The Great Pause

Recognizing when we need space to heal

View from the redwood trees outside my door. We moved closer to the healing vibes of nature in August.

“PAUSE” reverberated through my head like a steady drumbeat. Pause, Pause, Pause was all I could hear.

This July, after almost two straight years on chemo, we had seen enough shrinkage to stop treatment for my rare, locally aggressive tumor lovingly named “Ursula”. For an elated two months, my side effects slowly melted away, my energy crept up each day, and the pain in my back subsided. 

Yet things started shifting in October. My sports bra was once again too tight, requiring me to shimmy it up in the back. I started feeling different pressure points while lying on my back in yoga. The MRI confirmed what we already knew—Ursula was back from hibernation. 

At another emotional juncture, we weighed our treatment options and landed on starting my third chemo protocol, Methotrexate Vinblastine. These weekly infusions require a chest port placement, which terrified me not only for the very visual physical reminder of my illness, but it will leave me with yet another scar on my tattered body. And the practical reason that sleeping on my stomach had become the most comfortable option.

The process of going back on chemo, the loss of social support systems due to COVID, a bottomless calendar of Zoom calls, and the simple intensity of working at a startup—all numbed my body and nibbled at my soul. I remember barely processing the apocalyptic orange day in the Bay Area, glancing out the window a few times between breaths and meeting invites. My world slowed down. Small to-do items felt like sprinting uphill. I felt unable to move forward. 

The truth was, this was unfolding over months without me really recognizing. When I started working with my coach in September she asked me “if nothing changed, how would I feel in January?” Suffocated. 

For the past 10 years, I’ve been doing the startup grind and loving it. I thrive in ambiguity and love building things from scratch with other talented people. Since 2018, I’ve been helping build Celo, in a role that’s aligned to my purpose and the impact that I want to create. 

So I did the trip to the Tanzanian refugee camp, while my hair was falling out in small fistfuls, carrying soup in a thermal mug to keep my calories up.

I traveled to Buenos Aires for the product pilot, while my coworkers tended to my oozing back each day. 

I took the stage at Berlin Blockchain Week, riding a Jump bike to the closest backdoor to avoid any additional time on my burning, neuropathic feet.

And there was the 24 hour trip to the Dominican Republic for MIT’s EmTech, where, as they slid the microphone behind my ear on the side stage, I was convinced my wig would slide with it in front of 300 onlookers. 

These are just a few moments of putting my head down and pushing through, because we’re building something special. Because it’s my passion and doesn’t feel like work. We launched this year and we’re just getting started. It’s been my favorite job to date.

And in the same exhale, something is grinding inside me. Something is pulling me away. I started rereading Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way and this quote jumped off the page, “The reward for attention is healing.” Attention = healing...In order to heal the wounds, I need to be present with my body. I started talking to my partner about taking some time off, and the next morning my coach, unprompted, asked me if I’ve thought about taking leave. My coworker astutely pointed out, “your body is telling your mind what to do.” 

I’ve been feeling this deep need to just walk. To wonder. To play. To make art. To make music. To have no plans. No checklists. To just be and not “do” anything. As a person who chronicles her  goals in a spreadsheet (Vanessa’s Incredible Life 2013-Present), maps them to values and lives life with such intention (albeit a mind-driven, as opposed to heart-driven approach), this was a scary prospect. 

Fears came up: about becoming irrelevant, about losing what I’ve built. Yet anytime I was still, the voice was so loud. PAUSE. When I suggested taking leave to our founder, he said “absolutely” without me even finishing my sentence. Most people I talk to are surprised I haven’t taken leave through my chemo journey.

On December 1, my leave started. Joy has returned to my eyes. I’m dancing while making breakfast. I got a typewriter, on which I’ve been writing poetry. I’ve been drawing. After 5 years of debating, I finally got a Leica camera, which is the perfect companion on my miles of aimless walking. I nap when I need to. I take music lessons. 

This voice now says MAKE ART.  

So where do we go from here? I have no idea. To be honest, I feel quite lost and in a cloud of grey. Fatigued, nauseous, hungry, inspired, stuck, curious, creative, emotional—all of the feelings. I cried three times yesterday alone. I guess I’m just present. Just being here, now, for whatever comes up. 

I was recently reminded of the Kubler-Ross Grief Cycle, and it was helpful to place myself on a map, currently hovering somewhere between bargaining and depression. This is all part of the nonlinear healing and grief process. Sharing this story  brings me closer to acceptance.

On a coaching group call last week, someone reflected that I went from black and darkness to feeling grey; and perhaps light and clarity is around the corner. I hope that to be true. If you’re reading this and relate, I hope the same for you.