On Monday night, I held my first conversation group at the American Cancer Society’s Hope Lodge in New York City. Cancer patients and their caregivers stay there for free while the patients receive treatment in New York. My twice-a-month conversation groups are a safe space where any of the patients and caregivers can come to talk about anything that’s on their minds. I bring homemade baked goods, coloring supplies, and a willingness to listen. On Monday, a lovely group of volunteers from the skincare company La Roche-Posay also provided dinner for everyone so our 1-hour group turned into a 3-hour group.
As a cancer survivor, I’ve been searching for a way to give back and help other people on their healing journey. I love talking with people, hearing their stories, and helping them work through challenges (if help is what they need). I was very lucky to survive cancer and regain my health. This is my way of supporting others as they rise.
We’ve all had those moments when we just don’t know what to do. I felt that way on the morning of November 6th. Then I read the quote above on Leta McCollough Seletzky’s Threads feed, and it really struck me.
This is what I know how to do:
Be curious
Listen
Synthesize and weave together information
Tell stories
Nurture myself and others
It’s no wonder when the reality of the election results set it, these are the exact things I began to do. Now that we’re preparing for a future that’s so uncertain, consider what you know how to do, what you like to do, what you’re good at, and what motivates you to keep going. Do those things where you are with what you have right now.
There will be no shortage of those who need help and no shortage of the things they’ll need help doing. What you know how to do will be needed by someone somewhere. We’re all in this movement together. More tomorrow…
Do you know the story of the Rose of Jericho, also known as resurrection plant and flower of stone?
When subjected to drought, the plant curls inward into a tight ball. It can survive in this state for several years, losing 95% of its water. As it dries out, it produces a type of sugar to protect its cells from damage. It looks as if it’s dead, but it’s not. It’s just conserving its energy and waiting for more favorable conditions to arise.
If the drought goes on for an extended period of time, the plant may detach its roots and physically tumble to a new location. Once it comes in contact with even a small amount of water, the sugars and accumulated salts dissolve, it re-roots in its new location if it’s traveled, and the plant revives itself, carrying on with life as if nothing has happened.
What fascinates me most is that it produces that sugar to protect itself so it can flourish when the hard times pass. Also, it doesn’t force itself to stay put during difficulty. It takes action. It detaches its roots in search of nourishment and resources elsewhere.
As we look to the days ahead, what resources do you need to take care of yourself so you can flourish in the future? Can you make them? Can you get them from where you are? If not, where can you go to get what you need? These are crucial questions to ask now so we’re able to buffer ourselves during hard times and also be ready to revive ourselves during more favorable times. More tomorrow…
I want to tell you a story about darkness and light. When I was diagnosed with cancer, and when almost died from cancer treatment (twice), it was often difficult to see beyond the darkness. I was standing in the crucible. At one point a lethal, unknown allergy to a chemo drug shattered my lungs and I was suffocating. We were deep in the pandemic in New York City before vaccines. The attending physician wanted to intubate me in the ICU, surrounded by COVID patients. At that time, being intubated was almost certainly a death sentence.
The ICU nurse insisted we try two more types of bedside respirators. “You have 10 minutes,” yelled the attending physician. “If her oxygen number doesn’t go up, I’m taking her to the ICU.” I had 10 minutes to save my life.
The nurse smiled at me. She tried the first machine. We waited. It didn’t work.
The nurse’s smile shrank. We tried the second machine. We waited. I looked at the ceiling. I called my ancestors. They were there. Not to intervene, only to catch me if it was my time to crossover. In that moment, all I wanted was my dog and the people I love. Love was all that mattered. Love was the secret to living, and it took possible death to teach me that.
I looked at the attending’s face. Her eyes grew wider. Her mouth fell open. I looked at the nurse; her smile had returned.
“Holy sh*t,” said the attending.
My numbers were climbing. The attending left the room.
