Before I had even met with my specialist, there was one thought I remember having very clearly:

I don’t want a bag.

At that point, I didn’t know exactly what treatment would involve or what the months ahead would look like. I was still trying to understand the fact that I had cancer.

But an ostomy was something I was frightened of.

I think, in my mind, it represented everything I didn’t want cancer to take from me.

My body.

My normality.

My sense of who I was.

Then I met with my specialist and learned more about what might happen.

The hope was that chemotherapy and radiation would treat the cancer. But if treatment didn’t work as we hoped, surgery could be necessary, and an ostomy was a possibility.

I still didn’t want that.

But somewhere along the way, something in me began to change.

I can’t point to one particular moment when it happened.

I just remember reaching a place where I thought:

If that’s what it takes for me to still be here, then I’ll be okay.

I wanted to live.

I wanted to still be me.

And slowly, those things became more important than whether my body looked or functioned exactly the way it had before.

That didn’t mean I suddenly stopped being afraid.

It didn’t mean I understood what living with an ostomy would be like or that I felt completely prepared for it.

I definitely wasn’t.

And eventually, the reality was bigger than the one I had first imagined.

I didn’t wake from surgery with one ostomy.

I woke with two permanent ones.

There was a learning curve.

There were things about my new body that I had to understand, practical things I had to learn and moments that felt overwhelming.

At first, I couldn’t even bring myself to look at my stomas.

But underneath all of that was something else.

I was still here.

And I was so grateful to be alive.

Over time, I began to discover something I had been afraid I might lose.

I was still me.

I could still laugh.

I could still go to work.

I could still spend time with the people I loved.

I could still wear clothes I liked, travel, serve, make plans and enjoy ordinary days.

My body had changed enormously.

But the person living inside it hadn’t disappeared.

When I think about healing now, I think that is part of what this journey has taught me.

Before cancer, I probably would have imagined healing as everything being put back exactly as it was.

Cancer gone.

Body unchanged.

Life returned to normal.

And I understand why we long for that kind of healing.

There is nothing wrong with praying for it.

I prayed for healing. Other people prayed for my healing. I still believe in bringing those prayers to God.

And I am incredibly grateful to be in remission.

But my story has also taught me that healing doesn’t always mean being returned untouched to the person you were before.

My cancer journey left permanent changes.

There are parts of my body I no longer have.

There are two ostomies I will have for the rest of my life.

There are things I have had to grieve.

Cancer was not good.

Losing parts of my body was not good.

I don’t look back at those things and pretend they became good simply because something meaningful came from them.

But I can look back and see that God met me there.

He was present in the fear.

He was present in the uncertainty.

He was present when the outcome I had once hoped for was no longer possible.

And He has continued to be present as I have learned how to live the life I have now.

I think, for me, that has become a different kind of healing.

Not pretending there was no loss.

Not being restored to exactly who I was before.

But discovering that a changed life could still be a full one.

That joy could exist alongside things I never would have chosen.

That gratitude and grief could occupy the same space.

That I could look at a body that had been through so much and not see it as ruined, but see it as a gift.

That I was still here.

Still loved.

My ostomies are a part of my life now.

There are still moments when having ostomies can be inconvenient, but I have never wished them away. I am incredibly grateful for them and the life I have now.

And when I think about the version of myself who sat there before that first specialist appointment thinking, I can handle anything else, but I don’t want a bag, I can see why she felt that way.

She had no idea what this life would look like.

She could only imagine what she might lose.

She couldn’t yet see everything that would remain.

I think that is one of the biggest things this journey has changed in me.

Sometimes life doesn’t go back to what it was before.

But what comes afterwards can hold far more than we were able to imagine when we were afraid of what we might lose.

This is part of my story now, and so is the life that has continued beyond it.

Of course I am grateful for physical healing. I am grateful every time another scan comes back clear.

But I have also experienced healing in places that don’t show up on a scan.

In learning that my worth was never dependent on having an unchanged body.

In discovering that my life could change so completely and still be mine.