Cat Gwynn is an artist, photographer, mindfulness coach, author, and Triple Negative breast cancer survivor. When I sat down with Cat in the living room of her Los Feliz apartment in Los Angeles for this multi-media interview, it took just five minutes to feel the strength of her spirit. She has an infectious desire to share the mind-body-spirit healing her daily photography practice provided while navigating a life-changing cancer diagnosis. Start with the book trailer that follows, meander through her interview, and by all means, spend time with each photograph. Every photo included here marks a moment in time after she was diagnosed with this very aggressive type of cancer, and many are included in her book, 10-Mile Radius: Reframing Life On the Path Through Cancer, that we discuss. Cat is now five years cancer-free, and having met her, I am grateful she found her way to wellness.

Please See Me: Your photos are alive—I feel the life in them. Not sure if that’s because we’ve met and your spirit vibrates so strongly or if it’s the art speaking. How did you infuse such life into your photos?

Cat Gwynn: I was drawn toward things that were vital during that intense period when I was sick. Things that had their own ecosystems. I would walk to be out in the world, and the vibrancy of those moments of belonging, connecting to what was right in front of me, was healing. It was medicinal in a way, and I was looking for a nectar of sorts. I needed to infuse myself with life…even though some of the images have to do with reflections on mortality. I think a lot of patients go into stasis because they are so afraid of their potential death that they stop living and forget that, illness or not, they’re still alive right now.

PSM: You’ve mentioned in other interviews that your doctors could treat your cancer, but that your mind “was up to me.” Can you elaborate on that for our Please See Me audience?

CG: When I found out I had triple-negative breast cancer, my friends insisted I could “beat it.” This sort of weaponized language bothers me. Cancer wasn’t “my bitch,” and I wasn’t going to “kick its ass”; that would be up to my doctors, and I had faith in them. I knew the real battle for me would be with my mind. I think this is the biggest obstacle for every patient facing a diagnosis such as mine. How do you sit with a threat to your life this serious?

For me, I knew it was about being present, surrendering to the illness and embracing the cancer cells that were part of me. Fighting them sounded counterproductive. I had to quit listening to my fears that told me I was utterly helpless, a pervasive feeling that made my physical healing more challenging. I figured out my anxiety was a liar, and that it was my real nemesis. I decided to pour my worry and doubt about my prognosis into the creation of art, and my regular creative practice did help keep me in the moment rather than impulsively ruminating about all the things that could go wrong.

PSM: What inspired you to take that first picture for 10-Mile Radius?

CG: I’m a photographer and genuinely love what I do. When I became sick, I consciously chose to make photos every day as a coping mechanism. I believe art-making is also another form of presence—similar to meditation—and taking daily pictures gave me the perfect opportunity to both celebrate the ordinary beauty I was capturing and also face my demons as they came up.

When you’re critically ill, it can feel like your life is out of control; your only purpose is to do what your doctor tells you to do and blindly eke your way through it. I was hit with so much when I was diagnosed, a lot emotionally to sort through, not to mention the arduous treatment protocols taking me way out of my comfort zone. Making photos was something I had a choice over, and it gave me a purpose during a very uncertain time. This daily form of visual journaling helped me get up each day with something to look forward to. It wasn’t until about four months in that I realized I was creating a larger body of artwork that ultimately became my photo memoir.

PSM: The four images in the book named Breathe, Support, Ripped Open, and Clearing struck me as a short narrative describing your path through diagnosis, treatment, and resolution. Do you name the pictures after you take them, or do you see the muse, and it says “ripped open,” “breathe”?

CG: I don’t dream up a title and go find it, though I guess it’s a little of both in the end. Sometimes I’d see something, and the title for the image just spoke to me. Often it was later when I was posting the photo on social media that I’d figure out a title. When I sat to make the book, I tossed out about one-third of the original titles and reflected on the meaning behind the photo. The irony, the significance to healing, to what is, to whatever I was going through at that moment. When you read 10-Mile Radius you’ll see the photo titles create a story arc opening with the ending of my life as I knew it and moving through this demise and on to recovering my sense of self and my transformed way of being in the world.

PSM: You used an iPhone for all photographs in the book. Why?

CG: Because it’s always in my pocket and I needed to do all this in a way that was easy, especially because some days were such an effort physically.

The iPhone is a wholly contained tool—all the apps are right in your hand to shoot and process each image, and then to share on Instagram or Facebook. It was so much more convenient than using my Nikon, and I could do it on the fly. Almost everyone has a smart phone these days and as a result, I realized this practice could be shared with others as a mindful way of staying present with illness. It occurred to me that my practice of mindfully creating photos was reproduceable—that it could be easily scaled and that others might benefit too.

I wanted to make this simple for myself, and part of the reason I did all of this was to be outside, getting oxygen—not home being sick. To be in the world and be seen—to see beyond my illness and not isolated in this container of death. The iPhone offered a path of least resistance. And social media informed my art too—when I made the photo selections for the book, I went back to my Instagram and Facebook posts and pulled the images that had the most likes and positive responses. It was great to have this built-in test audience help inform the book because in many ways my social media friends are an integral part of this story.

PSM: In the “Radiant People” portion of 10-Mile Radius, you write:

Asking to be seen and subsequently someone giving you permission to see them can be an uncomfortable proposition. But setting mistrust aside clears fertile ground for breaking through stereotypes. It allows us to see one another honestly. In this moment we are here, our hearts are connecting, and there is an energy that flows between us…life force.

This section of the book is beautiful on so many levels. How can we infuse this heartfelt, welcoming interaction and observation of the “the other” into the well world?

