Rebirth & Reconnection:
My Journey with Cancer

Dana Byerlee

This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to write. So it’s exactly what I must write.

In 2015, I was thirty-four years old. I completed six rounds of chemotherapy for breast cancer, had a mastectomy in which my left breast was removed, and underwent a couple months of radiation.

The year 2015 was also the best year of my life. I know. Inconceivable, but true.

For me, cancer has been a catalyst for rebirth and reconnection to the deepest, most sacred parts of life. It’s demolished so many of the paradigms, archetypes, and cultural expectations I unwittingly bought in and forever broke open my heart, which for years had been so closed.

The backbone of all this has been yoga. My yoga practice and, most importantly, the incredible friends I’ve met from the yoga community gave me the tools and love to not only cope physically and emotionally but also cross that bridge to letting cancer become a spiritual experience. Because it is. Everything is. Triangle pose, washing the dishes pose, having an IV put in you pose … Whatever you’re doing, we can let this practice of life continuously change us, break us, and remold us anew.

Planting Seeds for the Future

Yoga came into my life when I moved from New York City to Santa Monica. My boyfriend at the time suggested we try it, and I rolled my eyes. Typical California hippie stuff, I thought. But I was curious and we went to Travis Eliot’s Power Yoga class prepared to do some easy stretching. Needless to say, I got humbled very quickly. It became quite clear I hadn’t touched some key muscles since I was a kid, and worst of all, I left confused and angry. I had spent the whole class looking around the room, comparing myself to what other people were doing, and beating myself up for not being stronger or more flexible. But something Travis had said really stuck with me: How can we handle the big challenges of life if we can’t stand on our yoga mat without freaking out?

And so I came back.

For years I came to yoga on and off, never practicing consistently. I’d abandon it for months, once even a year, but something always kept pulling me back. I had to admit, there seemed to be a correlation between my time on the mat and the quality of both my inner and outer life. Then one day, somewhat spontaneously, I signed up for Travis and Lauren Eckstrom’s 200-hour teacher training. I had no idea that this would be one of the most important and best decisions of my life.

We opened teacher training with a circle to get to know each other, and immediately I felt that these were the kind of people I wanted, needed, in my life. Travis and Lauren said over the next few months we would come to find that yoga is more than just asana, that it’s a whole system for living a holistically healthy life, and that some of these new faces in the room would become our lifelong friends. And that’s exactly what happened.

I started to become in touch with and aware of my body in ways I never knew possible. After a lifetime suffering with anxiety, I learned how to breathe and better self-regulate. And my heart and mind started to open, as we had some of the most incredible discussions and shared our experiences.

Teacher training finished in June. And then one soul-wrenching meeting in a doctor’s office that September, and I was off getting second opinions, weighing my options, and entering a world I never wanted to know. I was told it would be over a year before I was done with all the treatments and surgery. It seemed insurmountable.

Yet in the midst of the terror, I also heard a wisdom telling me if I listened, if I let myself feel the totality of this experience, this could be the most profound experience of my life. I also had a knowing that I had everything I needed, and I understood the miraculous timing of this all. Just a few months before, I had been drawn to that teacher training, at that time and with that particular group of people for a reason. I had been shown the tools to ground through challenging situations, to see beyond the face value of things, and had practiced being physically uncomfortable.

I thought, Okay, so this will be the ultimate practice. A year-long master class. This is the time to level up and take this yoga practice off the mat. I decided I would show up to this cancer experience as best I could because, why not? This is it. This is my life, right here, right now, and I don’t want to miss another moment more of it.

Life in the Slow Lane

I hate chair pose, especially twisting chair pose. I have to get so focused when I practice this, mindfully surrender and become immersed in my breath, and remind myself it’s just temporary. In a few moments, chair will be over, life will go on.

Naively, I had thought I’d be able to keep working during treatment. Heck, I even thought I’d still be able to go on a yoga retreat to Peru for New Year’s! But after that first round of treatment it became clear that for me, the sickness of chemo was like being in twisting chair … twenty-four hours a day, for an entire week. And you can’t come out of it to take a break. Chemo pose ends when it says it ends, and you can either fight it (which believe me I tried) or learn to surrender into its dark, time-warped place, letting the chemicals do their job. And just like that, I was on disability. Just the word: Disability. Disabled. Me? I had just been doing pushups in chaturanga the week before. My whole life I’d been neurotically obsessed with achieving, perfecting, pushing, and being busy … and now my only job was to simply be.