“I’ll be back to check on you throughout the night and we’ll be monitoring you from the desk just outside the door,” the nurse said as she placed the call button in my hand. “If you need anything, press this button.”
I nodded. The nurse left the room. My ancestors smiled and walked back over a hill.
“Not today, Death,” I thought. “Not today.”
When we’re deep in the darkness, we can only see our way forward if we raise our light and take one step at a time. Maybe that’s where you are right now. Things look dark. You can’t find a lamp. It turns out the light isn’t out there; it’s in you and the people around you. We are lights to each other. We can’t see the whole path, and that’s okay. Step by step, we’ll get there, together.
In the days ahead, I want you to hang on to that image of raising our light and being on the path together the way I hang on to what happened to me in 2020 in that hospital room when I was 10 minutes from death. Call your ancestors, friends, therapist, neighbors, religious leaders, and anyone in your community who is a light. We have a lot of challenges ahead to work on together and meeting them is going to take all of us being at our best. Take care of yourself now so we can take are of each other tomorrow. You got this, and I’ve got you. More tomorrow…
I process my grief through writing, and I thought it might be helpful to process all of this together. In the coming days, I’ll share stories that I hope inspire and heal you in the days, weeks, and months ahead. If you need to cocoon and not look at screens for a while, I understand. If you’re looking for something to read that could be a light in the darkness, I want to provide that for you. Please know you’re not alone in any of this. More soon…
Prospect Park, Brooklyn. Photo taken by Christa Avampato.
Prospect Park, Brooklyn – Fall 2024. Photo by Christa Avampato.
On this difficult day, I have some things to say about gratitude, storytelling and leadership. Hundreds of thousands of people heeded the call ~100 days ago to not do something but do everything to try to help Vice President and Governor Walz win. I’m sorry neither of them took the stage at Howard University last night to say thank you, so I will. I’m abundantly grateful to all of you, and for everything you taught me during this campaign. You showed up, generously giving your money, time, and talents. That means a lot to me. You mean a lot to me.
On leadership: It was a huge missed opportunity that they didn’t address supporters and the nation last night. Even though we didn’t know the final count, it was important to say something, anything, and then say they’d be back today to say more. We needed them, and they left without saying a word. That’s not leadership. It doesn’t matter how disappointed they were. We’re all disappointed. They had a real opportunity to maintain a connection with people and they didn’t. They went out the back door and sent the campaign manager to talk to the crowd at Howard and the nation. Vice President Harris will deliver remarks at Howard University today at 4pm. That’s too late. They missed the moment. And sadly, tragically, their opponents didn’t. There’s a lesson in that for us, too. Leaders have to lead, even when they lose. Especially when they lose.
On storytelling: We have to take a long, hard look in the mirror, and at the words we said and didn’t say in this campaign. We need to meet the audience where they are, listen, understand, and work together to craft a better story for all of us. We didn’t do that and the election results show it. How things have been done on campaigns in the past no longer matters because we’re no longer living in the time of “how things are done.” We need better stories and methods. We need to be better listeners and storytellers. Plato said, “Those who tell stories rule society.” That’s true then and true now.
So that’s my focus moving forward – leadership and storytelling. I’ll stay curious, keep learning, improve my craft, and get better. I’ll continue to “be a lamp, or a lifeboat, or a ladder,” as Rumi so beautifully said. I will continue to, “walk out of my house like a shepherd” every single day. I will listen and love. I hope you’ll join me.
These are more energizing scenes from my long weekend of canvassing in New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania with Senator Cory Booker, Sue Altman, Mondaire Jones, and for Vice President Kamala Harris and Governor Tim Walz.
Now election day is here! My heart is full of hope. The great Congressman John Lewis said so beautifully, “Freedom isn’t a state; it’s an act.” So is democracy. So is joy.
