My work used to make me sick. Not in the metaphorical sense of burnout or frustration—but in the literal, feverish, can't-get-out-of-bed sense. Whenever I threw myself into a piece of theatre—acting, directing, producing, or writing—I gave it 150%. And every time, like clockwork, my body gave out. The drive home from the closing performance would signal the start: a scratchy throat, aching muscles, and a headache pounding like an encore I never asked for. By the next day, I’d be down for the count, sick for a week, paying the price for my passion. I thought this cycle was normal. As a gifted student, I spent years being bussed out of my neighborhood to attend specialized academic programs, where excellence was the standard and rest was an afterthought. I learned early on to burn the candle at both ends, guided by my Daddy’s favorite adage: '"Anything worth doing at all is worth doing well."

But the truth was, I was far from well. Behind the scenes, I battled a cascade of health challenges: major depressive disorder, chronic pain and fatigue, uterine fibroids, heavy periods, hormonal imbalances, and relentless stress. And then came the diagnosis that upended everything—"The Big C"—Stage 2 breast cancer.

I was fortunate to have the privilege of taking a medical leave from my 9-to-5 job to navigate life as a cancer patient. But in those first weeks away from work, I felt untethered. Without the constant busyness that had defined me, I struggled with questions I couldn’t escape: Who was I if I wasn’t constantly doing? How could I be of value to my husband, my son, my family, and my colleagues while just sitting at home? And then, slowly, the answer emerged—I could focus on healing.

As I focused on healing, I began to reflect on why I had kept myself so relentlessly busy. The first reason was rooted in deficit thinking—the belief that I wasn’t enough unless I was doing enough. This mindset, shaped by the lessons of my hard-working Nigerian immigrant parents, taught me that I had to work twice as hard to earn what I deserved as a dark-skinned Black woman. I had watched my parents be diminished, disrespected, and dismissed, subjected to stereotypes based on their accents and country of origin. I, too, experienced prejudice firsthand from my white and Asian peers in my gifted and talented classes. To push back against these biases, I chose to let my grades, awards, and accomplishments define me in ways that my identity alone could not.

The second reason I kept myself so busy was that it had been ingrained in me as the ultimate marker of success for an artist. To be "booked and busy" meant I was valuable. A full schedule signaled that I was liked, respected, and talented. In an industry where underpayment is the norm, staying busy was my way of avoiding the dreaded "starving artist" label. After all, I was sharing my gifts with the world and making an impact.

But cancer forced my life into stillness. In that quiet, I noticed the silence of artistic colleagues who knew I was sick but never reached out. I felt the emptiness of achievements that once seemed so important when my health was on the line. Slowly, I shifted my focus inward, embracing the profound value of family and spirituality over the external validation I once chased. As Ancestor Ntozake Shange so beautifully said, "I found God in myself and I loved her."

I began to savor the silence, spending quiet moments on my deck, bird-watching as the warm sun beamed down on my smooth, bald head. I discovered my quirks and learned how to care for myself in ways I never had before. I let myself weep when I needed to and reached out to loved ones instead of retreating into isolation as I once did. With each limitation, I uncovered unexpected blessings. I began documenting the ups and downs of my cancer journey and sharing them online, which connected me to a strong community of supporters who lifted me up during hard times and celebrated every health milestone with me. I embraced wellness practices, incorporating daily breathwork and Kundalini yoga into my routine. These techniques not only helped me manage my chronic pain but also brought me a newfound sense of balance and peace. Remarkably, my skin glowed, and I looked and felt better during cancer treatment than I had in years. I also joined a spiritual community that became my tribe. Despite chemotherapy draining my energy and white blood cells, I found myself feeling surprisingly well.

I often think back to the saying my Daddy repeated throughout my life: "Anything worth doing at all is worth doing well." For so long, I believed that meant striving for perfection, chasing an unattainable ideal. I misunderstood what "well" truly meant. Now, I’ve redefined it for myself:

I am well when I rest and sleep, when I speak my truths, vulnerable and deep. I am well when drinking water, enjoying fresh fruits, when I weep to release pain at its roots. I am well when I pray, trusting God with joy, when I find peace no struggle can destroy. I am well when I stand and advocate, when I honor my health and elevate. I am well when I pause to breathe and read, when I turn lead into gold through alchemy. I am well when I say, "I am well," aloud, when my words bring healing and hope abounds. I am well because through pain, God is revealing my purpose, my path, my reason for being.

On days chemotherapy left me weak, I was well. On the days breast and colorectal cancers made my cousin, Nancy, and sister-friend, Risikat, deceased, I was well. On the days when I couldn't eat because nausea had overtaken me, I was well. On the days I cried because a close friend wouldn't visit me, I was well. On the day my breasts were removed for my double mastectomy, I was well. On the days radiation therapy burned and fatigued me, I was well. On the day I forgave those who hurt me, I was well. On the day, I learned cancer was no longer in my body, I was well. I was well. I am well. Life is worth doing, even when faced with hell.

Through every trial, and every moment of despair, I found a deeper understanding of myself, my purpose, and my strength. I finally understand my Daddy’s words: "Anything worth doing at all is worth doing well." To me now, “well” isn’t about perfection or relentless striving. It’s about living fully—embracing the quiet moments, honoring my health, nurturing my spirit, and finding joy even in the midst of pain.

Wellness is not a destination; it’s a practice. It’s in how we choose to live, heal, and love, even when life feels impossible. It’s in the resilience to keep going, the courage to face our truths, and the grace to grow through it all.

I am well because I am alive. And that, in itself, is worth doing well.