The Messy Middle

A PSA from someone the universe body slammed, who still refuses to give up the mic.

Public Service Announcement: You have no control over your life. None. Zero. Zilch. You barely even control your own actions—especially before coffee, when breathing feels optional. You can do everything “right”: eat clean, swallow supplements that smell like freshly mowed grass, twist yourself into pretzels at yoga, meditate like a champ, dodge stress like it’s a pyramid scheme, even download a meditation app you’ll never use—and still, life can open the trapdoor beneath your feet.

It only takes seconds. One test. One scan. One phone call. Suddenly, everything you thought you knew is circling the drain while the universe gleefully slams a big red button labeled: LET’S RUIN THEIR DAY.

But I didn’t always know this. Before the curveball, I was invincible—or so I told myself. Young and naïve (emphasis on naïve), strutting through life like a know-it-all. In hindsight, my brain wasn’t even fully installed. I later learned brains don’t finish developing until you’re twenty-four. At eighteen, when I could vote, enlist, and make life-altering decisions, my operating system was basically Windows 95. No wonder everything felt like waiting for dial-up to connect. I acted like the Master of the Universe—cue the theme music and me striking a heroic pose in an outfit no one asked for. I thought nothing could touch me. Spoiler: it can.

At thirty-one, the plot twist arrived: chronic, incurable cancer. The word didn’t just knock the wind out of me—it dragged me to the ground, shook me around, and asked if I had any last words. I refused to accept it. I demanded a second opinion. Then a third. I even joked, “Are you sure you didn’t mix up my chart? Maybe there’s another person out there named Michelle, same birthday, who enjoys eating brussels sprouts and pickles?”

I had done the “right” things. I followed the rules, well, most of them. I spiraled down the rabbit hole. What did I do wrong? What invisible rule did I break? (Big sigh, and sulk.) Did I cause harm in a previous life? Is this karma? Why is the Universe so mad at me? Is God trying to tell me something? I yelled at the Universe, promising to be a better person if they cured me. Nothing changed, except for me.

Acceptance came slowly, stubbornly, then all at once. When I finally stopped arguing with reality, my next thought was very American movie: Fine. Then I’ll beat it. There are miracles out there—why not me? I’d been good-ish. Good adjacent. So, I waited for my miracle, and—fast-forward, picture a VHS tape slowly advancing—seventeen years later, I’m still waiting. Perhaps I should consider a sequel?

People love to ask, “So what have you learned?” Apparently, once you’re diagnosed with a terminal illness, you become a mascot for life wisdom—people expect you to start speaking in fortune cookies or Yoda-isms overnight. And honestly? Fair. You learn things you never asked for, never wanted, and can’t unlearn, even if you tried.
Here’s the first thing I learned: control is a lie—but your response isn’t. This lesson didn’t arrive gently—it showed up after many nights staring at the ceiling, bargaining with the universe. Life is a chaotic roller coaster; like it or not, you’re strapped in. I could’ve stayed angry and done nothing. I could’ve become hyper-focused on my disease and let cancer swallow my entire identity. I chose the middle—messy, imperfect, human.

The middle doesn’t get enough credit. Anger takes energy I didn’t have. Hyper-focusing is exhausting and depressing. In the middle, I get to acknowledge cancer and still live my life. Cancer isn’t my life. My life isn’t cancer. It’s one part of the whole messy, beautiful, infuriating package of being alive. I’m not made of armor—but my reaction still belongs to me. Cry in bed with snot running down my face? Valid. Scale the tallest building in Manchester, New Hampshire? Also, valid—and yes, I really did that. I remember looking down at the city, heart pounding, and thinking: if I can do this, maybe I can survive anything. It was AWESOME.

