Taco Tuesday and the Reposted Spiral

Taco Tuesday and the Reposted Spiral

🌼 Date: Tuesday, May 12, 2026

⚡ Energy: Homebody mode with a side of mental gymnastics

💔 Status: Mostly normal until my brain found something to chew on

😣 Outlook: Trying not to let one reposted door slam the whole hallway shut

Today was mostly a normal stay-at-home day.

And honestly, after the last several months, “normal” deserves more credit than it gets.

Normal used to sound boring.

Now normal sounds like a luxury package.

No appointment.

No waiting room.

No radiation table.

No chemo chair.

No one asking me to rate my pain, expose a body part, hold my breath, or explain which flavor of medical nonsense we are dealing with today.

Just home.

Laundry-adjacent living.

Existing.

Trying to feel like a person instead of a full-time patient with a side hustle in emotional survival.

And because the universe has not taken everything from me, it was also Taco Tuesday.

Praise be to tacos.

There are very few things in this world that can still hold the line between me and a full psychological collapse, but tacos remain on the list.

Tacos do not ask complicated questions.

Tacos do not require portal messages.

Tacos do not say, “Let’s wait 4–6 weeks and reassess.”

Tacos show up, do their job, and improve morale.

We respect tacos in this house.

So, for a while, today was fine.

Quiet.

Ordinary.

Manageable.

The kind of day where nothing big happens, and you think, Okay, maybe this is what healing looks like sometimes. Not dramatic. Not inspirational. Just tacos and staying home.

And then my brain found a stick and started poking the emotional bear.

Because a possibility I had been excited about popped back up in a confusing way.

That is about as specific as I am going to be, because sometimes real life and blog life need a privacy fence between them.

Let’s just say I saw something that made my brain go from “maybe this is a good sign” to “everyone panic and gather in the emotional basement” in approximately four seconds.

That is all I actually know.

One small piece of information.

No explanation.

No context.

No official answer.

Just enough uncertainty to make my brain grab a flashlight, kick open the basement door, and start writing a horror movie.

Maybe it means nothing.

Maybe it means everything.

Maybe I misunderstood.

Maybe there is a perfectly reasonable explanation.

Maybe the universe is testing my ability to stay calm.

Spoiler alert: I would like to retake the test.

Because when you do not have the answer, your brain will happily make one up.

And mine does not write cheerful little stories.

Mine writes dramatic courtroom scenes, secret meetings, whispered concerns, worst-case scenarios, and entire imaginary conversations where everyone explains all the reasons I was not enough.

Very rude.

Very creative.

Not helpful.

The hardest part is that Monday gave me such a strong feeling of hope.

For the first time in months, I felt like I walked into a room as Tina.

Not Cancer Tina.

Not Patient Tina.

Not Recovery Tina.

Just Tina.

Smart Tina.

Capable Tina.

Funny Tina.

Experienced Tina.

PC Tina and Future Tina trying to meet somewhere in the middle.

It felt like a door cracked open.

And then today came along and showed me the same door might still have a lock on it.

Or maybe it doesn’t.

I don’t know.

That is the whole awful point.

I do not know.

And apparently “not knowing” is where my brain likes to open an Etsy shop called Handcrafted Worst-Case Scenarios by Tina.

Everything is custom.

Nothing is helpful.

Fast shipping.

No refunds.

I tried to remind myself that one confusing detail is not an answer.

It is not a rejection.

It is not proof.

It is not the whole story.

It is just information without context.

And information without context is basically emotional glitter.

It gets everywhere.

You think you cleaned it up, and then six hours later it is still on your face.

That was today.

A normal day with one sharp little piece of uncertainty stuck in it.

I wanted to be calm.

I wanted to be mature.

I wanted to say, “Whatever is meant for me will find me,” and float through the day like a peaceful woman in linen pants who drinks herbal tea and trusts the universe.

But I am not that woman.

I am a short, bald-ish, one-boob, taco-eating, overthinking gremlin who has been through cancer treatment and is currently trying to rebuild a life with the emotional stability of a folding chair in a windstorm.

So instead, I spiraled a little.

Maybe more than a little.

But here is the thing I am trying to hold onto:

The confusing detail does not erase Monday.

It does not erase how I felt.

It does not erase the fact that I showed up.

It does not erase my experience.

It does not erase my voice.

It does not erase the moment when I felt seen as Tina again.

Even if that door closes, that feeling was real.

And maybe that matters too.

Maybe the win was not only about whether something works out.

Maybe the win was walking into a room and remembering I could still do hard things that have nothing to do with cancer treatment.

Maybe the win was feeling normal for a little while.

Maybe the win was hope showing up, even if it scared the absolute crap out of me the next day.

Because hope is risky.

Hope makes you care.

Hope gives your brain something to lose.

And when you have already lost so much, caring about something new can feel dangerous.

But I do care.

I care about moving forward.

I care about having options.

I care about feeling useful again.

I care about being seen for what I can do, not just what I have survived.

And yes, that makes waiting hard.

It makes incomplete information feel huge.

It makes one confusing detail feel like a personal attack from the internet.

But it also means I am still invested in my own future.

And that is not nothing.

That is actually pretty damn big.

Cancer has a way of shrinking your world.

Appointments.

Treatments.

Side effects.

Medical timelines.

Skin checks.

Medications.

Messages.

Recovery.

Rest.

Repeat.

But now my brain is starting to reach outside that world again.

And apparently when it reaches, it sometimes grabs anxiety with both hands and shakes it like a maraca.

We are working on that.

So today was not exciting.

It was not dramatic in the medical sense.

There was no new alien invasion, no lotion betrayal, no antibiotic uprising, no Breathing Olympics, no Disco Ball Tina episode, and no major cancer circus event.

There was just home.

Taco Tuesday.

A confusing little piece of information.

And a brain trying very hard not to turn a question mark into a tombstone.

I do not know what it means.

I do not know what happens next.

I do not know if that door is opening, closing, or just standing there being annoying.

But I do know this:

I showed up.

I told the truth.

I was myself.

I felt like Tina.

And one confusing detail does not get to take that away from me.

So for now, I am going to try to let Tuesday be what it was.

A normal day.

A taco day.

A spiral day.

A reminder that healing is not just about skin, scars, hair, energy, or medicine.

Sometimes healing is learning how to hope again without letting every unanswered question eat you alive.

And if all else fails?

There are tacos.

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💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time