Ahimsa in Transition ~ A Kind Beginning

7–11 minutes

Yoga Through Cancer: A Sacred Return to Self ~ A Companion Series by Leora

Marking the end of chemotherapy and a gentle reprieve before the next phase of treatment, this reflection honors the yogic principle of Ahimsa… nonviolence, as a compass for renewal. As summer arrives and plans for a joyful family reunion in California unfold, this piece holds space for tenderness, softness, and return as I contemplates the importance of easing back into life with intentional self-care, social reconnection, and the warmth of sunlit rituals.

Reflection ~

There’s a long-awaited return to California on the horizon.

This June, I’ll reunite with my brothers and sister, loves that I haven’t seen in far too long, and meet new members of our family for the first time. It feels like a homecoming I didn’t even know I needed until it came into view. A gathering stitched together not by obligation, but by something tender and true. A constellation of lives that have orbited one another in love, loss, distance, and grace, and are now coming together in the light of the California sun and God.

For me, this reunion is a box of jewels. Each person, a facet of something known and something unknown. There will be stories to hear, laughter that only comes from shared blood and time, and maybe a few moments of quiet recognition, those soul-deep nods that say, I see you. I remember something in you. I know you.

It’s not lost on me that this reunion comes at the edge of transition, between chemo and surgery, between solitude and summer, between one version of myself and another. It feels like a gift. A marker. A reminder that healing doesn’t only happen in the stillness of ritual or the silence of a bath. Sometimes, healing happens at the table. In the sound of a sibling’s voice. In the warmth of a making shared memories. In the courage to be seen again.

We’ll gather in Northern California, near Sacramento. A region of golden hills and wide skies that hold their own kind of memory. I can already feel the shift in the air just imagining it, the dry heat of inland summer, the rustle of oaks, the way twilight stretches a little longer over the valley.

There’s something quietly sacred about returning to a place where the land itself feels familiar, even if the people around the table are new and still revealing themselves. I’m not walking into this reunion with expectations… only with openness and a smile. A willingness to let each connection unfold on its own terms. A curiosity for who we’ve all become.

After months shaped by hospital walls, infusion chairs, and the slow rituals of survival, this trip feels like a ceremony of another kind. Marked by laughter over picnic tables. The joy of passing plates. The gentle hum of stories being passed between generations. The celebration of breaking bread with my bloodline.

I plan to bring my whole self to it, not the tired shell of illness, but the woman who has made it through. I will sit beneath the trees and let the sun touch my skin again. I will receive the hugs. I will listen, ask, laugh, and maybe even dance.

Family, This will be part of my healing and I hope I can be part of theirs in some small way.

These siblings, my brothers and sister, have only recently come into my life. We’ve known of each other longer than we’ve truly known each other. Five years, give or take. A short time in the grand stretch of a lifetime, yet something about it feels ancient. Like finding pieces of yourself that had been scattered across lifetimes, different stories, now slowly, lovingly being gathered.

We share a father, though we were raised in different homes, by different mothers. And while our father remains distant, lost in a world I do not fully understand, unwilling or unable to participate, with the love and encouragement of our mothers, we as siblings, have found each other. That is the soft miracle in all of this. The sorrow does not eclipse the love. The loss of one connection has only illuminated the depth of another.

There is sadness, yes. A quiet grief for the father who keeps himself apart. I do not know what he’s protecting, or fearing, or denying. But I can respect it, and carry the hope… not with urgency, not with pressure, that one day, he may choose love. That he might allow us to hold him. Hear him. Welcome him back into the fold that has, in his absence, still grown full of love.

Over the years, especially with the loss of my parents, and the light their passing has cast on the truth of our mortality, I have become deeply aware that time is short. Life is not endless. And my hope is that our father, someday, might return to that sacred place in his own heart and open it, to me, and to my older brother, with whom I share not only this father, but also our mother. That he might feel the ache of time and choose to meet it with presence, before it slips away entirely.

In the meantime, I will take joy in what is. In the mosaic of affection, awkwardness, recognition, and laughter that siblings bring. In the healing power of showing up, despite the history.

This, too, is ahimsa… to meet reality with gentleness. To love the people who are here. To soften into what is possible, even when some things remain out of reach.

And so I sit on my porch, thinking of this past winter and spring, returning again to summer… this summer of 2025. My 57th year.

The air is soft. The warmth and light lingers a little longer each evening. …as I breathe in the warmth of what’s ahead, something tender and real settles in my chest

Gratitude.

For the last six months, for all their pain and exhaustion, their vulnerability and unraveling have opened my heart in ways I couldn’t have imagined. Illness has a way of sharpening what matters. Grief strips away what is false. And love, true love, from friends and family who keep showing up, has become my steady ground.

This journey has been a camino in its own right. A long, winding pilgrimage through the inner terrain of body and soul. And now, as I step into this next season, I carry the awareness that returning to myself also means returning to those who have carried me. Who have whispered, called, texted, cooked, held, waited, prayed, and never let go.

This gratitude also extends to the healing professionals whose care has been a kind of unspoken devotion. Nurses, doctors, massage therapists, mentors, and teachers, those who’ve looked me in the eye and reminded me, without words, that my life is worth saving.

This, too, is dharma. The dharma of love. Of care. Of presence.

One breath in… welcoming the nourishing breath
One breath out… releasing the weight and cleansing the body
One breath in… inviting what’s next.
One breath out… honoring all that has been.

So I close my eyes, and I breathe as I sit on my porch and remember the future.

~ Leora

~ Journal Invitation ~

About Ahimsa

Ahimsa is one of the foundational principles of yoga philosophy. Rooted in the Sanskrit word for “non-harm” or “nonviolence,” it is more than the absence of physical aggression. It is the presence of intentional kindness, compassion, and reverence for life. Practicing ahimsa means choosing gentleness in our thoughts, words, and actions, toward others and ourselves. It invites us to live from a place of care, to honor our own healing process, and to meet the world with softness and integrity… even in the midst of struggle.

Journal Invitation for You:

Where in your life is kindness asking to lead the way?
What small rituals could help you celebrate the joy of returning to yourself?

Let these questions live with you. Let them move through your days like a gently, warm, wind through open windows, rustling the summer curtains.

Reflection can be a breath, a glance, a feeling. Let it come in its own time.

Where in your life is kindness asking to lead the way?

For me, kindness is asking that I begin to welcome the ritual of friends and family back into my fold. My energy is still limited, but I can feel the call, soft and steady, for walks and tea and BBQ’s on the porch with loved ones. For deeper conversations not about me, but about them. Their lives. Their stories. There are healing conversations waiting too… with those who may have felt left out during the hardest stretches of my care. Not out of neglect, but out of necessity.

Kindness is also asking me to keep sharing the Yoga Through Cancer series. So many people have responded with warmth and resonance. The rituals. The reflections. The embodied return to self. It feels important. Like a quiet service that I can still offer, even as I continue to heal.

What small rituals could help you celebrate the joy of returning to yourself?

Again, for me, it’s the gentle re-integration of the people I love… starting with family. I want to make space for those who’ve been wanting to visit. My brother. My kids. And in one quiet corner of my heart, I want to make space for a special relationship that has carried me through. A relationship that seems to be asking for new terms. A redefined presence. Still, I want to allow room for it to show up, if it chooses to, in alignment with the life I’m rebuilding, in alignment with the life he is rebuilding. Not all at once. Not without boundaries. not without “leaning in”… but slowly. Kindly. In rhythm with this new phase of healing for both of us.