The Boss Walk

(Or, Walking into the Beautiful Light)

My friend Lynn is brilliant and kind and sees things in people long before they see them in themselves. After the Cancer Sharks Night of Storytelling, she told me she noticed something.

“You have a tell, Amanda,” she said. “When you walk a certain way, I know you are in the zone. And I saw that walk again tonight.”

I knew what she meant. There is a way my body moves when I feel the most me. A way my stride shifts when I forget to worry.

It has been a long time since I moved through the world that way.

Last night, I decided to take myself on a date to Winter Lights. When I lived in Andover, I tried for years to go to the North Andover installation, but there was always weather or COVID or something else in the way. This time, the Canton location had plenty of tickets, and I figured a quiet solo adventure might be exactly the right thing.

Todd was working. Briggs would have fought the entire car ride. I still do not have the energy to negotiate battles I can easily avoid. So I went alone.

A small group was already waiting at the entrance when I arrived. Two older couples stood ahead of me, bundled against the cold. One of the men turned, smiled warmly, and asked, “Are you the boss?”

I said yes without hesitation. Of course I did.

We all laughed, and when the line began to move, I stepped forward to show my ticket. A few minutes later, I caught up with the same couple as we walked into the first glowing corridor of lights.

“I am so sorry,” the man said. “I thought you worked here.”

“No,” I told him. “But that is not what you asked. You asked if I am the boss. And if someone asks me that, I am going to say yes.”

More laughter. Then he added, “It was the way you walked. With such presence. I just assumed.”

Presence. Confidence. Ease. A version of myself I thought had been buried somewhere under surgeries and scans and adrenal failure.

I thanked him and kept walking. The lights were beautiful, but what stayed with me was not the display. It was the casual way a stranger recognized something in me that felt entirely lost.

Lynn saw it in October. This man saw it last night. My body remembering before my mind caught up.

As I moved deeper into the exhibit, I felt something I’d been missing. Not strength exactly. Not power. Not even confidence. Something quieter. Something wiser. Something that has lived inside me all along, only needing the dignity of time to return.

By the end of the night, I realized the truth.
I am doing so well. Better than I thought. Better than I have let myself believe.

Please don’t misunderstand, the Shark & the shiver remain in motion. But I believe 2026 will be the year of the unicorn.