Playing the energy game.

There came a point where I stopped waiting to feel better — and started practicing it.

Through meditation, I had learned how to generate elevated emotional states with my eyes closed. But the real shift happened when I realised I could access that same energy with my eyes open — in real time, in the middle of life.

That changed everything.

My focus became simple: influence the chemistry of my internal environment in ways that supported healing. Not perfectly, but intentionally.

I began following the feeling.

Free-flow dancing. Bouncing on a rebounder. Looking for situations to laugh. Allowing myself to be silly. Listening to comedy. Watching performances and playing music that genuinely moved me. Doing breath work that lifted my state. Remembering moments where I felt proud, strong, or deeply alive. Engaging all of my senses fully. Being in nature. Cold ocean swims. Barefoot contact with the soil. Hot magnesium/sodium bicarbonate baths. Receiving full-body massages and intimate hugs. Practicing gratitude, not just as a thought, but as a felt experience in the body.

What I noticed was this: the more I practiced generating these states, the more accessible they became.

It wasn’t about forcing positivity. It was about participating in states that felt expansive, energising, and alive — and allowing my body to register that as a new normal.

You don’t need to wait for the right mood.

You can practice creating it.

Even briefly. Even imperfectly.

Because the body listens to what you repeatedly think and feel — and over time, it responds.

Learning to sit with my self - Meditation.

When I broadcast my terminal prognosis, a friend of mine messaged to say she was sitting beside someone who said they had healed their cancer through meditation — and asked if I wanted to know more.

That moment stayed with me.

Very quickly, meditation became something more intentional.

In this work, nervous system regulation isn’t something you simply observe — it’s something you begin to orchestrate.

The best way I can describe it is like blowing on dormant embers within the body… only to feel them come alive, build, and eventually unify into a steady internal fire.

My meditations would be around an hour, slow to start, with the first 20 minutes spent settling in — arriving, focusing, and allowing the state to build.

Once that state was lit, it required very little effort to maintain. Just attention… and a sense of gratitude for the healing that had already begun. A refreshing dialogue between mind and body was being consciously created, reconnecting my strayed persona with my core awareness. Through whispers of “thank you for healing,” my body responded in kind.

In that space, something shifts.

A felt sense of wholeness. Of love. Of a deep and welcoming sense of safety.

Fear faded. Courage felt. Stress dissolved. The identity tied to illness began to loosen its grip.

And then, at a certain point… even the clear intention to heal fell away.

I remember it clearly.

Sitting there, fully present — and for the first time, there was nothing to ask for. No outcome to reach. No problem to solve.

Just being.

I even caught myself in wonder … not in disbelief, but the quiet recognition that what had once felt so heavy and significant had simply… disappeared from my awareness.

In that moment, there was no disease to identify with.
There was nothing to fix.

Only a clear and undeniable shift in the body — a biochemical feedback that felt as real as anything I had ever known.

And with that… something deeper settled.

The need to control whether I survived or died lost its importance.

What mattered was how I was experiencing life — right then.

Meditation became something I was drawn to. No longer out of expectation, but because of what it allowed me to access.

A direct experience of my inner self — not just a body of symptoms, but something far more alive, responsive, and connected.

The contrast was impossible to ignore.

On one side, the heaviness of chemotherapy… the sting of radiation.

On the other, this.

Light. Space. Coherence.

Meditation became a comforting light in a dark place.

And over time, as I continued to return to that space each day…

I wasn’t surprised that my body healed.

Because it didn’t just feel real.

It was real.

And somewhere, quietly, I knew it.

Gratitude as a Daily Reset

Gratitude wasn’t new to me — but my relationship with it had been complicated for a long time.

For years, I felt incredibly blessed. Life had given me more than I could reasonably explain. But alongside that came a quiet discomfort… a sense that I might be receiving more than I deserved, or more than others around me.

At times, I even questioned whether my ability to receive was somehow limited by how well I expressed gratitude — I noticed a confusing undercurrent of guilt.

The only place feeling thankful ever felt effortless was in the ocean. Surfing. Out there, gratitude wasn’t something I thought about — it was something I became.

That became the benchmark.

So when I got treated and couldn't surf, I didn’t want to return to gratitude as a mental exercise. I wanted to embody it again — fully, honestly, and without force.

This became a deeper practice.

Not in the head — in the heart.

I began to understand that gratitude isn’t something you list. It’s something you feel. And the body responds to that feeling.

The more real it felt, the more my internal state began to shift.

There was also something else underneath it — something more personal.

A growing sense that I wasn’t separate from whatever had given me this life in the first place. That maybe receiving wasn’t something to feel guilty about… it was something to feel worthy of.

And in that acceptance, gratitude became less about saying “thank you”…

…and more about being in relationship with what already was.

When I was unwell, practicing gratitude became an opportunity.

I’d start simple — write five things down daily. Trying not to repeat them in my journal. Training my mind to look for what was already present, already supportive, already beautiful, already healing.

Over time, it became easier.

Not because life changed — but because my attention did.

I also noticed something practical.

If I went to bed in a genuine state of gratitude, I was far more likely to wake up in that same state.

And that mattered.

Prior to this practice, there were mornings when I’d wake naturally — hearing the birds, the ocean — and for a moment, everything felt normal. Then I’d remember.

And with that thought, my body would shift. The chemistry would change. It would take time to find my way back.

Gratitude helped shorten that distance.

It became a way to return — more quickly, more reliably — to a state that felt connected, rather than separated.

And over time, it became clear:

You can’t feel fear and genuine gratitude at the same time.

One quietens the other.

So rather than trying to eliminate fear… I focused on strengthening gratitude.

Not perfectly. But consistently.

Because every time I returned to it, I was reinforcing something my body could recognise:

Safety. Coherence. Enoughness.

