A Letter to Myself - a year from now

I recently started my coaching sessions with a life coach as part of my journey of understanding myself better, navigating my thoughts and emotions, and learning how to move through this season of uncertainty in my life.

For today's session, our reflection prompt was:

“One year from now, what would you want to look back on and feel proud of becoming?”

Our assignment was to write a letter to ourselves, dated one year from today, describing the changes we hope to make, the courage we want to develop, the experiences we want to embrace, and the life we want to create. We were also asked to identify three actions we could begin this week to bring that future closer.

As I sat with this prompt, I realised that this was more than an exercise in imagining my future. It was an invitation to pause and ask myself what truly matters to me now, especially at this point in my life.

I found myself sobbing while reflecting on the current situation and what would be with me a year from now. 

With everything I am navigating, including my cancer journey, I am learning that I cannot always control what happens to me, but I can become more intentional about how I care for myself, how I respond to life's uncertainties, and how I choose to live the days I am given.

So, what can I begin doing this week to bring the woman I want to become a little closer?

1. Make time for myself every day. I want to continue practising meditation, praying, and journaling, giving myself space to understand my thoughts and emotions instead of allowing them to overwhelm me. I want to learn to sit with my feelings without always needing to find an immediate answer.

2. Keep writing and sharing my story. Through my Can-cer Me! project, I want to document parts of my cancer journey honestly, including the fears, discoveries, and ordinary moments that make life meaningful. If my story encourages even one woman to pay attention to her body or take better care of herself, then sharing it has meaning beyond me.

3. Make room for life beyond my diagnosis. I want to plan small, meaningful experiences that bring me joy, whether that means spending quality time with my family, having coffee with someone who makes me feel at ease, returning to my creative hobbies when I can, or simply enjoying the stillness of an ordinary day. I don't want to postpone living until everything feels certain again.

And now, here is my letter to myself, dated one year from today. A little reminder of the woman I hope to become, the life I want to nurture, and the things I want to remember when I look back at this chapter of my life.

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A Letter to Myself

October 21, 2027

Dear Ai,

Look at you. One year has passed, and here you are, reading this letter with a heart that has lived through another year of changes, challenges, discoveries, and growth.

I wonder what you are feeling as you read these words. I hope you feel proud of yourself—not because everything went according to plan, but because you found the courage to keep showing up for your life, even when the future was uncertain.

A year ago, you were standing at the beginning of a chapter you never imagined you would have to write. You were learning to live with a cancer diagnosis, preparing yourself for treatment, and trying to make sense of a life that suddenly felt unfamiliar. You had questions, fears, and moments when you didn't know what to expect next.

But I hope that somewhere along the way, you discovered that you are allowed to be afraid and still move forward. You are allowed to have difficult days without questioning your courage. And you are allowed to rest without feeling guilty for not doing enough.

I hope you have become a woman who trusts herself more.

A woman who no longer feels the need to explain herself to everyone or prove her intentions to people who have already decided what to believe. A woman who understands that protecting her peace is not selfish, that boundaries are necessary, and that not everyone deserves access to her innermost thoughts and feelings.

I hope you have learned to choose the people who choose you, appreciate those who show up sincerely, and stop exhausting yourself trying to understand those who don't.

Most of all, I hope you have become gentler with yourself.

For years, you have been a woman who takes care of so many things and people. You work, organise, create, serve, nurture, and find ways to make life meaningful. But I hope this year has taught you that you are also someone worth caring for not only when you are productive, useful, or strong, but simply because you are you.

I hope you have made peace with the fact that your body needs your attention, your mind needs stillness, and your heart needs room to breathe.

I hope you have returned to the little things that make you feel alive: your coffee talks, your writing, your paintings, your travels, your quiet moments on the balcony, the beauty of autumn, and the simple pleasure of getting ready for yourself. I hope you have laughed without feeling guilty, rested without feeling unproductive, and allowed yourself to enjoy life without waiting for everything to be perfect.

I hope you have continued to deepen your relationship with God, not because you have found an explanation for everything that has happened, but because you have learned to trust Him even when you don't understand the whole picture.

And I hope you have allowed yourself to dream again.

Perhaps you have discovered new things about yourself through coaching, meditation, writing, and the conversations you have had along the way. Perhaps your Can-cer Me! project has grown into something that reaches other women, reminding them to pay attention to their bodies, make time for themselves, and never underestimate the value of sharing their stories.

I hope you have realised that your story does not need to be extraordinary to matter. Sometimes, simply being honest about what you are going through gives another person permission to face her own reality.

And Ai, I hope you are proud of how you have handled the unknown.

