The August Edit

I can’t remember when was the last time I was sitting in front of this blank page, seeing the cursor blink, just waiting for me to find the words, and honestly? Some days I thought they’d never come.

If you’ve been following along on Instagram, you know bits and pieces of where I’ve been lately. But the full story – the one that explains the silence around here, the shift, the complete reshaping of who Maca is now – that story begins and ends with the same raw truth: on April 10th, 2025, I lost my dad.

But really, I lost my best friend.

When the Fight Stopped

You remember our story, right? The one where we fought Cholangiocarcinoma for over two years, that impossibly rare cancer that only affects 400 Canadians yearly – with everything we had. The story how the magical number 3 followed me everywhere (now they’re hearts, but more on that, later). How I flew to California to try Histotripsy. The *fuck you, cancer* attitude that carried me through this battle, innumerable hospital stays, and refusing to accept any doctor’s timeline.

We are warriors. Now, I see it. He was the patient, I was his advocate, his joke master during all chemo and immunotherapy sessions, his official translator, and even in the darkest moments, the sweetest memories were accumulated in a tin box, waiting for me to discover them, later on.

But here’s what they don’t tell you about being a caregiver for someone with terminal cancer: when you need to stop the fight, when there are no more treatments to research at 3am, when there are no more appointments to confirm, no more ugly battles to fight – you’re left with this enormous, echoing space where your purpose used to live and to thrive.

The Last Goodbye, Home

After many ER visits back home, cold coffees consumed, Facetime calls, and therapy sessions, I decided I had to go back home, for a final goodbye. So I went. I knew it was my last chance to hug him, surrounded by all the people who loved him, eating the food that tasted like childhood memories, and knowing he was waiting for me to be there with him – what we started together, we were ending it together.

I was terrified, but I had the heartbreaking honour of saying goodbye, in the place that made him who he was, as I had promised. I organized his funeral with my sister and became the strong big daughter who could handle this unthinkable moment while most of my family processed the emotions. And now, taking time to digest everything, I’ve found pieces of his strength living inside me.

Learning to Live in The Now

Since April, many people ask me how I’m doing, and in all honesty, most days, I don’t know. But I do know this: losing someone you love with all your heart teaches you that the only moment that actually exists is right now. Not the past, where I replay every conversation and wonder if I said the right things or left something unsaid. Not the future, where I panic about navigating this life without my biggest cheerleader and teacher.

Just now. While I write this. This cup of tea. This sunset. The moment where I’m still here, still carrying his love forward. And here’s what I’ve learned about navigating grief as someone who spent almost three years fighting for someone else’s life:

I cry when I need to cry.

In grocery stores, during my pilates classes, in the middle of a concert, and during a metro ride back home. These honest tears aren’t a sign of weakness – they’re how love leaves your body when it has nowhere else to go. I simply stopped apologizing for each of them, they’re therapy.

I found a Therapist that I Love.

After years thinking “I’m the most positive person, maybe therapy is for others”, I realized that processing this level of loss and PTSD required professional help. Finding someone who gets it, who is an expert in cancer and grief, who won’t rush your timeline, and who lets you ugly-cry without judgment? It was game changer for me.

Some Days are Harder, Some Others Aren’t so Much.

And I learned to accept this. Some days I spend my days not doing much and crying most of the day, while others I cook for joy, take a walk, attend a pilates class, work non-stop happily, and reconnect with my body after so many months of living in a purely caregiver mode. Some days are good, some others not so much, but both counts.

I wasn’t Afraid to Ask for Help.

Little did I know that grief amplifies everything, including my anxiety. Learning not to be afraid when I needed help with my anxiety medications wasn’t giving up – it was giving myself the support I needed to heal and to move forward.

What’s Next For Us?

One of the biggest changes you’ll notice around here and on social media is my transition back to my corporate life (YAY, Slack life). After running Hey Maca full-time and living in the uncertainty of entrepreneurship while managing his care, I realized something profound: I needed stability. I wanted to be part of a team, not the person responsible for everything, and I knew I needed to show up, and do meaningful work in a different scenario, especially after going through so much.

This space will continue to be real, honest and hopefully helpful, I’m still Maca – the lover of all beautiful things, that believes in the magic of small moments, and that life is worth fighting for. But I’m also a different version of that Maca now, one shaped by big loss and love, in equal measure.

The beautiful travel guides, my latest adventures, concerts, shopping roundups, and more will return (because beauty still matters, even in grief). My never-ending home renovations and DIY projects will continue (because I know that’s what he would’ve wanted, even when it feels like they shouldn’t). They will be filtered through a new lens of understanding that everything is temporary, and that makes life more precious, not less.

Daddy and I used to say that the best stories aren’t the ones where everything works out perfectly – they’re the ones where people find creative ways to keep going (and loving) even when you’re heartbroken, like myself.

This is me, back over here, learning to write that kind of story. Thank you for being here, for reading, for following along, for holding space for this messier, sweeter version of Hey Maca. There’s more to come, but for now, this felt like the right place and time to start again.

For resources on cholangiocarcinoma support and rare cancer caregiving, visit the Cholangiocarcinoma Foundation or reach out directly. No one should have to research rare cancer treatments alone at 3am.