You Are Not Broken, Beloved
you're human, you're learning, and this is new...
This week, I had a conversation with a friend who told me they were angry about how much peace they had—because everything around them was on fire. They said, in their own words, “This is the most disabled I’ve ever been, and I don’t know what to do with it.”
Now, this friend had just undergone surgery to remove a fibroid from their uterus—the size of a baby’s head. Yes, you read that right. The size of a baby’s head. And though this surgery had been in the works for years, now that it had finally happened, the reality of the recovery—the managing of expectations—wasn’t lining up.
What struck me most in that conversation was how much it reminded me of something I’ve been sitting with this past month. I believe the great Isaac Newton (yes, Newton, not Darwin) said it best: An object in motion stays in motion.
And it made me think—so many of us don’t know how to rest.
In that same conversation,
my friend admitted, “It never gave that a busybody was going to be able to sit down for two months.” And I laughed because I understood that sentiment deeply. Every surgery I’ve ever had—especially the last three—felt like a war between my body and my instincts.
Two laparoscopies.
An ileostomy reversal.
Nothing about those surgeries said, get up and go. And yet, my mind? My body? They only knew go.
We got things to do. Places to be. People to see.
Except—I don’t even move the same today.
I don’t even network the same today.
I don’t even like being outside the same way I used to.
Solitude is beautiful to me now, because I understand that peace is both a birthright and a luxury. And yet, so many of us will have the opportunity to rest and still won’t take it—because of FOMO, because of fear, because we think something is wrong with us when we slow down.
But nothing is wrong.
Later in that conversation, my friend asked me, “Well, Precious, what did you do when it was your turn? When you had an eight-hour surgery that was beyond extensive?”
And let me be clear—by extensive, I mean:
I have a foot less of my colon. Half a rectum. A third—maybe a fourth—less of my vagina. 7 new additional incisions to the 5 already present, including a c-section like incision. Three endometriosis nodules removed. An ileostomy bag placed on my stomach, and a staple put into my colon.
I was intubated and operated on upside down for the entire procedure. Ten days in the hospital. Then, preparing for another surgery just ten weeks later.
And my friend wanted to know—what did I do?
I laughed. “You’re not gonna like my answer.”
“No, tell me.”
So I told the truth.
I could barely walk. Most days, I had to army crawl.
I couldn’t reach my clothes in the closet.
I couldn’t do dishes.
I barely made it down the stairs—so laundry? Out of the question.
If my best friend wasn’t home, I’d gather whatever energy I had to walk my dog—to the corner right outside our apartment—and back. Maybe 20 feet.
Then, if I had anything left in me, I’d take a shower.
Make a beef Polish.
Grab a Chobani smoothie.
Get back in bed.
And I could tell you just about every episode of Living Single, seasons one through five.
They laughed. “That can’t be all you did.”
“That’s all I did.” That’s all that happened.
I had one job—to believe that in this season, the most disabled I had ever been, my only requirement was to take care of myself.
Because that was the agreement I made—with my body, my mind, my spirit, and my emotions. To care for myself.
I learned this the hard way. After my first laparoscopy, two weeks post-op, barely eating because I didn’t know what to eat, I signed a contract with a client who turned out to be an absolute nightmare. I don’t regret it, though—because that moment taught me exactly what not to do when my body is in recovery.
And I refuse to make the same mistake twice.
I’m not going back to anything.
I’m building a whole new life.
Not from scratch—but from here. From this peaceful place. Because now, I understand what rest means to me. What it looks like for me. And so I reminded my friend—you are not broken.
None of us are.
And when you have the space to take care of yourself—when nothing else is required of you—take it.
Especially those of us who are resourceful—who always find a way. The best thing we can do for ourselves, and for those around us, is to remember:
You are not broken. You are healing.
an object in motion stays in motion—even when it’s moving slow.
So take care of yourself. Because that is what you are required to do beloved.
with, language & flow.