Hardwood floors bathed in natural light and a dapper pianist greet me at the entryway of the Cancer Center. I haven’t come for drugs or surgery today. If not for the flurry of doctors, nurses, and patients ambling amidst the scent of sanitizer, I might forget where I am…or even who I am: a 33-year-old mother of two facing my mortality, trying to survive

“Writing through Cancer” meets on the second floor, across from the infusion center. I walk up the white marble stairway—30 steps or so—to see if I can do it. These steps become a ritual that serves as a barometer of my physical status on a given day; the oxygen and energy it takes to climb signify my blood cell counts, strength, and endurance. Today, I’m not winded.

The conference room door, propped open with a chair, points the way toward soft voices and laughter inside. I walk in and find Sharon standing at the head of the table, laying out handouts and pens. I know her face from the website. She is taller than I expected, a good foot above me, with neck-length auburn hair and a flowing silk jacket that hangs to her knees.

“You must be Ali,” she says, her warm smile easing my hesitation.

“Yes. Thank you for answering my email.”

“I’m so glad you’re joining us. Please take a seat anywhere; we’ll start in a few minutes.”

Five women and one man sit around the rectangular table. All of them over the age of 50. I expected to be the youngest person here, having attended a couple of support groups where I was the youngest by decades.

“Keep an open mind,” I tell myself. I am not a joiner, and I haven’t written anything other than work-related articles or journal entries since college. My hands are clammy.

The women talk amongst themselves – sharing information about absent group members and their whereabouts. One of them catches my eye and smiles. She has graybrown hair clipped close to her angular face. Her friend is plump, with large breasts jutting out and gray hair hanging in ringlets around her face. The bald man wears sunglasses that cover half his face. His jaw moves perpetually, as if chewing food, though his mouth is empty. He keeps to himself.

I feel drawn to a quiet woman at the corner of the table. She sits alone, her frosty blue eyes peeking out from long shocks of white-blond hair. Looking down, I notice her red shoes, like Dorothy’s from the Wizard of Oz, beneath layers of mismatched clothing. Her face is tired and kind. Our eyes meet; we share the tentative smile of two introverts.

“Welcome to the group. I see we have some new faces and some familiar ones. Let’s take a brief moment to introduce ourselves, and we’ll get started with our first prompt. Go ahead and say your name, something about the cancer you’re dealing with, and anything else you want to share with the group. Nan, would you like to start?”

“Sure. I’m Nan. I had salivary cancer two years ago— went through chemo and radiation, and am doing pretty well right now. I’m a caregiver for my husband who has Parkinson’s, so that comes up in my writing a lot too.”

“Thanks Nan,” Sharon nods as she looks to the next person.

“Sylvia Johnston. I did oral cancer in ’98, melanoma in ’02, and breast cancer in ’05. Did surgery, chemo, radiation, you know: slash, burn, and poison—the whole nine yards. I’m good now,” she says with a sheepish grin. She talks like a female Frank Sinatra.

We all turn toward the lone man in the glasses. “I’m Ron. I’ve got esophageal cancer. I’m also going blind in one of my eyes. I’m getting by.”

“Good to see you, Ron. I’m glad you’re back.” Sharon winked at him.

Ann speaks softly, looking down between phrases, at the table. “I’m Ann. I have a rare blood cancer. I recently left my job on early retirement and moved to a cottage in the woods.”

“Thank you, Ann. Glad to have you with us today.” We finish introducing ourselves, and Sharon outlines the group process. There would be prompts followed by time to write, then time to share what we had written, if we liked. The only feedback we’d hear would be comments on what others liked, what resonated. I’m relieved to hear there won’t be critique.

“We’re writing from the belly of the beast here. It’s generative writing—in the moment, spontaneous, fresh. That means we don’t criticize or ask questions. We simply listen and honor what was written. I’ll ask you, ‘What stays with you about this piece?’ or ‘What did you like?’ We do this for the safety of the group and the freedom of expression. Any questions?”

The group shares a simultaneous head shake.

“Good. Let’s begin. We’ll start with a prompt about windows. Think of a window you’re looking through these days. It can be literal or figurative. Write for 15 minutes about what you see, what you feel, when you gaze through your window. Begin.”

I fumble to turn on my computer, scramble to mute the sound as it awakens. I don’t know where to begin; I type “My Window” at the top of a document, and stare at the screen. The other writers have busy hands—mostly with paper and pen. A couple of them type furiously on laptops. I take a breath and begin to write. The words flow surprisingly, and I lose myself in the image of my kids playing outside, just beyond our kitchen window.

It feels like seconds later when Sharon chimes her meditation bell, and we all stop writing. “Who would like to share what you’ve written?”

Edith begins. Her writing, which sounded like the start of a story, paints a picture of her backyard garden. Colors, tranquility, smells. I listen with pleasure. I remember the joy of being read to, one I’ve scarcely encountered since childhood. I disappear into the words.

“I love this piece, Edith,” Sharon comments. “The image of the birds of paradise fanned like peacocks, and the hummingbirds drinking nectar like wine—just lovely. What did the rest of you like?”

Nancy and Sylvia praise phrasing and tone. Say how the writing makes them feel at peace. I jump in with a compliment. This is easy. It’s restorative. A literary love fest. Sharon deftly transitions, “Who’s next?”

Feeling reassured by Edith’s reception, I raise my hand to go next.

“I wrote something,” I announce.

“Go ahead,” Sharon nods.

I exhale quickly and look up, feel the group’s quiet like a cloak.

“A rich and illuminated poem,” Sharon breaks the silence. “The simile of the boy like sugar cane and the girl’s fire-hair—draw such sweetness and vitality out. And the synesthesia of laughing bright as the scent of the magnolia tree. The honesty of mother’s hope to see herself watching the scene—alive and well. I love it. What about the rest of you; what stays with you?”

Sharon’s feedback takes me by surprise. Whether the poem is good or bad doesn’t matter. I feel heard, seen, and understood. The other writers encourage me too. The strength of that experience—reading what I wrote and having it witnessed and affirmed, feeds a nascent desire to write that has been with me since childhood. It teaches me that I might have something to say that can touch others. It’s the discovery of a wadi I will walk through in the barren territory of my isolation, at other times in my illness. It is learning to listen to myself and telling others what it means to be alive in this moment.

Writing also holds an incredible potency that I will try and understand but fail to discover until years later. It has the potential to heal and restore, and I will watch it wield its restorative power time and time again—first on me, then on others, and years later, when I become the facilitator of the same writing group that I’ve attended for the first time today. Through writing, something will dislodge itself inside me, open a pathway to another life and make me feel whole despite the fractured self I didn’t recognize through the worst days of my illness.

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