What I should tell you....

When a woman reached out to my mother and asked what I had done to stay alive so long, my mother passed the question along to me with the kind of hope that burns softer than fear. I appreciate the hope. I also want to be honest. There is no neat recipe, no miracle protocol, no secret handshake with fate. There is a collection of choices, a lot of stubborn luck, and a willingness to keep living even when everything feels utterly fucked. That last word is not an exaggeration. Glioblastoma is fucked. Say it out loud. It does not make things lighter, but it makes things real.

When I was first diagnosed, I went hard at every possible front. I cut out sugar like someone trying to show the tumor the door. I started supplements, which included Lion's Mane and Reishi, and I drank organic teas like they were tiny, leafy prayers. I ate more vegetables. I insisted on organic whenever I could afford it. I chased information like it was oxygen. Every decision felt like a lever I could pull to tilt the odds. I wanted to earn extra days, extra clarity, extra mornings where my head did not feel like a political battleground.

As time went on, and as I did not find myself on death's doorstep, I began to let some things slide. Have I let things slide because I was reckless or because I grew tired? Both, probably. I started to live again. I allowed myself cake at a party. I let a lazy weekend include a burger. I forgave myself for not meal prepping the perfect anti-inflammatory bowl every single Sunday. I still eat healthy more often than not. I still take my mushroom supplements. But I also stopped keeping score of every little deviation as if it were a moral failure. We have one life. I will not spend it auditing myself into misery.

I am not here to give a sermon about positive thinking. Do not look for that from me. Positive thinking is not a talisman against a tumor that eats brain cells. There is no bright side to losing parts of your life to this disease. There is loss and grief and freighted absence. There is anger. There is fear. There is the very human need to curse the sky sometimes and to say the words that make people uncomfortable. I will say those words. Glioblastoma is fucked. There is no plating it with motivational quotes and pretending that the landscape is anything but rough and jagged.

But here is what I will say about how I navigate that landscape. How one carries the cursed hand one is dealt matters. It will not change the cards you were given, but it will determine how you spend the time you still have. There is no single correct way. For me, it has been a mix of discipline and mercy. I keep up habits that serve me. I honor the daily acts of care. At the same time, I give myself grace for the times I fail to be perfect. If life gives you a small pleasure, take it. Eat the cake. Right now. Do not wait.

There is a difference between resignation and acceptance. Resignation is giving up. Acceptance is recognizing what is true and choosing how to live within that truth. Acceptance does not mean surrender. Acceptance means looking the facts in the eye and then building something out of the rubble. For me, the rubble includes MRIs and scans and lists of medications, but the building has music and jokes and dinners where the conversation is louder than the worry. The building has days when my husband and I drive and argue about silly things and then laugh. Those moments are not trivial. They are not distractions. They are survival.

When people ask what I did to stay alive, they are often searching for a formula they can apply to someone they love. That is understandable. It is human to want control. If you want specifics, I can give them. I cut sugar for a while. I ate organic when possible. I took Lion's Mane and Reishi. I drank teas and ate vegetables. I tried to manage stress. I went to appointments and followed medical advice. I said yes to treatment options that made sense for my situation. I asked questions of doctors until they annoyed them. I surrounded myself with people who did not treat me like an invalid. I pushed for the life I wanted within the constraints I had.

But I will also tell you what no one wants to hear. There is no one thing that explains it. There is no magic supplement, no perfect diet, no guaranteed regimen. If there were, we would all have the answer by now. Life is probabilistic and messy. Luck matters. Genes matter. The timing of treatment matters. The skill of the medical team matters. The amount of love and support you have matters. All of those things collided in some way for me, and I do not pretend to know exactly why.

Here is something I learned: living is a practice. Some days I win at it. Some days I do not. Some days the world is a series of small humiliations and I am tired of fighting. Those days are valid. On the good days, I am grateful. On the bad days, I am honest. Honesty is underrated. Honesty frees people from the burden of pretending everything is rosy. When my mother recounted the conversation with that woman, she did not expect a tidy answer. She hoped I would be able to point to a badge of discipline, an obvious routine, something that made the difference. I wish that had been the case. I wish I could say it was only the mushrooms or only the salads. I cannot.

Forgiveness of self is part of the work. After the initial scramble for control, I allowed myself to loosen the chokehold on every choice. I realized that if I condemned myself for every skipped workout or every comfort food night, I would spend my remaining energy in service of guilt, and that is not what I want. Fatherlessness and grief and illness do not equal a lifetime of penance. Live. Taste things. Celebrate small victories. Watch a dumb movie that makes you laugh. Hold your partner without thinking of the future like a ledger. These things are medicine too.

I will warn you about one thing. The world will give you advice. Some of it will be well-meaning. Some of it will be sanctimonious. Some of it will sell you hope wrapped in pseudoscience. Learn to filter. Ask yourself whether a suggestion respects your body and your dignity. If someone tries to make the disease your fault, walk away. If someone tries to sell you false certainty, be skeptical. The medical world is complicated and sometimes cruel, but you owe yourself the compassion of truth. Do not be seduced by simple answers.

People will want to talk to you like you are a project to be fixed. They will try to help by offering rules. They will want stories of triumph. I understand that impulse. It comes from love. But remember, you get to decide how much of yourself you share and with whom. You also get to decide how you want to live while you are ill. Some people will double down on austerity, cutting everything in search of control. Some people will eat the cake and dance in the kitchen. Both choices can be valid. The important thing is that you are making choices, not merely reacting.

To the woman who asked my mother what I did, and to anyone else listening for an answer, this is what I would say: There is no miracle. There is a messy, stubborn life. Do the things that make you feel alive. Do the medical things you believe in. Be disciplined where it matters. Be indulgent where it helps. Love the people who show up, and do not waste energy on people who do not. Forgive yourself when you are not perfect. Swear when you need to. Laugh when you can. Say the hard words. Say that Glioblastoma is fucked, and then say you are still here.

If my story gives anyone hope, take it as hope tempered by truth. If my story makes you angry, let that anger be fuel. If my story comforts you, know that comfort is not the same as cure, but it is everything when you are trying to be fully alive while surviving. I am not a miracle. I am a person who had bad cards and decided to keep playing anyway. That is not always enough. Sometimes it is. Either way, it is honest. And honesty matters.