Inside My Own Current Practice of Courage: Part I

To all the beloved parts of me, 

I see you. Every version of you.

The little one who danced in her living room and acted on the mainstage before she knew she had a body to be judged. The youthful one who ran across every terrain until the wind swallowed her breath whole, who climbed, who leapt, who laughed with her entire spirit. 

The young adult who stood bewildered in the theater arts dressing room, wondering when her body had begun to seemingly betray her. The woman who tried to outrun the weight pressing in, gasping against something unseen, something growing heavier with every year. 

The thirty-something who wondered if she could bear it one more day, who flirted with the dark because at least the darkness would be the deepest of exhales.

And I see you now—the perfectly imperfect human standing at the edge of her fifth and (hopefully) final surgery, the woman in her late forties who says yes to life with open hands and heart, again and again and again. The one who writes at the end of her surgical travel packing list in a quiet whisper,

‘Let’s go save your life one more time, Tonyalynne.’

Lipedema tried to take everything. And for a time, it almost did. It wrapped around you, thick and unyielding, weaving itself into every relationship attempt, every career, and into the very fabric of your form.

This multi-dimensional, progressive disease robbed you of the simple joys—agility, ease, touch, the feeling of your own heartbeat pulsing through your legs as you climbed a hill. It suffocated you in dense, fibrous tissue that was not yours to carry, burdened you with pain so deep it became a language of its own. It squeezed the life out of your confidence, your actual breath, your sense of belonging in a body that was always meant to be yours.

But what it did not take—what it could never take—was you. Because who we are is not what we do nor how we look; it’s everything we embody when all the rest falls away.

And when lipedema tried to bury you beneath its weight, you unearthed yourself. You fought. You learned the language of healing, one whisper, one compression garment, one walk at a time.

With the best of support, more help than you can imagine, countless walks with friends, and an ingenious healthcare team, you reclaimed your life. You took back what this progressive condition tried to steal with manual lymphatic drainage treatments, with deep nutrition, sobriety, & hydration, with building a 23/7 relationship with full body compression garments. Your breath drew deeper and more full a little every day. Instead of buying a house, you invested in building a home within yourself.

You stepped onto the operating table—naked and scarred—not as a victim, but as a woman who refused to be erased by her circumstances. And with every incision, you reclaimed the parts of you that had been drowning in her own skin.

You did not choose this path, love. But you chose what to do with it. 

And that choice—that unrelenting decision to live, to love, to keep moving—is the most radical practice of courage and truth.

So now, as you pack your bag for one more journey, as you fold the compression garments, the medical supplies, the things that will carry you through this final surgery, please know this: 

You are not going to find yourself. You have been here all along. 

You are simply peeling back the layers, returning to the breath that was always yours to take. And there is nothing more holy in this life than breathing freely.

Let’s go save your life one more time, love.

With you in this practice,