EC Stilson's

The Masks We Wear

2026-03-16T11:25:00.001-04:00

We often talk about the "fight" against cancer as a physical one—the nausea and fatigue, the looming shadow of scans, radiation, surgeries, and infusion treatments. But the most exhausting battles are often the ones waged on the spirit.

Recently, while at a low point, I received a phone call that didn’t offer a lifeline but a weight. A woman, driven by a "conviction," decided this was the moment to challenge my conversion to Judaism. She didn’t see my years of study or the peace I’ve found; instead, she saw my honesty about an uncertain future with health and my lack of fortitude.

So, she called and told me my suffering—cancer and other hardships—are a divine consequence, a punishment . She spoke of "outer darkness" while I already sat in the momentary gloom of my mind, just trying to keep my head above water.

The problem is that when we’re hurting, we’re vulnerable to the judgment of those who seem "whole." We look at the person shouting the loudest about their faith or their lifestyle and think, “Wow, maybe this is a punishment? Maybe I DO deserve this because a ‘perfect’ person said I’ve been doing life… ‘wrong’?”

But hours after hanging up the phone, another friend surprised me by coming to drop off a loaf of banana bread. “What’s wrong? You look, even more tired than normal.”

Without giving names, I explained about the morning’s conversation.

“No way!” she said, incensed. “Was it ‘Tiffany’?”

In answer to her question, I didn’t even need to nod because my reddening face must’ve confirmed her suspicions. And suddenly, her spontaneous visit didn’t seem quite so random after all.

“The people who are the quickest to point out the ‘sins’ causing your storms are often drowning in their own,” she said, toasting a slice of bread and passing it to me—in my own home.

Through the course of her words, I felt shocked to hear that our mutual acquaintance—“Tiffany,” the one who judged my soul—was dealing with a crumbling marriage, job loss due to her own need to proselytize at work, and a heavy reliance on medications she’s previously condemned other friends for needing.

My heart hung heavy with a profound, deep sadness because I realized her attack on me wasn't about my soul at all. I think it was about her own need for control.

We all do it in different ways. A lot of times I pretend I’m “brave" so I feel stronger. Some people pretend they have all the answers so they don't have to admit that the world is chaotic, and none of us know what the next second might hold. And then there are others like ‘Tiffany’ who judge the people around them—especially the people they don’t understand. I know she means well; I want to think she’s trying to “save” me because I was raised religious like her, and I remember having those same conversations with people. I’ve since called some of them to apologize. “I didn’t realize how judgmental I sounded,” I whispered to one man. “I wanted to help you, but who was I to assume I knew where G-d would send you in the afterlife? I’m so sorry.”

He laughed. “I always knew you meant well, but I really do appreciate the apology. No one wants to be told they’re going to Hell by anyone—especially someone who isn’t G-d.”

I broke out laughing and nodded.

The truth is, we are all just doing the best we can with what we have. On some days, "the best we can" looks like fighting through a cancer treatment-induced fog. On other days, it looks like hiding behind doctrine because the reality of our chaotic world is too painful to face.

If there is anything ‘Tiffany’s’ judgment and our mutual friend's banana bread taught me, it’s this: We are all carrying invisible burdens. Instead of using our beliefs to build walls or ladders to look down from, we should use them to build bridges. We don’t need to be perfect to be worthy of grace. We just need to be kind. Because at the end of the day, we’re all just trying to get through this life the best we can.

(Names changed to protect the people written about.)

Just one more hand of cards

2026-02-20T09:30:00.001-05:00

Since I’ve been fighting Stage IV cancer, the word "persevere" has taken on new meaning. My body simply can't do the things I literally have dreams about. I wake up reaching for a version of myself that no longer exists, and because my energy is now such a precious resource, I’ve become very intentional about my time.

Thinking about this last week, I reached into my grandmother’s "happiness file" and pulled out a note she’d written: "Keep Going."

The timing felt perfect because I'd woken up with a brief reprieve from pain and fatigue. In fact, for the first time in a long while, I felt like “me.” So, I seized the moment and asked my son, Trey, if he’d spend the afternoon with me.

Trey is almost eighteen. He stands over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a graduation cap and gown waiting to debut in May. He's a man in the making; yet, when I asked for his time, the years practically melted away. His eyes lit with a familiar, boyish spark. He didn't want anything fancy, just to go for a ride and play cards at a restaurant—a ritual from the years before "cancer" became a household word.

My heart clenched when I realized he didn't just want a burger; he longed to relive a piece of his childhood from before I got sick. So, we grabbed my electric seated scooter—a necessary concession since I can’t walk very far—and headed toward a local spot. As we went down the sidewalk, the irony of this moment turned into something beautiful.

