My husband has colon cancer. We got the diagnosis a few months ago. In a matter of minutes, my perfectly planned future dissolved right in front of me, and I made a hard pivot to prioritize his treatment.

I drift between two paths: joy and security. The path to security may promise me control over unacceptable levels of risk, but complexity science and lived experience tell me it’s an empty promise. The path to joy doesn’t have to be unacceptably dangerous, but it will always be risky.

You’d think I’d know by now. No matter how meticulously I assemble plans for security, I inevitably encounter something that pulls a few Jenga pieces out of my tower and leaves me teetering on the edge of overwhelm.

But here’s my real frustration: The more energy I spend avoiding risk, the more drained and less satisfied I feel. Is exhaustion and emptiness my fate?

I decline to accept emptiness and exhaustion as the end of my story.

If I could pen a new chapter for myself, how would it read? How about something like this: Acceptable levels of risk in pursuit of joy. Flexible structures. Simple rules, rooted in principles not methods. Freedom to reanalyze, recalibrate, quit a few things, change a few things, and continue moving in the direction of my most noble intentions and purest desires.

And one better. Joy right now, in pursuit of flexible structures. Joy in the dance. Joy in the becoming. That’s a story I want to live in.