Earlier this week, I was working on my computer when I heard a loud sound, almost like an old-fashioned police siren winding up and down. It was clearly from some distance away but becoming closer. Curious, I peered down the street to find an excited elementary schooler pumping his fist and making his way home from his last day of school on his bike, blaring some kind of celebratory siren. I immediately started to smile, remembering that same joy from my childhood: the yearbooks we signed with H.A.G.S., the excitement of being able to sleep in and watch cartoons, the freedom from homework and assignments. Even if we are still in school, or tied to our assignments, I hope we can still recapture that overwhelming joy.

I think I suffer from something I call “Recovering New Jersey Kid Summer Syndrome.” We never got out of school until late in June – I think I graduated high school on something like June 22nd? – so you basically get 9 weeks of summer, fewer if you have an activity that started before the academic year. I’d find myself at Fourth of July anxiously crying to who ever would listen “summer’s basically over already!” Now that I’m an adult, and no longer teaching at a school, the year progresses differently. It’s less about the days remaining until the school bus pulls up and more about the seasonal joys.

I write this, freshly returned from my first-ever ASCO conference. ASCO is the American Society for Clinical Oncology and I was there to greet patient advocates, pharmaceutical companies, and oncology workers as a representative of Cactus Cancer Society. It was overwhelming, to be frank: there were so many exhibitors and the conference space with massive (I don’t think I ever found one side wall!) But it was so wonderful to connect with other patient advocacy groups and tell people about the incredible community here.

It’s June, and if you’ve ever seen the Rogers and Hammerstein musical Carousel, you know what song will be stuck in this resident theatre kid’s head for approximately 30 days. Aside from this musical theatre earworm, June is Pride Month, honoring LGBTQ culture: its challenges, triumphs, and the progress yet to come. Whether you identify as part of the community or are just… well, a human being believing in human rights, Pride is a celebration, a remembrance, and a riot all at once.

Whether you are jetting out of town for Memorial Day weekend or staying put, summer and vacation are in the air. In New Jersey, it’s the opening of the Jersey Shore with families flocking to the beach with their umbrellas and beach chairs. Others might be planning hikes or time on a lake. Even those staying put might be taking advantage of the longer weekend for a staycation.

There’s something in the air, and it’s making me slow down. It’s not just my normal fatigue from treatment, or the sunshine lulling me into a sleepy state of mind. It’s not just capitalism or an absurd pollen count either. I think I’m being challenged in a big way to slow down. There’s something about being on the precipice of summer here on the East Coast that nudges me to cut my to-do list in half, go easy on the expectations I level against myself. All of today’s suggestions come from a place of pause, and I invite you to join me on that quest.

The unofficial poet laureate of People With Feelings, Mary Oliver, has a poem that contains the lines: “Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.” Grief is a complicated thing. You don’t ever really stop grieving the things you’ve lost, you just move to a different place with them. Some days seem more straightforward than others, others your sadness and anger and longing can fill you from your head to your toes. This weekend, I have suggestions about comfort: comfort food, mental health, and a making a small difference with citrus.

Dearest friends, it is my birthday today. I was born on a Friday some time ago now, which makes me loving and giving, according to that old nursery rhyme – no big deal. Like many folks after a cancer diagnosis, birthdays bring a complicated feeling. I’ve now spent five birthdays in the grip of cancer treatment, and that feels kind of depressing. But I’m also here, celebrating another birthday, unlike many of my peers- so it feels worth celebrating, perhaps even more so than before.