You don't have to become a completely different person in the next year. You don't have to emerge from every experience with a profound lesson. You don't have to be inspiring every day.

I hope you are still the same Ai who loves coffee, notices beautiful buildings, enjoys people-watching, gets excited about creative ideas, and finds meaning in the little details others might overlook. But perhaps you are now a little more confident, a little less afraid of disappointing people, and a little more intentional about how you spend your time and energy.

When you look back at this year, I hope you can say that you did not put your entire life on hold while navigating cancer. You made room for treatment, healing, uncertainty, and fear; you also made room for love, laughter, creativity, friendship, faith, and new beginnings.

You lived.

And if the year did not unfold exactly as you hoped, I want you to remember this: your worth was never measured by how much you accomplished or how quickly you healed. There is no deadline for becoming the woman you want to be.

I am proud of you for trying. I am proud of you for asking for help. I am proud of you for choosing yourself when it would have been easier to keep putting yourself last.

And I am proud of you for still believing that there is more to life than the difficult things you have experienced.

As you step into another year, keep choosing a life that feels honest, meaningful, and truly yours. Keep your heart open, but be wise about where you place it. Keep your faith, but give yourself permission to ask questions. Keep dreaming, even when your plans need to change.

You are not merely trying to get through life anymore. You are learning how you want to live it.

With love, faith, and so much hope for the woman you are becoming,

Ai

Learning to navigate this new chapter of my life.

Today was my first coaching session with Nick Daez, a life coach, and we began with a meditation immersion.

I went into the session curious about what I would experience, but I didn't expect to come out feeling such a beautiful sense of relief, calmness, and inner peace.

There was something about the breathing exercises and the deeper level of meditation that allowed me to experience a different kind of stillness. Although prayer and meditation have already been part of my daily life, this practice introduced me to another way of becoming present, connecting with myself, and quieting the noise within.

One of the highlights was the Sitali breathing technique. It was such a wonderful introduction to a breathing practice that I can incorporate into my everyday routine. I felt a sense of calm and joy within me, and I was in awe of how different I felt after the immersion.

During our session, we also discussed the benefits of these meditation practices and how I could integrate them into my daily life. I am looking forward to making them part of my regular prayer and meditation routine, alongside the spiritual practices that have always been important to me.

I know I will need this more than ever in the coming weeks and months.

In the middle of my usual routines at work and at home, I want to learn how to pause, breathe, and ground myself whenever my thoughts become overwhelming. And as I prepare for chemotherapy, I hope this practice will help me navigate the fear and uncertainty that come with it.

I know meditation will not take away the reality of cancer or make every difficult feeling disappear. I will still have days when I feel afraid, vulnerable, or emotionally exhausted. But perhaps I can learn to meet those moments differently, without immediately feeling defeated by them.

I want to give myself the chance to be still, to breathe through the uncertainty, and to find some peace even when I cannot control what happens next.

For me, this is not about becoming fearless. It is about learning how to make room for fear without allowing it to take over.

My faith has taught me the value of prayer, surrender, and trusting God even when I cannot see the whole picture. I see this new practice as another way to become more mindful, deepen my moments of stillness, and prepare myself emotionally and spiritually for the journey ahead.

Today, I finished my first session feeling lighter and calmer. It was a gentle reminder that even in a chapter filled with uncertainty, I can still discover new ways to care for myself.

And perhaps this is one of the things I need to learn right now: that caring for myself is not only about preparing my body for treatment, but also nurturing the mind and spirit that will carry me through it.

I am looking forward to bringing this newfound stillness into my everyday life, one breath and one prayer at a time. ❤️

xo,

Ai

Dear Me

Dear Me,

So… it’s October.

And somehow, October feels different this year.

Usually, I would see it as another month of work, coffee, little plans, family, getting my nails done, fixing my hair, slowing down and doing the things I love crafting, creating, and all the other artsy stuff that makes me, me.

But this October, I look at it differently.
It is Breast Cancer Awareness Month.
And I am not just looking at the pink ribbons from the outside anymore.

I am now part of the story.

That still feels strange to write.

‘’I have breast cancer.’’

There. I said it.
Not because I want cancer to define me, but because I refuse to pretend it isn't happening.
The treatment has been planned.

It is really coming.
And honestly?
I'm scared.
Of course I am. Who wouldn't be scared after hearing the word "cancer"?

But somewhere along the way, I have also learned to embrace this reality. Not as a death sentence, but as a very loud reminder to become more aware of myself, of my body, my life, and what truly matters.

Because I think about the woman I have been all these years.
The one who takes care of everyone.
Who adjusts.
Who understands, even when things don't make sense.
Who apologises even when she did nothing wrong.
Who gives and says, "It's okay, I'll manage."

