Don’t Deceive Your Free Will

This morning I took the longest walk I have managed since my life-saving surgery, and even that simple act carried a quiet sense of victory that only someone recovering from a major physical ordeal can truly understand. The sun was bright, the breeze moved easily, and for the first time in a while, my body felt willing to move a little farther than it had the day before. When you have been physically weakened, progress does not arrive dramatically; it reveals itself in increments, a few more steps, a slightly deeper breath, a little more endurance, until one morning you realize you have walked farther than you thought you could. 1,870 steps!

I had my headphones on while I walked, and a song by Yes came through. They are not necessarily one of my favorite bands, but every band has its moment, and for some reason, today it worked. Owner of a Lonely Heart started playing, and as I moved forward down the sidewalk, the lyrics began to land with an almost uncanny relevance.

“Move yourself, you always live your life, never thinking of the future.
Prove yourself, you are the move you make.”

Hearing those lines while carefully walking farther than I have since surgery made me laugh quietly to myself. Recovery has a way of slowing life down enough that you become acutely aware of the mechanics of existence. Walking is no longer something automatic; it becomes a deliberate collaboration between mind and body. Each step is a small agreement that says: we are still here, and we are still moving.

“Take your chances, win or lose.
See yourself, you are the steps you take.”

And suddenly, the lyrics reminded me of another time in my life when walking felt uncertain.

In January 2021, I mistakenly gave myself pneumonia in the most ridiculous way imaginable. I had used an old sinus irrigation bottle that had been sitting around for years, if I’m being honest, filled it with tap water, and, without thinking too deeply about the consequences, used it. At the time, I was also in the middle of a long-term relationship breakup and was not exactly operating at my most attentive or emotionally grounded state. Grief has a way of distracting you from common sense.

The pneumonia that followed was severe enough that I eventually found myself at a pulmonologist’s office doing physical therapy, emaciated, weak, and frightened in a way that only illness can make a person frightened. I remember wondering, very seriously, whether I would ever return to the physical strength I once had. Running, which had always been effortless for me, suddenly felt like something that might belong only to my past.

But slowly, almost quietly, my body began rebuilding itself. I remember walking again during the Connecticut springtime, when the air was still cool, and the trees were just beginning to wake up after winter. Those walks felt symbolic in a way that is difficult to describe. I felt like a phoenix rising from the ashes of something that had nearly destroyed me. Each day, my lungs worked a little better, my strength returned a little more, and eventually, the fear that my body had permanently failed me began to dissolve.

This morning’s walk reminded me of that exact period in my life.

Standing here again after surgery, once again measuring progress in steps rather than miles, once again listening carefully to the signals my body is sending me, I realized that I am witnessing the same pattern unfold. The body wants to heal. Given even the smallest opportunity, it begins organizing itself toward repair and recovery.

And this time the experience has brought another realization with it, one that is both uncomfortable and strangely empowering.

I used to think I was healthy.

I bought organic food and took excellent supplements. did Pilates, and I lifted weights. On the surface, it appeared that I was doing many of the right things. But looking back honestly now, I realize that my relationship with food itself was not mindful at all. I ate without much thought about what I was actually giving my body. I would alternate between reasonably healthy meals and comfort foods, using food as a psychological cushion while the tumor in my abdomen aggressively grew.

I told myself stories to justify it because I deserved the comfort. I was going through a difficult time while I was waiting for my insurance to activate so that I could finally make an appointment with a surgeon. The situation was stressful, and food became one of the ways I coped with that stress.

So even while I believed I was healthy, I was also throwing whatever felt comforting down my throat without truly considering the nutritional environment I was creating inside my own body. Looking back now, it feels almost surreal.

Today, my relationship with food looks completely different. I am mindful in a way I never was before. I eat steamed vegetables seasoned with garlic and turmeric. I consume protein through simple shakes and high-quality meats, avoiding red meat as my holistic doctor instructed, while building an alkaline body. Instead of using food as emotional relief, I am using it as a deliberate tool to support healing.

It is a completely different mindset.

The tumor is gone, and now the work is about creating an internal environment where disease cannot easily return, where the body is supported rather than burdened by what I give it. I have to kill any random malignant cells that may have dropped off the necrotized tumor that may have fallen into my pelvis.

But this time, there is an added awareness. Before, I thought I was healthy. Now I understand that I was only partially healthy, performing many healthy behaviors while still neglecting the deeper relationship between nourishment and the body’s ability to protect itself. Now I am actually participating in my health.

And as the song reached its final lines while I finished my walk, the lyrics felt less like background music and more like a quiet instruction.

“Don’t deceive your free will at all.
Don’t deceive your free will at all.
Just receive it.”

Perhaps that is the real lesson.

Life does not guarantee that we will avoid illness, heartbreak, or upheaval. But we do have a certain agency in how we participate in our own healing, in the choices we make once we recognize what our bodies truly need. This morning’s walk reminded me that the story is still unfolding.

And once again, step by step, the phoenix is rising with yet more lessons on how to actually support my body and live.