It’s after 11 o’clock at night. On a Wednesday. Of a very busy week. I should be resting. I should be drifting off to sleep preparing myself for the adventures and demands that tomorrow will surely bring. Instead, I am here — a place I haven’t been in a while, and a place I have missed.

Before I lay my head on my pillow with Sadie snuggled by my side, I feel compelled to write about an important, yet complicated, question that was asked of me today — what are your hopes and dreams? Initially, I was at a loss for words. I took a pass on answering. Several minutes later, after revisiting the question, I was overcome with emotion. I don’t think I have given any thought to my hopes and dreams in a long time.

I am not sure if I have any hopes and dreams right now. I say that as a person who worries from moment to moment whether I will wake up a healthy person or a sick person. I say that as a person who has lost many hopes and dreams but has yet to grieve those losses. I say that as a person who needs to give herself permission to hope and dream despite the cards she’s been dealt.

13 years ago, before I was diagnosed with Hodgkins lymphoma, I was filled with hopes and dreams. Some of them materialized — I have found meaningful work; I am part of a close-knit community; and I am having an impact on the world as an educator. Others did not materialize by my own choice, like becoming a successful lawyer (If you’ve seen Suits, you may know why!). During the years that followed the first diagnosis, my hopes and dreams began to diminish. Cancer began to steal time and opportunities from me.

The first big loss hit me as I was going in for my stem cell transplant. I was literally about to be admitted to the hospital when I asked what the doctors were going to do to preserve my fertility. I always thought I wanted a family, or at least know I had the option. “Oh,” said the oncologist, “there’s nothing we can do. You’re going to go into early menopause.” And that was it. There was no discussion about options, and they sent me on my way. I was devastated and angry. My hope of ever having a child was taken from me, and I had no control. I used to hope for financial security, to own a home, to find a partner, to travel, but because of cancer, some of these may not be possible. For so many years, my life was consumed with doctors and hospitals and treatments that I missed out on a lot of the life milestones that people my age experinced.

I wish I could wrap this all up with a bow and tell you I’m ok, and, to some extent, I am. I am high functioning; I am happy; I am in remission. But, in some ways, I am not ok. I am grieving; I am angry; and I am frustrated. I will leave you with this, however, while I do not necessarily have a list of hopes and dreams at the moment, I am hopeful that they will come to me.