Making Friends with Uncertainty

Choosing peace over panic

Hello, friends!

When I imagine the landscape of my brain, I picture a sunny hillside where a small cavernous malformation glows modestly in the afternoon light. I've named her Buttercup.

I talked last week about my Christmas Eve diagnosis: I have a small inoperable mass in my brain that is pressing on my brain stem. Right now the pressing is causing migraines and is probably at least partly responsible for my vision issues. The mass may simply continue pressing on my brain stem for the rest of my life and I’ll get used to the migraines the same way I’ve gotten used to low vision. It’s equally possible that the mass will grow and press more on my brain stem, causing much more dramatic results, including paralysis and death. The location of the mass makes any surgery life-threatening, so there’s truly nothing to be done except live my life.

Given that reality, I named the mass Buttercup so I could talk and think about it (I actually think of Buttercup as a “her”) with loving-kindness. Medical terminology can feel cold and clinical. "Cavernous malformation" sounds ominous, like something from a horror movie rather than what it actually is: a small part of me that developed differently, a tiny cluster of blood vessels that decided to take their own unique path. I don’t like the path, but Buttercup is part of me and I want to love all of me, even when I don’t like parts of me.

I used a similar strategy in 2023 when I named my house Eleanor, which almost immediately made me feel less afraid of all the things that could go wrong with her. Being able to greet her by name when I come home makes me feel like we’re friends, in sync and in this together.

Since my diagnosis, people have asked me how I can make peace with something so completely beyond my control. Well, control is almost always an illusion anyway. I can't control Buttercup's presence or behavior, period. But I can choose how I respond to her existence. I could spend my days in fear, constantly wondering if today will be the day something changes. Instead, I've chosen to approach this situation with curiosity and loving-kindness.

Someone asked me if I thought my approach was naïve. After all, they said, isn't this a serious medical condition? Shouldn't I be more worried? But I don’t see how worry can serve me here. It doesn't change the reality of my situation, and it certainly doesn't make living with uncertainty any easier.

Instead, this practice of loving-kindness toward Buttercup lets me hold both acceptance and vigilance simultaneously. I will get my regular neurological check-ups, MRIs, and consultations. I will pay attention to any changes in my body or cognition. But I do so from a place of loving awareness rather than fear.

A few days ago, someone posted to Facebook a Ram Dass quote I had forgotten about: “whether this is the first day of the Apocalypse or the first day of the Golden Age, the work remains the same: to love each other and ease as much suffering as possible.” This wisdom resonates deeply with my journey with Buttercup. Whether she remains quietly glowing on her hillside or brings unexpected changes to my life, my work remains the same: to love, to stay open, to ease suffering where I can—including my own. There's profound peace in this simplicity. The path forward isn't about controlling outcomes or even knowing what comes next. It's about showing up with an open heart, again and again, for whatever each day brings.

In meditation practice, there's a concept called "making friends with yourself." When we stop fighting against what is, when we learn to hold even our difficulties with gentleness, something shifts. The path doesn't necessarily get easier, but it gets clearer. Each step becomes not about reaching a particular destination, but about walking with grace, with awareness, with as much kindness as we can muster.

Just as my house Eleanor is in it with me, Buttercup and I are in this together. We're like neighbors who share a wall—there's no point in feuding when we're stuck with each other. You can waste energy resenting your neighbor's wind chimes or choice of music, or you can wave hello and get on with your day. Buttercup is part of me, and I'd rather save my energy for living than spend it at war with myself.

I hope you’ll find value in what I share here, and if you do, please forward it to others. Let’s help each other along on this journey.

Onward, in hope and solidarity.
Elizabeth