She keeps the fear locked between her shoulder blades. You can barely see it as she checks items off her to-do list and sorts resumes into piles on her kitchen table. The open window lets in the evening breeze, but she doesn’t even notice the clean air or the sound of the driving November rain as her fingers run furiously over the keys on her laptop.

Her eyes dart up to the clock and back. It’s 10pm. She hunches further over her screen with a maniacal need to clean out her inbox. She can’t ignore the requests for information from her candidates. What if they switch to another Recruiting Agency while she lies in bed recovering? Her mind sprints as she flips between screens and tries in vain to let go of the tight grip of responsibility she feels for everyone else. She is never confident that she has done enough. But tonight, time is running out.

She finally closes her computer and reaches up to knead the nasty knot lodged in her shoulder. On its way up, her hand grazes the edge of her left breast and her throat constricts. She takes in a jagged breath, steadies herself, and then stubbornly swallows the tears.

She paces through the kitchen, on to the bedroom, and out into the living room, picking up stray items and putting them in their rightful place. With only 600 square feet of space, this doesn’t take long. She searches for other ways to create order. If she could just keep moving, maybe she could outrun the belligerent panic that haunts her.

With nothing left to do, she finally joins C on the couch. She has avoided eye contact for the last two hours so that she won’t see the concern in her friend’s eyes. Now, she smiles bravely and forces herself to exude nonchalance while they watch Liz Lemon meet Oprah on an episode of ’30 Rock’. She is relieved to laugh and disengage from the reality that a doctor will soon stuff a ventilator down her throat and cut out a piece of her breast.

At midnight, she says good night and closes her bedroom door. She hides under her fluffy white duvet with only the thump of her sprinting heart to keep her company. Sleep evades her and tears streak silently down her face.

I wish I could put my arms around her. Reassure her that she will get through this. Promise her that although she thinks the fear will consume her, it won’t. Tell her to embrace her messy emotions instead of keeping the pain confined beneath a veil of superficial strength. Make her see that true strength will come when she allows herself to be vulnerable with the people she loves. Convince her that when she accepts ambiguity and releases her tight grip of control, she will actually become happier. Whisper to her that letting go of taking care of everyone else will free her to actually connect with herself. Let her see that although the next year will suck in so many ways, she will emerge better for having lived through it.

But, she can’t hear me because I don’t exist yet. It will take the next 365 days before she meets me here in this moment and we can look back with a fresh perspective.