Walking the Hallways of Memory, Fear, and Healing

Last night, as I walked the long, sterile hallways of the hospital for imaging on my kidneys, a wave of familiarity rose up and wrapped around me like a cold draft. It wasn’t just fear—it was a memory, a doorway. Suddenly I was sixteen again, pushing my mother slowly through the oncology ward, trying to act older than I felt.

The smell of disinfectant hit me the same way it did back then—sharp, overwhelming, almost suffocating. When I passed the little wig shop tucked near the elevator, I saw a woman sitting outside wearing a head wrap. In an instant, I was back in the “salon” with my mom as she tried on wigs, her smile forced, mine trembling. A faint but powerful memory of losing my childhood surfaced—the quiet horror of watching my mother suffer while I learned far too early how fragile life can be.

And now, here I am, walking these halls again, possibly face to face with the same fate.

But this time, I refuse to see whatever outcome comes as who I am. I’m meeting it as part of my healing journey—part of the path Spirit placed before me long before I ever understood it.

During sacred ceremony months ago, I received channels calling me into the path of becoming a “Shaman.” I barely even knew what that meant at the time. Yet I made an oath—if this truly was the path Spirit wanted me to walk, I would commit to it with my whole being. And as these things often go, the initiation began quietly and then all at once… starting with that ER visit a few weeks back.

I read something the other night that struck me deeply:
To truly live free in Spirit, we must face what we are still holding onto, and trust that a higher power walks beside us.

Right now, what I am facing is the fear of death.
Not death itself—but the thought of leaving my family, especially my children.
Even writing that brings a swell to my throat and tears that feel older than I am.

So I sit with it.

I breathe into the ache.
I turn toward the fear, not away.
And in doing so, I see my younger self—eighteen years old, trying to be strong for everyone around her while silently burying her own grief deep in her belly.

I see her thoughts as if they’re still mine:
How do I live without my mom? I need her. This isn’t fair. Why her? Why us? Someone please tell me it’s going to be okay.
What I wanted then wasn’t fixing.
Wasn’t a sugar-coated reassurance.
I wanted to be held. Witnessed. Allowed to unravel without being rushed to pull myself back together.

And now, at thirty-seven, I finally understand:
Healing happens when our pain is witnessed, not silenced.
Even writing these words brings a softening, a release, a long-awaited exhale.

In the midst of all this, I pulled a card for myself.
The message that came through was The Star—a gentle beacon reminding me that hope is rising from within, that healing is already happening even in the places I can’t yet see. It’s the light that returns after a long night, guiding me back to myself.

Beside me walks the White Deer, a spirit animal of grace, sensitivity, and sacred protection.
Its presence feels like an invitation to move softly, to trust the unseen, and to remember that I am being guided through a delicate but blessed transition.

So while I carry fear around the unknown of my health, I also feel deeply called to keep sharing the raw, the messy, and everything in between. Because I know we all hold stories like this—stories that break us open, stories that heal us, stories that mirror something inside others who read them.

If even one person feels less alone because I spoke the truth of my heart, then this path is worth walking.

Sending love to you all.
May we all be witnessed. May we all heal.

In Peace, Love and Service,
Rebecca