That messy middle taught me a second, harsher truth: I am a hell of a lot stronger than I thought. It took a while—and more than a few meltdowns—before I believed it. Six years ago, after years of steroids, my body revolted. I gained a ton of weight. My favorite jeans became impossible; they taunted me from the closet, a relic of a body I no longer recognized. Purple stretch marks, like a chaotic roadmap. Facial hair—watch out, Mario, my mustache is going to be more epic than yours. Fatigue. Muscle weakness. Mood swings wild enough to deserve their own forecast. This was on top of cancer symptoms. Every day felt like summiting Everest with bricks strapped to my ankles. Brushing my teeth? An Olympic event. I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror. I felt like a stranger renting space in my own body.

I didn’t give up. After eight months of begging, pushing, questioning, and refusing to be gaslit by a system that is excellent at, countless referrals, a mountain of paperwork, and calling it healthcare, I finally got an answer: Cushing’s disease. Déjà vu. It had taken a year to diagnose my cancer; here I was again, doing the paperwork marathon while my body waved a giant red flag. Once they stopped the steroids—BAM—symptoms eased. I sat in the doctor’s office, looked her in the eye, and said, “I fucking told you so.” Not my most elegant moment, Ms. Manners wouldn’t approve, but it was accurate.

And here’s a third, less glamorous lesson the middle keeps teaching me: advocate like your life depends on it—because sometimes it does. Some lessons arrive quietly; others kick in the door. I know my body better than anyone. No one, literally no one, will advocate for me the way I can. If you take nothing else from this PSA, take that. Memorize it.

If I sound Pollyannish—or like this is the easiest thing to do—it isn’t. I’d love to say I ascended into enlightenment and started speaking only in calm metaphors. In reality, I live in tension, the push and pull: some days I’m brave; some days I bargain with the universe like a kid caught with a Sharpie writing on the wall. Sometimes I steer with confidence; sometimes I just grip the wheel and hope it doesn’t fall off. It’s not about winning—it’s about just showing up.

Here’s what showing up looks like for me: I let myself feel it—the grief, the fear, the anger that barges in, uninvited and loud. I name it. Let it pass through. I make room for joy without apologizing. I cultivate petty, stubborn hope—the kind that plants itself in cracked concrete and says, Fine. Watch me. I try to find the humor whenever I can, because humor doesn’t erase pain; it builds a handle so you can carry it.

And I practice the art of the doable: one appointment at a time, one conversation at a time, one small act of advocacy at a time. I celebrate ridiculous wins. (Once, that win was getting out of bed before 10 a.m. Another time, it was choosing a salad when all I wanted was fries dipped in frosting. Balance.) I forgive myself quickly and often, because perfection is a dangerous myth.

If you’re reading this in the middle of your own plot twist, give yourself permission to take the middle road. Be gloriously average at being okay. You don’t have to be a warrior every day. You also don’t have to pretend it’s fine when it isn’t. You’re allowed to be angry, then bored, then weirdly hopeful, then hungry. You’re allowed to ask for help, say no, change your mind, and change it again.

No, I don’t control my life—but I do get to live it. I see the absurdity, cry when the weight drops, yell when I need to, and keep moving—even when every step feels like a dare. Life never asked for my permission before tossing me into a new reality, but it didn’t take away my ability to stand up, roll my eyes, and mutter, “Seriously? This is what we’re doing today?” I can’t choose the weather, but I can steer the ship. I’m here. Still fighting. Still finding something to smile about—even if it’s just remembering that I once thought I was invincible with a brain running Windows 95.

The truth is, the messy middle is where life happens—not at the perfect beginning or the tidy end, but right here in the in-between, where we learn to let go, adapt, and keep moving. It’s uncertain. Uncomfortable. Sometimes absurd. But it’s real. Living fully in that middle—that’s its own kind of strength. Lastly, I have learned what it means to survive the messy middle—and if that isn’t strength, I don’t know what is. I promise, you have too.

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Original Artwork Shown Above:

I created a piece using marker and watercolor to coincide with the written piece. It’s titled, “Holding the Middle”. Together, they reflect the space where life is lived not in beginnings or endings, but in continuation.

The chair remains empty, not because no one belongs there, but because presence in the middle requires patience, endurance, and choice. The light does not resolve what is unfinished; it simply stays. This work honors the act of remaining—of showing up without answers, and holding space when there is no clear way through.