And that’s a very different signal to live in.

✍️ How I Journaled My Way to Clarity

I hadn’t really journaled before.

But I was curious about writing.

In conversation, I often struggled to say exactly what I meant in the moment. Writing gave me something different — space. Time to think. To feel into what I was trying to say. To move words around until something clicked. And it offered me a surprising listener — me.

At first, it was practical.

Dates. Doctors. Pharmacies. Notes on treatments, research, and protocols.

But as things progressed — especially after my Stage IV diagnosis — the pages began to change.

Facts turned into questions.
Questions turned into perspectives.
And perspectives began to carry emotion.

What started as notes became reflections.
Reflections became rants.
And at times, those rants became something heartfelt, even poetic.

I had already shared my prognosis publicly. The response was immediate — and deeply human. Family, friends, distant connections, and even curious strangers became part of the experience.

So instead of keeping my journal private… I made a decision.

To share it.

Come hell or high water — we would walk into the unknown together.

Something interesting happened when I did that.

My writing became less guarded. More open. More honest. More contributive.

And in a strange way, more balanced.

Not because everything was easy — but because I’d stepped into a type of responsibility, a different kind of leadership. People were looking in, trying to understand what this experience actually felt like, and in return, I received words of support and the wisdom of the crowd.

I wasn’t just processing anymore.

I was expressing.

And that expression brought clarity.

Over time, journaling evolved. It became a weekly rhythm — a short video, paired with written words. What I couldn’t say in five minutes on camera, I could explore more deeply on the page.

Together, they allowed me to fully articulate what I was going through.

Not perfectly. But truthfully.

Some parts I kept close — shared only with those nearest to me. But what I did express openly had an effect.

On me… and on others.

There’s something about putting words to experience.

Some say words are spells.
Some say they’re prayers.
Some say they release what’s been held inside.

All I know is this:

When I wrote and spoke honestly, something shifted.

Clarity came. Emotion moved. And I felt more grounded in myself.

And unexpectedly, it reached beyond me.

People resonated. Some quietly. Some openly. Some generously. While others, on their own healing path, felt inspired by what was being shared.

In choosing to express my experience…

I wasn’t just participating in my own healing.

I was contributing to something larger.

And I came to see this clearly:

Courage doesn’t just live within us.

It moves between us.

And when expressed honestly… it spreads.

🥦 How I Ate to Support My Biology

Years before I was ever diagnosed, I had an experience that quietly changed how I thought about food.

I attended a one-day nutrition course at the end of a longer program. Most people didn’t show up. I nearly didn’t either.

But I stayed — and something landed.

The challenge was simple:
Ten days. No alcohol. Nothing with eyes.

If I notice a lift in energy, continue for thirty.

I did — and the impact was immediate.

My thinking sharpened. My memory improved. My physical stamina went through the roof. I surprised myself. At the time, I was training as a fighter, and I could feel the difference clearly. I was outperforming people I hadn’t before — and finishing with energy still in the tank.

I’d never felt like that.

The only downside was that I lost muscle. I became what I’d call a “skinny superman.” At that stage of life, vanity won out. Within months, I’d reintroduced more protein and the occasional beer.

But I was never unaware again.

Fast forward twenty years — and I’m facing cancer.

It didn’t make sense to me that food had caused it. I eat better than most people I know. But I knew — both intellectually and from experience — that what I consumed, and what I didn’t, would influence my internal environment.

So I treated nutrition as part of the work.

Not desperately. But intentionally.

With the help of my wife, who is a certified nutritionist, we created a protocol that made sense both scientifically and practically.

I removed alcohol completely and prioritized organic produce.

I revisited the idea of “nothing with eyes,” but adapted it to sustain my lean muscle. This time, I included small portions of high-quality, grass-fed meats — mostly in the form of homemade bone broths. They were easy to digest and supported my energy rather than draining it. I also steamed and stir-fried regularly.

I included:

• locally sourced seafood

• fermented foods

• cruciferous vegetables

• living salads

• nutrient-packed nuts

And I kept things simple.

I avoided ultra-processed foods, ,dairy, refined sugars, and simple carbohydrates — so no bread, pasta, pizza, pies, ice cream, or anything along those lines.

Fruit became dessert.

Overall, I ate in a way that leaned toward a ketogenic style — consistently enough to think and feel the difference.

Timing mattered too.

I’d usually fast until around 11am, then eat within an 8-hour window. I avoided eating late at night, giving my body time to rest and process.

Supplementation became part of the routine — often taken with a protein-based smoothie, along with essential fats and minerals.

Hydration was simple but steady.

And I kept a couple of rituals I genuinely enjoyed, and that also scored well in our research:
Earl Grey tea… and organic dark chocolate.

I lost weight when life was in the balance. Exercise was short walks. Treatments ruined my appetite and stripped me of energy. Skinny, not-so-Superman — but participating.

The way I saw it was this:

Healing is an energy game.
And digestion requires its share.

So the question became —
“Am I supporting my system… or adding to its workload?”

I wasn’t trying to follow a perfect diet.

I was paying attention.

To how I felt.
To how my body responded.
To what supported clarity, stability, and energy.

And over time, those choices added up.

The body responds to the environment it’s given.

Not just through food — but through stress, emotion, rest, toxin exposure, and attention.

I didn’t believe my diet caused my cancer. But I also couldn’t ignore the role that lifestyle and internal environment play in how the body heals.

So rather than trying to attack the disease directly, my focus became:

How do I improve the terrain my body is operating in?

That meant reducing what I believed contributed to stress and inflammation… and increasing what supported stability, energy, and repair.

I leaned toward approaches that supported metabolic health — not as a rigid doctrine, but as a practical way to give my body the best conditions I could.

Not to control the outcome.

But to participate in it.