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It’s not just about getting clean. It’s about escape. About sinking into warm water and letting everything — the pain, the noise, the fear — float away for a while. Baths have become the one place cancer can’t follow me all the way in.
But it’s more than that. It’s where I remember the girl who used to belong in the water. The swimmer. The strong one. The one I still carry with me.
🛁 The Stillness I Crave
My days are loud — not always in sound, but in pressure. Be here. Do this. Take that. Smile. Endure. Heal. Try not to fall apart. But in the bath, I don’t have to do anything. I don’t have to perform. I don’t have to pretend. I just get to be.
The world quiets, the water wraps around me, and for once, I feel held.
🏊♀️ I Was a Swimmer Once
Before the scans. Before the chemo. Before the body I no longer recognize.
I was a swimmer.
The kind who found rhythm in the water. Who felt power in every kick and grace in every glide. Who knew what her body could do and trusted it. I trained. I competed. I belonged in the water. It felt like home.
And now… now the only swimming I do is from bed to bath. But still — when I lower myself into the water, there’s a flicker of her. Of me. She’s not gone. Just floating somewhere deeper now.
💊 When My Body Isn’t Mine Anymore
Cancer makes you feel like your body has been stolen. Treatment beats you up in ways no one warns you about. Meds warp your face. Pain settles into your joints. You catch your reflection and wonder who that is.
But in the bath, I reclaim something.
The water doesn’t judge the scars or the bloating or the shaking hands.
It just holds me, gently, the way it always has.
🕯️ My Ritual
My bath is sacred.
- Dimmed lights
- Hot water
- A candle, sometimes two
- Music, or silence if I need it
- Mojo curled on the mat like my tiny lifeguard
It’s not about pampering — it’s about survival. It’s about one space in the world that feels soft, not clinical. Gentle, not painful.
🧼 Where I Let Myself Feel
Some days, I cry in the tub. Because it’s the only place where it feels safe to. The water catches it. No questions. No shame. Just quiet, and the soft sound of breathing, and maybe the tap of Mojo’s paw against the door.
Here, I can miss who I was, mourn what’s been taken, and not have to explain any of it.
🐾 Mojo Waits Outside
Always. Every single time.
He won’t come in. He just waits, curled up against the door like a sentinel.
He knows this is my space — but he also knows I need him close.
Even my safe place needs a witness sometimes.
💬 To the Girl I Was — And Still Am, Somewhere
I miss her. The swimmer. The strong, capable body. The muscle, the speed, the pride. But maybe she’s not lost. Maybe she’s just beneath the surface, waiting. Watching me float, survive, breathe.
And maybe — just maybe — every time I sink into the bath, I get a little closer to her again.
🌊 If You’re Looking for Refuge
If you’re in the thick of it — the treatments, the scans, the body betrayal — I hope you find your version of the bath. A space where you don’t have to be brave. Where you can remember who you were, and feel who you still are.
Mine just happens to come with bubbles, steam, and a sleepy Frenchie on standby.
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