I have a confession to make.

I have lived in a Maine beach town for over a year now, and somehow I still haven’t made it to the beach.

Now, before anyone starts calling me a fraud, let me clarify: I have been to the beach. I have experienced sand. I have smelled the ocean. I have had sand find its way into places where sand has absolutely no business being.

I just haven’t been to the beach since moving here.

Which, when you think about it, is pretty impressive.

I moved to a beach town and apparently decided to embrace the coastal lifestyle from a safe distance.

I drive past the ocean. I know it’s there. I see the signs. I see people carrying beach chairs and towels and enormous bags of stuff toward the water. And this is Old Orchard Beach, where there are PIER FRIES and Lisa’s Pizza.

And I think, “That looks nice. I should do that.”

Then I go home.

There’s something particularly amusing about living in Maine during the summer. For several glorious months, everyone suddenly remembers that we have an ocean.

The roads fill up. Parking becomes a competitive sport. Tourists appear from seemingly every direction, and suddenly a five-minute drive requires a strategic plan and possibly a snack.

Meanwhile, I’m sitting at home thinking, “I could go to the beach.”

But then I remember that I would have to go to the beach.

There’s preparation involved!

Sunscreen. Towel. Chair. Water. Sunglasses. Hat. Snacks. Probably a sweatshirt because this is Maine and summer weather is merely a suggestion.

And then there’s the sand.

I like looking at sand.

I like beaches.

I like the ocean.

I just don’t particularly enjoy discovering sand in my car three weeks later.

Still, I really do love living near the coast. There’s something wonderful about knowing the ocean is just down the road. The salty air, the beautiful scenery, the seafood, the lighthouses, and the general feeling that you’re living somewhere people save up all year to visit.

I just apparently haven’t gotten around to being one of those people who actually takes advantage of it.

So maybe this fall will be the time.

Maybe I’ll grab my coffee, gather up my beach supplies, brave the traffic, and actually put my feet in (or near) the Atlantic.

And if you see me wandering toward the beach carrying a towel, looking confused and slightly overwhelmed, please be kind.

I’m a local.

I’m just still figuring out how this whole “living in a beach town” thing works.

There is a strange little space between “You have cancer” and “You’re cancer-free.”

You’d think once you hear those magical words—cancer free—there would be confetti. Maybe a marching band. At the very least, a cupcake.

Instead, there I was, exhausted.

Like, “I just took a shower and now I need to lie down because apparently showers are an endurance sport” exhausted.

Cancer treatments have a way of taking a lot out of you. And I don’t just mean physically. They can leave you feeling like someone unplugged your battery, shook it around a little, and then plugged it back in upside down.

And now that I’m cancer-free, I’m discovering something nobody really prepares you for:

Getting better is its own kind of work.

So… What Is “Normal” Now?

I’m still trying to figure that out.

Before cancer, I had a pretty good idea of what my normal looked like. Then treatment came along and basically threw that instruction manual directly into a wood chipper.

Now I’m trying to rebuild a routine while figuring out what my body is actually willing to cooperate with.

Some days I feel pretty good.

Other days, my body apparently files a formal complaint because I had the audacity to do laundry.

And then there are the days when I accomplish something that would have been completely unremarkable before cancer—taking a walk, cleaning something, making dinner—and I have to remind myself:

Hey. That’s actually pretty damn impressive.

Maybe my new normal isn’t about getting back to exactly who I was before.

Maybe it’s about figuring out who I am now.

And I’m slowly learning that “normal” doesn’t have to mean doing everything I used to do. It can mean listening to my body, taking breaks without feeling guilty, celebrating the little victories, and accepting that sometimes pajamas are perfectly appropriate afternoon attire.

Enter Ezra and Dave Growl

Thankfully, I have a couple of very important members of my recovery team.

First, there’s Ezra, my cat.

Ezra has perfected the art of emotional support without actually admitting that emotional support is happening.

Cats are wonderful that way.

They’ll sit near you with the expression of someone who is deeply disappointed in your life choices, but somehow their presence makes everything better.

Ezra doesn’t care if I’m tired.

Ezra doesn’t care if I accomplish absolutely nothing that day.

Ezra certainly doesn’t care about my five-year plan.

As far as Ezra is concerned, my primary responsibilities are providing food and maintaining acceptable room temperatures.

Honestly, it’s refreshing.

And then there’s Dave Growl.

Yes. Dave Growl.

And Dave is exactly the kind of dog you want around when you’re trying to keep your spirits up.

Dogs don’t understand cancer.

They don’t understand treatment schedules, scans, bloodwork, fatigue, recovery, or the bizarre emotional roller coaster that comes with all of it.

They understand you.

And sometimes that’s exactly what you need.

Dave doesn’t care whether today was productive. He cares whether I’m available for pets, snacks, and whatever exciting activity he’s currently convinced needs to happen immediately.

Looking at the two of them sitting together by the door—as they are in this picture—reminds me that life keeps happening.

The plants keep growing.

The sun comes through the window.

The cat keeps judging.

The dog keeps being Dave Growl.

And I’m still here.

Learning to Celebrate “Still Here”

I think that’s one of the biggest things I’m learning.

Being cancer-free doesn’t instantly erase everything that happened.

It doesn’t automatically refill the energy tank.

It doesn’t mean every day is going to be amazing.

And it doesn’t mean I have to pretend I’m completely fine just because the cancer is gone.

I’m allowed to be tired.

I’m allowed to have weird days.

I’m allowed to feel frustrated that my body doesn’t always cooperate with the plans I make for it.

I’m also allowed to laugh.

And boy, am I going to laugh.

Because if cancer taught me anything, it’s that life is too short to take every single thing seriously.

Sometimes the best medicine is a ridiculous dog.

Sometimes it’s a judgmental cat.

Sometimes it’s sitting quietly by a window and realizing that you’re watching the world from the other side of something you weren’t sure you’d ever get through.

And sometimes it’s simply saying:

“Well, I’m still here. What are we doing today?”

I don’t know exactly what my new normal will look like.

But I’m figuring it out.

One day at a time.

One nap at a time.

One laugh at a time.

And, apparently, with two furry supervisors keeping an extremely close eye on my progress.

Cancer-free. Tired as hell. Still figuring things out.

And honestly?

I’ll take it.