tension in my jaw. The weight of my body in the chair. These moments rarely last more than a few minutes before discomfort or distraction pulls me away—but for those minutes, I feel grounded.

Gratitude helps too. Not the kind that demands cheerfulness or looking on the bright side. But the kind that lets me name what’s good right now—the softness of a blanket, the way light lands on a wall, the familiar voice of a friend checking in. Small things. But they hold me.

Connection, when I can find it, matters most of all. Sometimes that connection is with others—through a conversation, a shared silence, a knowing glance. Other times, it’s a quiet connection with myself. A moment of gentleness. A permission to not be okay.

I’m currently on what I’m calling the “Annika Tour”—she’s showing me Europe through her eyes: family, friends, old haunts. Our first stop was with friends she’s known for over thirty years. We sat around late into the evening, exchanging stories. And though I had only met them hours earlier, I felt accepted—folded into something warm and familiar. Listening to tales of past adventures and plans for future ones was, quite simply, heartwarming.

My body was spent—jet lagged, sore from the long walks between terminals—but as we talked, all of that faded. Connection overcomes a lot.

When the ground shifts, it’s natural to reach for something solid.

But sometimes, there’s nothing to grab onto—no clear direction, no firm footing, no version of yourself that feels steady. And that’s when the real work begins. Not to fix what’s broken, but to stay present inside what’s uncertain.

I don’t know what tomorrow brings. I can’t predict how I’ll feel next week, or how many chapters I have left in this life. But I know how to breathe. I know how to listen. I know how to show up for the people who matter—and for myself—even on the hard days.

And I know that connection, however fleeting, reminds me that I am not alone in this.

So, when the ground gives way again—and it will—I’ll return to these small practices. Not to escape the pain, but to honor the truth of it. Not to pretend I’m okay, but to stay with myself long enough to feel what’s here. Not to reach the finish line, but to keep walking—one grounded step at a time.

Before You Go…

If this resonated with you—if you’ve had your own version of the ground shifting beneath you—I’d be honored to hear what holds you steady.

Reply, comment, or just take a quiet moment to name it to yourself.

Sometimes, naming the thing that steadies us is the first act of healing.