Voting is how we reaffirm and recommit to our well-being, to each other, to the world, and for our collective future. It is how we evolve this grand experiment of a country. It is, like our favorite characters in novels and throughout history, deeply flawed and deeply loved. Today is the day we exercise our right to make it better for all of us. Please vote.
With everything happening in the world now, hope may feel in short supply. I’ve got something that will help. I had the honor of being a guest on the Art Heals All Wounds podcast with host Pam Uzzell.
During our conversation, I share my journey from growing up on a rural apple farm amidst adversity to becoming a climate advocate. I talk about my passion for reshaping the narratives and storytelling around sustainability and human design, and how my process of healing from cancer in the depths of the pandemic gave me perspective on healing the planet and the collective responsibility we all share for our planet’s future. This echos what the climate scientist, Dr. Michael Mann, calls “channeling dooming into doing.”
I also make the case for kindness (especially in urban settings), the urgency of transitioning to clean energy, and my plans for fostering environmental restoration, rewilding, and community engagement so we grow stronger together. Thank you, Pam, for the opportunity to talk about everything I love.
Crawl into one that looks inviting. Take a few deep breaths. Relax your face, neck, and shoulders. These scenes and this music are easy on all the senses. Even a few minutes of conscious relaxation will do wonders for your mind, body, and spirit. After some rest, you’ll bring a whole new perspective to your to-do list.
You’re doing the best you can. It’s okay to rest for a bit. Take care of you so you can take care of others.
Me today — 4 years post-surgery — outside of Perlmutter Cancer Center in New York City
Sunday marked 4 years since the bilateral mastectomy that removed cancer from my body and saved my life. I dropped off my absentee ballot for the election on October 26th, 2020 during early voting and in the depths of the pandemic before vaccines. The next day I went to NYU Langone Medical Center. The surgery was long and difficult. The recovery was painful. The many months of treatment and two additional surgeries, life-threatening setbacks, and healing were even worse. I didn’t know about any of that when I arrived at the hospital that day. All I knew then was I wanted to live, and I might not. My only goal was to wake up from that surgery and see the sunrise. And I did. Step 1, done.
After I woke up from anesthesia, I watched Harry Potter on my iPad, trying to invoke some kind of magic of my own. My angel nurse, Esther, ran all over the hospital to find me a sandwich since meal service had ended. To this day, that ordinary turkey sandwich was the best damn thing I’ve ever eaten. Then she showed me how to care for the 4 drains coming out of my body, a necessary evil after an extensive surgery.
When Dr. Schnabel, my surgeon, came to visit me, I thanked her for saving my life. Neither of us could see each other’s smiles because we were both double-masked. I remember her eyes looking deep into mine. “I’m just part of the team. Everyone in this hospital has one goal — to get you up and over the mountain. It won’t always feel like this. Someday you’re going to be very grateful you chose to take the hard road today.”
My friend, Marita, picked me up at the hospital and gave me the gentlest of hugs. I had a giant bag of meds. “How do you feel?” she asked me once I was settled into her car. I said, “I don’t know.”
Marita drove me home and handed me off to my sister, who dropped her whole life in Florida to take care of me (and my dog). My next goal was to be able to walk around my neighborhood by Halloween with my dog dressed as a pumpkin and my sister to see all the decorations and find some joy in my favorite season. Step 2, done.
My next goals — stay alive, restore my health, and thrive. Steps 3, 4, and 5, done, done, and a daily process.
I went for my annual check-up with my surgeon this morning. All clear! It happened to fall on the anniversary of that conversation we had about the choice to take the hard road. As I walked to the subway to head home in the sunshine, I thought about how right she was — she’s always right. I don’t feel the way I felt 4 years ago. Today, I’m hopeful and thankful for all of it, even cancer. We got up and over that mountain. There are so many people who made this trek possible. I was never alone in it. There were angels, guides, and teachers everywhere. There still are. The journey continues, and I’m very grateful for that.
Below: images from four years ago pre- and post-surgery.
Christa Avampato 