The warrior is tired today. So hard to put on the armor to fight the good fight. Have been waging war to keep my baby goats alive since Monday a week ago. Had hoped to use last week to rest up and prepare for this week’s battle, my second chemo. I have not been able to rest or take good care of myself, so preparing for today’s battle is hard.

But I do it anyway because I am made of equal parts Chew, Sikes, Braswell, and Scott. We do not run; we fight. I have my mother’s backbone and my father’s compassion. My mom’s strength to stand up for myself and my dad’s loving care for other people and animals. My grandparents fought many battles. My dad’s mom selling eggs to buy school lunches for her kids. My mom’s dad, the town drunk, until he found God and got sober. My mom has battled also, with a mother who did not want her and told her so. My dad, raised by his grandmother for a time because he was the third of three boys and times were tough.

I come from a long line of fighters—survivors—so that is all I know. Walk forward and face whatever is thrown my way. I am weary. I am tired, I need rest, but for now it is time for battle. So I adjust the armor, head held high, and fight. Fight the good fight. It is all I know to do.