In 2020, doctors gave me two years to live. Yet, here we are in 2026. I'm still breathing the afternoon air, sharing salty French fries with my son, and losing spectacularly at Rummy. The weight of that miracle hit me mid-hand. He won the game, but I won the moment.

By the cruel math of my original diagnosis, Trey should've been mourning traditions, visiting a grave, and wishing for just one more hand of cards. Instead, we sat in a noisy restaurant, marveling at the miracle of time.

Cancer has taken my stamina, but it's paid in clarity. As parents, we try giving our kids the world, but what they really want is simply our time.

The Best Moment of Each Day

2026-02-16T09:36:00.001-05:00

I’ve told you about my grandma’s “Happiness File,” a priceless, weathered collection of scraps, clippings, and handwritten notes tucked away like buried treasure. Each note holds something thought-provoking, and on my toughest days, they feel like notes from Heaven.

Recently, I pulled a card from the file, and in her familiar, looping handwriting rested three simple words: “Love is patient.”

My mind immediately drifted back twenty years: While frying scones, my grandma said that if love could have two essential ingredients, it should be patience and loyalty.

At the time, "patience" sounded horrendous…like something you needed at the DMV, not for the person you adored. I knew her relationship with my grandpa wasn’t perfect. I’d seen when the car keys went missing or they’d sigh over unfinished chores. But beneath the superficial, their bond wasn't just a fleeting feeling; it’d become rock-solid because no matter how tough or frustrating life could be, they still chose each other, every single day.

Still, as a twenty-something with the attention span of a squirrel drinking espresso, being "patient" felt impossible. "Grandma," I said, dodging a playful swipe of her dish towel, "if G-d gave me any gifts, patience wasn't one of them. I’m more of a ‘let’s get this done yesterday’ kind of girl."

She let out a rich laugh, then leaned in with the best marital advice I’ve ever received: “Elisa,” she said, her eyes twinkling, “the secret to a long marriage is simple: As long as you’re only a jerk one at a time, you’ll be fine. It’s when couples decide to be jerks at the same time that things go bad.”

Looking back, I realize that marriage and real love are nothing like I expected.

There are the high-stakes moments that test the "loyalty" part of Grandma’s equation. I think about the time Mike, our dog, and I hiked in the dead of winter. The world felt like a cathedral of white until—without warning—a sound like a crack of thunder ripped through the air, and a massive frozen waterfall began breaking from the cliffside directly above us.

The sound terrified me like a freight train falling from the sky. As the world splintered with blue ice chunks and white powder exploding everywhere, Mike didn’t hesitate. After pulling us to an overhang, he threw himself over me and our dog, pinning us there and shielding us with his own body. As massive chunks of frozen waterfall shattered against the ground like glass bombs, Mike didn't move an inch. He became the wall between me and the breaking world—and it’s been like that ever since.

Then there are the "patient" moments—the quieter stretches of life: watching our children graduate, navigating the loud, chaotic beauty of a house full of life, or the simple times, sitting together and playing games as a family.

But the true test of Grandma’s wisdom came after doctors diagnosed me with stage 4 cancer. Patience takes on a different hue when you’re sitting in a cold waiting room for the hundredth time. It looks different while navigating the paralyzing fear that precedes brain radiation or numerous surgeries. On days, the pain isn't just physical; it’s an emotional weight that threatens to overwhelm me. And at one point—before brain radiation—I told Mike I was done, ready to quit fighting death and surrender.

But Mike? He didn’t try to fix the situation with empty platitudes, he simply held me, and his patience acted as a buffer against the world once more. When I got too weak to stand, he didn't just offer a hand; he literally carried me. He became the physical manifestation of that "loyalty" and “patience” my grandma spoke about in her kitchen. Quite simply, he is the reason I'm still alive today.

With Valentine’s Day just behind us, I’ve found myself reflecting on my life with Mike. I’ve realized that he doesn’t just show up for the "big" days—the anniversaries, birthdays, or frozen waterfall moments—he’s the one who makes the good times incredible and the bad days somehow better.

Yesterday, the house fell quiet for a rare moment, and the familiar, metallic creak of our screen door echoed through the front room.

"The best part of my day," I told Mike as he walked in, "is hearing that screen door creak open. Because I know you’re finally home."

He didn't say anything at first and just pulled me into a hug so tight I wished he’d never let go. In the silence of that moment, I realized my grandma was right. Marriage does teach you patience, and I've had a front-row seat, watching Mike’s example every single day.

So, this Valentine’s, I thought about how lucky I am, celebrating a man who reminds me that love isn't just a word on a card. It’s the person who selflessly stays and makes life somehow better on the good and bad days too.