And perhaps this sickness is teaching me something I should have learned long ago:

I matter, too.

My body has carried me through grief, motherhood, marriage, work, moving countries, difficult seasons, loss, fear and now cancer.

Maybe I don't need to fight my body.

Maybe I need to stand beside it.

To look at it with tenderness and say,

"I'm sorry I haven't always been kind to you."

"Thank you for carrying me this far."

Loving myself now doesn't mean pretending everything is beautiful.

It means loving myself even here.

Through the hospital appointments, the needles, the treatments, the changes in my body, the days when I don't feel pretty, and the days when I simply want to cry.

I can still love myself there.

And perhaps this is why October feels so personal to me now.

Before this, I knew October as the month of pink ribbons.

Now, I know what those ribbons are supposed to remind us of.

They remind me of the woman who might be sitting at home wondering whether that lump is something she should have checked.

The woman who keeps postponing her appointment because there are children to look after, work to finish, a husband to care for, a family that needs her.

The woman who may be telling herself, "It's probably nothing."

I understand her now.

Because I am one of those women.

And if my story can reach even one woman, then I want to say this from one woman to another:

Please don't wait until your body forces you to listen.

Know your body.
Get checked.
Pay attention to the changes.
Ask questions.
And please remember that you are part of your own life, too.
You don't have to wait until everyone else is okay before you take care of yourself.
This is what breast cancer awareness means to me now.
It isn't just about wearing pink.
It is about looking at ourselves with enough love to say,

"My health matters."
"My body matters."
"I matter."

And maybe this October, I don't need to say much more.
Because I am learning it myself.

I want to live. Really live.

I want more coffee talks with people I love.
Witness the beautiful mornings and sunsets.

More painting.
More dancing.
More travelling.
More people-watching.
More laughter.

I want to watch my children grow.
I want to grow old and see the wrinkles on my face as proof that I have lived.
I want to discover what else God has written into my story.
I don't know what the treatments will feel like.
I don't know how my body will respond.
I don't know what the next few months will bring.
But I know this:

I am still here.

And for today, that is enough.
So, dear me…
Don't forget the woman who is fighting.
Be gentle with her.

Let her cry.
Let her laugh.
Let her be scared.
Let her be silly.
Let her be feminine.
Let her rest.
Let her hope.

She doesn't have to be strong every day.
She just has to keep showing up.
Maybe this is my new kind of awareness.

Not simply:

"I have cancer.’’

But:

"I am aware that I am alive."

And after all these years of giving so much of myself away, maybe it is finally time to give some of that love back to the woman in the mirror.

Me.

The woman still here.
The woman still becoming.
The woman who is scared, but walking anyway.
The woman who doesn't know what tomorrow holds, but still wakes up and says,

"Okay, God. Let's do today.’’

Because maybe there is still so much life ahead.

So much love.
So much faith.
So much more to become.

And this time,

I am taking myself with me.

If this October means anything to me, it is this:

Don't wait to love yourself.
Don't wait to care for yourself.
Don't wait to choose yourself.

Because I am learning, perhaps a little later than I should have, that taking care of everyone else should never mean forgetting the woman who is also worth saving.

And maybe that is the pink I want to wear this October.
Not just for breast cancer.
But for me.
For the woman still here.

And if you are standing beside women like me, women fighting, women healing, women waiting for their next appointment, women learning to live through a diagnosis....

leave a pink 🩷 in the comments.

Not just for me.

For every woman who needs to know that she is not walking through this alone.

🩷

Xo,
Ai

Lord, have I done enough?

 “You too go into my vineyard.

To work in the Lord's vineyard.”

— Matthew 20:1–16

A very close friend of mine, now a priest serving in Canada, often sends me his Sunday Gospel reflection. It helps me a lot now during my Sunday prayer meditation.

I feel fortunate to be surrounded by people who not only pray along with me, but also remind me that God speaks through the Bible.

Sometimes, I wonder if I am really listening.

This morning, while doing my meditation, one thought from today's Gospel stayed with me:

“To work in the Lord’s vineyard.”

That phrase somehow touched a question I have been carrying quietly in my heart.

Lord, have I given enough?

Have I served You enough? followed you enough? Or being true to YOU enough?

I know I am not perfect, far from it.

I have made mistakes. I have questioned You. I have been impatient. I have complained. There were moments when my faith was strong, and there were moments when I was simply trying to hold on.

But I have tried.

I have tried to serve You in my own little ways: to love people more even if they're unlovable, to be more forgiving, to be faithful and to live my life as a witness of what I believe.

And now, here I am.

In this season of my life that I never expected.

With cancer.

