The Great Car Shuffle

The Great Car Shuffle

🌼 Date: Saturday, August 15, 2026

⚡ Energy: Summer car excitement

💗 Status: Convertible coming out of storage

🥰 Outlook: One step closer to Tina again

Today was the great car shuffle.

What is the great car shuffle, you ask?

Well.

I am spoiled.

There. I said it.

I have a winter car for when the weather is bad, and she is amazing in the snow and ice.

She is practical.

Reliable.

Responsible.

Very “adult woman making smart choices.”

But right now?

It is summer.

And summer means the convertible gets to come out of storage.

Finally.

Both cars were tucked away back in October after I was diagnosed and had surgery.

And honestly, that feels like a whole lifetime ago.

October Tina was heading into surgery.

October Tina did not know exactly what chemo would feel like.

October Tina did not know about radiation burns, lymphedema sleeves, neuropathy, expanders, deflations, refills, Lupron shots, eye drops, warm compresses, two-pound weights, or the emotional circus that would become Cancerland.

October Tina put the cars away because everything was about to change.

And it did.

Everything changed.

But today, the convertible came out.

Which, of course, is not as simple as just opening the garage door and saying, “Come on out, pretty girl.”

No.

That would be too easy.

There is a whole production involved.

The three cars in the carport have to be moved over to the left.

One of them has to go into the garage where the convertible was parked.

Everything has to be shifted just right.

It is basically automotive Tetris.

But with more keys.

And probably more opinions.

And somehow, every time we do it, it makes me excited.

Because the convertible coming out of storage is not just about a car.

Not really.

It is about hope.

It is about summer.

It is about freedom.

It is about feeling the air and the sun and remembering that there is still a life outside of appointments, treatment, medical portals, and waiting rooms.

It is about looking outside and seeing a piece of myself sitting there.

A piece of normal.

A piece of joy.

A piece of Tina.

There is something about having that car where I can see it every time I go outside that makes me feel lighter.

Like maybe I am getting closer.

Closer to healing.

Closer to living.

Closer to becoming myself again.

Not the exact same version, of course.

We have already established that factory settings are not happening.

Tina 2.0 is still loading.

There are scars now.

There are chest rocks.

There are hormone blockers.

There are limits.

There are boundaries.

There is a body that still needs naps, stretches, eye drops, and a whole maintenance schedule nobody warned me about.

But there is also a convertible.

And sometimes healing looks like that.

Not dramatic.

Not medical.

Not something that shows up on a lab report.

Just a car coming out of storage.

Just a little summer joy parked where I can see it.

Just a reminder that cancer did not take everything.

It took a lot.

It changed a lot.

It interrupted almost everything.

But it did not take the part of me that gets excited about a clean car, a sunny day, and the possibility of putting the top down.

The convertible is back.

And maybe that means a little more of me is back too.

Not all at once.

Not perfectly.

Not without a few complicated parking maneuvers.

But back enough to feel hope when I see her sitting there.

Back enough to smile.

Back enough to think:

There she is.

The car.

And maybe me too.

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One Badass Day at a Time