I’d had a daily meditation practice since teacher training, usually ten minutes or so, but now I spent day in and day out tuning in and going deep. I explored loving-kindness, chakra alignment, zazen, and mantra-based meditations, but I especially fell in love with yoga nidra, or “yogic sleep” induced by breath and body-scanning. I was amazed at what a powerful game-changer meditation is, and, for me, it totally blew asana away. This was something I could do anywhere, anytime, and it helped me learn to approach confronting moments with more curiosity, objectivity, and mindfulness.

By slowing down, I felt the world come alive again. I was able to see miracles that had always been right under my nose. A cup of sorbet tasted so incredible it blew my mind and brought tears to my eyes. Such a simple thing, not necessary but so delightful, and I understood the real meaning of luxury and was overwhelmed with gratitude. I’d go out after some rare SoCal rain and stand in the middle of the sidewalk, taking in the smell of wet leaves and grass, and cry with amazement. Between treatments I’d set my alarm early, just so I could wake up and lie in bed to take in the incredible luxury of not feeling sick, soaking up that early morning cozy.

Where had I been all these years? It’s like I was a kid again, and had suddenly woken up from a twenty-year slumber. Even during these hard times, I felt like the luckiest person in the world.

Only What Remains Is True

During 2015, everything I associated with my identity was stripped away. Not only was I unable to work, but I also ended a ten-year relationship right in the middle of treatment. And for the first time, I felt terrifyingly uncomfortable in my own skin. I had always been pretty happy with my physical appearance. Maybe even a little vain. Naturally thin and toned, with long thick hair that always got compliments, I’d look at myself in the mirror clothed or naked and think, Wow, I really lucked out. I garnered a great deal of confidence, self-worth, and security knowing I met society’s expectations of what a woman should look like.

But quickly after treatment that all changed. My appetite was affected and I went from thin to skinny. Though I used something called “Cold Caps” to keep some of my hair, I still had to watch it come out in clumps each day, until it became super thin. I dreaded going out in public and would spend hours crying before leaving. Even at home I wasn’t comfortable. I didn’t want to see myself in the mirror, and I couldn’t shower or dress with the lights on. I didn’t want to see my breasts, and I soon became afraid to even touch them.

Asking for help was the scariest and most humbling thing in the world. No longer could I put on my fake Wonder Woman mask and pretend to be okay. After much resistance, my dear friend from teacher training and fellow survivor persuaded me to let people sign up for giving rides, bringing meals, and just checking in and spending time. Letting others into these tender and vulnerable moments was absolutely incredible, and my yoga crew rallied and showed me a depth of love and caring I didn’t even know was possible. I was so used to relying on the long-standing social-currency I usually offered—my resume, looks, being someone’s girlfriend. But these people didn’t care. They didn’t care that I had no job or title or moved slowly or what I looked like. They seemed to be happy just spending time with me. They were somehow able to see me beyond these messy circumstances. I was shocked. For the first time in my life, I started to think maybe, just maybe, who I am as a person is enough.

Soul Remembrance

I was so excited when chemo was over and will never forget the night I found out that the latest MRI showed the cancer was gone, fully resolved. But my joy was short-lived. One of the worst days of my life was the day I sat in a room with my whole team of doctors and they told me that they could not save my breast where the tumor had been. Too much of the tissue had been affected and I would have to have an implant. I was beyond devastated. What would it feel like? What would people think? How could I ever be intimate with a guy again? I had thought all these body issues would be a temporary thing, that soon everything would be back to normal.

I spent a week in a dark, dark place and cried bitterly when I heard women on the street talking about plastic surgery as they walked by with their beautiful, healthy breasts. It took all my control to not turn around, pin them against the wall, and scream, “Do you know how lucky you are? I’d give anything to have what you do right now. Who told you your healthy body isn’t good enough?” But I knew. The same marketing I’d heard since I was a kid that a woman’s value and beauty is based on her appearance. The same voice that had whispered to me at the start of all this that without a good job title or a strong body able to do headstands that no one would want to hang out with me. And finally I truly saw through this bullshit once and for all.