And somewhere in the middle of all this, a question comes that perhaps I am still learning how to bring honestly before God:

“Lord, was I not enough?”

Was everything I gave still not enough?

And then another question, even harder to say:

“Did I deserve this sickness?”

I don't have an answer.

Maybe I never will.

But today's Gospel made me think that perhaps I have been looking at my relationship with God like a calculation.

I did this. I served here. I prayed. I tried to be good. So why is this happening to me?

As if God's love were something I could earn.

But perhaps the vineyard doesn't work that way.

Maybe God never asked me to earn my place.

Maybe He simply asked me to come and work alongside Him, with whatever I have, for however long I am able.

And perhaps my vineyard looks different now.

Maybe it is not about doing more.

Maybe, for this season, it is about being faithful in a different way.

To wake up and say thank You, even when I am afraid.

To face another medical appointment.

To endure another needle.

To accept help.

To pray when I have questions.

To choose hope when the road ahead is blurry.

To continue loving.

To continue believing.

And to continue simply being me.

Perhaps this is also working in His vineyard.

I don't know why God allowed this chapter in my story.

But I am slowly learning that I don't have to understand everything to remain close to Him.

And maybe the question I should be asking is no longer,

“Lord, have I done enough?”

but simply,

“Lord, what do You want me to do with the day You have given me?”

Today, I am still here.

Still alive.

Still praying.

Still questioning.

Still trying.

Still believing.

Still working in His vineyard, in whatever way He asks of me.

And perhaps, for today,

that is enough. 🙏🏻

Blessed Sunday everyone!

xo,

Ai 

What Does Your Heart Need Today?

It is mid-week, and we are already on the first stretch of September. Wow. How time flies so fast.

Today, I’d like to pause for a moment and assess my feelings.
I feel good today.
I woke up with worship and prayers in my heart, and somehow, after spending that quiet time with God, I felt so much better.

It has become quite usual now that I wake up way before my alarm clock even gets the chance to strike. Well, blame my overthinking mind or whatever it is that keeps calling me awake earlier than usual. No matter how tired I am, no matter how much fatigue seems to overpower me, I am wide awake as early as 4 a.m.

Anyhow, it is mid-week as I write this. It is still very summery here in Poland. The sun is shining so brightly, and it is warm...almost 30°C. yay!

And here I am, busy at work.

Business as usual.

Funny enough, work has become a kind of safe space for me lately. Maybe because no one talks about my sickness. No one thinks about it because, simply, no one knows.
Except my counselor, my supervisor.
And honestly, I think I would rather keep it that way for now.

Only a few people know the real story and the full details of what I am going through. I am still really sick. I am still waiting for the final verdict or perhaps a better word would be, the treatment plan.

An MRI is scheduled in two weeks.

Another test.
Another blood test.
Another needle.
Another pain to endure.

You probably know by now that I have a very low tolerance for needles. I am afraid of them. But somehow, along this journey, I have slowly learned to befriend them.

Well… what can I do now? 😂

Sometimes life puts us in situations we never imagined we would have to face.

And somehow, we learn to face them anyway.

Today, I am inspired by this beautiful verse:

“The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart.”

- Psalm 34:18

And today's thought is this:

Not every day will make us feel strong, positive, productive, or motivated.

And that is okay.

It is okay if you are not okay.

Some days, we just want to cry out loud.

Some days, we want to be lazy and do absolutely nothing.

Some days, our bodies simply ask us to rest.

And some days, all we can do is shout to God in prayer:

“God, I need You so badly today.”

All of these feelings are valid.

A hard day doesn't mean you are going backward.

Feeling tired doesn't mean you are weak.

Needing rest doesn't mean you are giving up.

Sometimes, resting is part of moving forward.

Tomorrow is another opportunity to begin again.

Because feelings are fleeting. They come, they stay for a while, and eventually, they pass.

So today, I want to ask myself, and perhaps ask yourself too:

What does your heart need most today?

Is it rest?

Prayer?

Encouragement?

A good cry?

Someone to simply listen?

Or perhaps… just a little grace?

Whatever it is, give yourself permission to need it.

And if today is a difficult day, remember:

The Lord is near to the brokenhearted.

You don't have to have everything figured out today.

Just breathe.

Just pray.

Just take today as it comes.

Tomorrow can take care of itself.

things will be alright. In time.

like the lyrics of the song Leaves by Ben and Ben:

Leaves will soon grow from the bareness of trees

And all will be alright in time

From waves overgrown come the calmest of seas

And all will be alright in time

Wounds of the past will eventually heal

And all will be alright in time

'Cause all of this comes with a love that is real

I said all will be alright in time.....

XO,

Aileen