CG: Portraiture is a brilliant form of witnessing and a reciprocal art form. We spend so much of our lives building barriers around ourselves to cover up our insecurities for fear of others seeing them or acknowledging them ourselves. Often it’s these supposed imperfections that make us uniquely wonderful and endear us to others. When we can see one another in our most vulnerable moments, it creates empathy and a mirror back to the self.

After about nine months of chemotherapy, surgery and then more chemo, I still had thirty-three rounds of daily radiation treatment ahead of me. I knew I didn’t want to drive to Cedars Sinai every day for seven weeks, so the head of radiology set up my treatment at Hollywood Presbyterian, which was two miles round-trip from my apartment. I decided to walk to get my zap every day; it was my full-time part-time job. The image titled Angel was my first radiant person. I saw him while walking home from my eleventh day of radiation. He looked to be a gangbanger: tattoos, bald head, wearing a hoodie. His foreboding presence moved me to ask if I could take his picture. My instincts knew he was much more than his appearance. He was wary when I made the request, but when I took off my hat and he saw my bald head and realized I was a cancer patient he softened and posed for me.

And so, art informs art, right? I made the decision right away to interact with someone every day on my walk home from treatment, and ask if I could take his or her picture. I added this portrait-making element to my regular daily photo-journaling, which gave even more purpose to my days.

What came of this process was more than I could have hoped. Some people wanted me to send them their portrait. One woman texted me back after receiving her photo and thanked me for stopping her to take her picture. “I’ve never felt this beautiful,” the woman said, and I just cried. Those moments became so meaningful to me. All the empathy we transferred between us, no judgment—I turned it inward on my cancer cells and realized my cancer was not the enemy. It was something I needed to face and work through. We need to look at disease as a part of ourselves. I wasn’t going to hate this away; I decided I was going to love my way through it.

This series of portraits I came to name the “Radiant People.” It all started with Angel and his impressive “Los Angeles” tattoo. And after photographing twenty-two more Radiant People, it became clear they all were “The Angels” I needed to meet on this part of my journey back to wellness.

PSM: How can we open up the idea of “healthcare narratives” to more than just written work? The experience of wellness through art?

CG: When we’re ill, we are deeply vulnerable, and through artful expression, we can give our voice agency at a time we need it most. People can tell you, “you’ll be okay,” but until you believe it, it doesn’t matter. Self-empowerment can only be given to the self from the self. I think so many people want to forget horrible life experiences, but how can you ignore a life experience so altering? It changes who you are and having agency over that change is a brilliant way to reclaim yourself.

There are so many life-threatening illnesses. Not just cancer. Art of any kind can be a natural fit for rehabilitation. And there are so many forms of self-expression and artistry: cooking, journaling, painting, sculpting, scrapbooking, quilting, knitting. You name it. So I think there are also many ways to shape this changing narrative of our health and wellness. And I believe we’re missing the broader picture of wellness which has to include the mind-body-spirit connection that incorporates life changes we all experience—the loss of a parent or spouse, divorce, losing a job, or even more tragic losses like the death of a child. Anytime we go through a significant life transition where our identity is challenged, like with a cancer diagnosis, we need to somehow incorporate that new piece of ourselves into the whole spectrum of our identity. Choosing to stay present with my illness through my photography built up an authentic sense of self.

PSM: How do you think 10-Mile Radius is more than just another “patient story”?

CG: This was a practice that evolved out of my diagnosis to creatively express what I was seeing and feeling in the moment as a patient. When I posted the photos on Facebook or Instagram, I didn’t reveal that I was sick. That was a conscious choice because I didn’t want to be known as Cat, the cancer lady photographer. I wanted to be known simply for my art. Shortly before my book was released, I did let the followers I had accumulated on social media know about my path through cancer, and they were blown away to learn this yet so supportive about it.

This process turned out to be so much more than just my illness. It was about connection in the faces I photographed and the natural environment I captured. It was about a sense of belonging in the world and within myself. The narrative beneath what I observed was universal—you don’t have to be a patient to do this. It was a profoundly spiritual act, choosing to belong and be present every day. The potential death sentence sharpened my lens as an artist, yes, but what I gained from this practice is life-affirming. I’ve stayed committed to this mindful expression through art even now, five and a half years since being diagnosed. It’s become such a regular part of my life, it’s like breathing for me. I call it my gratitude practice in motion.

PSM: What would you tell other patients going through cancer about the value of expressing their illness through art?

CG: I can’t stress enough that giving your voice agency when you are vulnerable and have so little control over what is happening is incredibly essential. I was overwhelmed by appointments, treatments and the side effects that followed, and having to commit to years of surgery and follow-up rehab and recovery. I didn’t have a choice to opt out. Photography is my passion, and I learned to apply it therapeutically. I would tell anyone battling illness to find or channel your passion, or something you can do daily that you can control, that gives you something back. The minute you commit yourself to whatever it is, you raise yourself to another level. We tend to live in our heads and process everything from the neck up—but what we need to work on is letting the heart guide us. As soon as I gave up control around my illness to my doctors and let my heart lead the way I began to heal. For me, this was the key. We all have this internal wisdom, but we need to practice every day to keep that light on.

PSM: What are you working on now?

CG: I just finished a big photo essay, once again a personal story about life and death and the power of letting go…you know, light material. And I’ve also been working on a very meaningful studio portrait project about the power of male vulnerability called “Cry for Me.” I think my next project after that is going to have to be humorous. Believe it or not, I do funny very well! But humor aside, I also think a counter series of powerful female portraits might be in order too? We’ll see. I’m ready for new creative challenges and the inspiration for finding the story.

You can find more of Cat’s work at her website here, and on Instagram here.

Tracy Granzyk is the editor in chief of Please See Me.