Finding Light in the Margins

Week 8: The Story Behind The Diagnosis

There are days when the diagnosis feels like a headline stamped across your chest—loud, unrelenting, impossible to ignore. But then there are the margins. The quiet spaces between appointments, the hush after the tears, the breath before the next brave step.

It’s in those margins that light begins to gather.

A chipped mug of chamomile, still warm. The way your child’s laughter curls around the corners of the room. The ritual of lotion on dry hands, slow and deliberate, like a prayer. The scent of rain on pavement, reminding you that the world keeps blooming.

These are not distractions. They are oxygen.

A candle lit not for ambiance, but for anchoring.  

A dog-eared book that knows your grief and your grit.  

A song that doesn’t fix anything, but makes the ache feel less alone.

You learn to collect these moments like river stones—smooth, weighty, grounding. You tuck them into your pockets, your memory, your marrow. They do not erase the diagnosis. But they remind you that you are more than it.

You are the one who still dances in the kitchen. Who still writes love notes in the margins of medical paperwork. Who still believes in the healing power of a well-timed joke.

This week, we honor the small joys. The rituals that stitch us back together. The beauty that insists on showing up, even when we feel undone.

So light the candle.

Make the tea.

Let the sunlight fall across your face like a benediction.

You are here.

You are healing.

And the margins are full of light.

Beryl