Dusting Off the Cobwebs

Time has a strange way of folding in on itself.

One minute you’re caught up in the present, and the next, a memory sneaks in—so vivid, so sharp, it feels like you could reach out and touch it. Certain moments don’t just revisit you; they carve a line straight through your life, dividing everything into a clear “before” and “after.”

Just over a year ago, I got the call that changed everything: Akin had cancer.

It was one of those moments that doesn’t feel real at first. You hear the words, and your mind scrambles to make sense of them. I remember sitting in silence for a long time after the call ended. He was in Manchester. I was here. I couldn’t hug him, couldn’t help him get to appointments, couldn’t sit beside him in the waiting room. I felt powerless and far away. But I knew panic wouldn’t help either of us.

So I did the only thing I could: I held it together. I stayed calm.

The truth is, life had already been testing me long before the diagnosis. I’d lost my job a few months earlier—an experience that shook my sense of identity more than I expected. Family tensions were simmering under the surface, leaving me emotionally drained. On top of that, someone very dear to me—my long-time friend and mentor—was battling his own health crisis. No family nearby, limited support, and so I stepped in. I became the one driving him to appointments, picking up prescriptions, and sitting with him through hard days. It was exhausting, but I didn’t think twice.

Then Akin’s diagnosis came, and suddenly, everything narrowed. My focus became razor-sharp. We would get through this. Somehow. Together.

I turned to prayer, not the composed kind with neat words and tidy endings. This was the kind of prayer that comes from a place deep within, where words fail. Sometimes I wasn’t even sure what I was asking for. I just knew I couldn’t carry it all on my own. I needed something—someone—bigger than me to hold it with me.

In those days, time moved strangely. Some hours dragged on like years. Others disappeared in the blink of an eye. I’d lie awake at night wondering how much more I could take. But each morning, I got up again. That was the miracle: not that things got easier, but that I kept showing up.

And in the middle of it all, I started learning things—quiet lessons that didn’t come from books or podcasts or advice from friends. They came from walking through it. From surviving.

Here’s what I’ve learned:

1. Your body and mind are more capable than you think—if you give them space to show up.
There were days I felt like I might break. But I didn’t. I walked. I exercised, even when my heart wasn’t in it. I sat in silence, breathed deeply, and let myself be still. These simple acts became lifelines. Resilience doesn’t always roar. Sometimes, it shows up quietly—in the choice to keep going.

2. Indecision is often a sign you’re running on empty.
I used to second-guess everything. What if this is the wrong move? What if I regret it? But I realized that hesitation was using up energy I didn’t have to spare. Now, I try to act—imperfectly, but with intention. One choice leads to another, and momentum builds.

3. Fear speaks loudly, but it doesn’t always tell the truth.
Fear loves uncertainty. It magnifies worst-case scenarios and drowns you in what-ifs. I’ve learned to push back. To gather the facts, trust my gut, and move forward anyway. Fear might always be there, whispering doubt—but I don’t have to believe it.

The Unseen Fight

Just before Akin started treatment, we found our own little sanctuary in Cape Town. To anyone else, it probably looked like a regular trip—a short holiday for lovers. But it was more than that. It was a pause, a chance to breathe and laugh and pretend, just for a little while, that the rest of the world didn’t exist.

We sat in quiet together. We shared meals, watched sunsets, and let ourselves feel normal. That time didn’t fix everything, but it reminded us of who we were beneath all the worry. It gave us something to hold onto.

Being apart while he went through treatment—thanks to endless red tape and delays—was its own kind of heartbreak. Watching someone you love suffer when you can’t be there is a helpless kind of pain. But as with all things, it passed. Not all at once, but slowly. And joy returned, in little bursts.

Looking back now, I see the thread that ran through it all: We don’t get through hard seasons by sheer force. We get through by piecing together small acts of courage. By letting others step in when we’re too tired to stand. By reminding ourselves that “after” doesn’t begin with a dramatic change—it begins with one small choice in the “before.”

So this is me, dusting off the cobwebs. Acknowledging the scars, but not letting them dictate the next chapter.