After my surgery, a friend said something I’ll never forget: “Dana, implant or not, there’s nothing you could ever do to not be a woman. Everything about you exudes the feminine. That’s your innate energy, and nothing can change that.” And that day I looked around my support group of women, many with double mastectomies and still-short, growing hair. There was absolutely nothing unfeminine about them. In fact, they radiated shakti, that strong, divine female energy, in a way I hadn’t truly noticed before. I realized a woman or man isn’t defined by their form. It’s their essence.

I had a sudden deeper understanding for the far too many people who are marginalized every day. Whether it’s for looks, race, income level, physical ability, sexuality, or age, so many of our fellow women and men are told that they don’t deserve to be seen and are treated like ghosts. But who we are is beyond any form we could ever take. Our bodies are simply our vessels to move about in this world. Who we are is that prana, that life-force energy, flowing through us. Who we are cannot be seen with the eyes. And incredibly, now with one fake breast, I started to feel more feminine than I ever had, and my heart burst open even more with compassion and love.

Rest Is the New Hustle

As I was both forced and consciously moved to take the pressure off myself, one of the things that changed was my physical asana practice. Before cancer, I usually stuck to power yoga, generally muscling my way through class. I wanted to nail every pose and refused myself breaks. But when I was tired from treatment and rebuilding mobility after surgery, I learned to show myself more compassion. I said to myself one day, “Well, now you have an excuse to skip vinyasas, or go into child’s pose whenever you want.” Yikes. That had always been an option! But with this new permission, asana really took a leap from just a workout to a healing practice. I listened to my body. I moved to open and heal and strengthen—not to prove something. I was so grateful to be on my mat doing anything and began to think of each movement, even something as simple as a forward bend, as a prayer. I fell madly in love with the sweetness of gentle flows and the magic of restorative yoga. Breath by breath, these practices combined with meditation slowly but surely helped me come back into my body, break down the fear of seeing my post-surgery self in the mirror, and of touching my chest.

My practice has never been the same since. Even today, on the other side of all this, my practice is much more balanced, and so much more personalized. I still do power yoga, but I don’t hurry or force. I breathe and move more slowly. I challenge myself when my body, not my mind or ego, encourages me to. And dammit, I take breaks. But now the majority of my practice is gentle, yin, and restorative. Personally, I think I am not alone in my changing practice. The fitness world tends to push high-intensity, yang energy activities like Box-n-Burn, Soul Cycle, and Power Yoga. I love all these things. But people’s bodies and minds need balance. All the great athletes know we need time to quiet, repair, and rebuild. In Los Angeles, I notice an increasing interest in gentle, yin, and restorative yoga, as well as meditation and sound baths, and I fully expect this trend to continue and expand.

Embracing the Paradox

I have a whole list of “Best Cancer Moments.” It’s pages long now, and includes things from my dad gently washing what was left of my hair in the sink, to the miracle of letting that sweet sorbet melt in my mouth. I think the most important thing I’ve learned is that nothing is black or white, horrible or good. Contained in every moment, even the most heartbreaking and frightening, there lives a whole paradoxical kaleidoscope of every emotion and feeling, vast and expansive with a vibrant sweetness at the core.

So, 2015 was awful. And magical. And awe-inspiring. But mostly full of so much love. A kind of love for which there is no language, that can feel too much for a human to hold, and that I now know pulses through and unites everything. Everything, person, interaction can become our upaguru—Sanskrit for “the teacher right beside you.” So don’t look away. Don’t avert your eyes. We weren’t meant to stay trapped in a binary frost of black and white. Only by opening ourselves up to all of life, including the messy, scary, frightening, and heartbreaking, can we finally breathe in technicolor.

Dana Byerlee is a writer, yoga and meditation teacher, and cancer survivor based in Los Angeles. Yoga has been key to her journey of healing, reclaiming her body, and deep spiritual growth. Dana is passionate about lifestyle and preventative medicine and believes that together the world-wide yoga community can affect radical, positive change. Visit her at www.danabyerlee.com.

Author photo by Rachael Thompson Photography.

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