Ch 5: Asking for Help
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I’ve spent most of my life being the one people come to for answers.
As a leader, a father, a husband, I’ve always taken pride in being dependable. I solve problems. I carry weight. I don’t ask for help—I offer it.
But cancer has a way of humbling even the strongest among us.
The Quiet Struggle
At first, I tried to do it all. I kept pushing through treatment, clinging to routines, trying to hold on to some fragile illusion of normalcy. But behind the scenes, everything was quietly unraveling. By the time I started the first round of chemotherapy, my white blood cell count had exploded to 100,000 cells per microliter—a staggering number that screamed just how rapidly my cancer was advancing. My oncologist recommended an aggressive chemotherapy protocol—Hyper-CVAD. It was known to be brutal, but also effective. I clung desperately to that word: effective. I told myself the sharp nausea twisting in my gut, the constant bone-deep fatigue that weighed my body down like a lead blanket, and the burning sting where the poison dripped into my veins—it would all be worth it. I just had to endure. So I did. Round after round, I showed up. The sterile hospital smells, the beeping machines, the cold touch of the IV needle—all of it became a grim rhythm I forced myself to follow, believing that if I could survive the regimen, I’d be free.
One thing I’ll never forget—and will always be grateful for—is that both of my sons flew in to be with me during that first round of chemo. Their presence was a balm to my shattered spirit. Their voices, the warmth of their hands, even their quiet breathing beside me in the sterile hospital room gave me something solid to hold onto. It reminded me of who I was fighting for, and why I couldn’t give up.
But then came the biopsy. I didn’t even hear it from my doctor directly. The news arrived in an email—just a few cold, clinical lines buried in jargon. “Minimal residual disease detected.” Those words were sharp and precise, cutting through me like a knife. I must have stared at that screen for what felt like hours, the soft glow washing over my trembling hands. My stomach churned, a sickening twist that made my breath catch in my throat. After everything—the infusions, the relentless nausea, the sleepless nights, the aching emptiness that hollowed me out—the treatment hadn’t worked completely. The Leukemia was still there, lurking in the dark recesses of my marrow.
I sat alone in that quiet room, the hum of the hospital fading into silence. The glow of the computer screen was the only light, casting cold shadows on the walls. My hands shook uncontrollably. My chest tightened with a crushing weight, like a heavy stone pressing down, stealing the air from my lungs. I felt as if I was falling into a void with nothing to catch me. No doctor’s voice to soften the blow, no warm hand to hold. Just the sharp sting of silence—and the unbearable ache of disappointment. I had given everything I had to that regimen. I had believed—truly believed—that if I endured it, I’d be free. But now, all I could feel was emptiness. And failure. Not just of the treatment—but of my body, my hope, and the fragile belief that sheer willpower could carry me through this.
And still, I didn’t tell anyone right away. I closed the laptop with a slow, hollow click, wiped my eyes dry with trembling fingers, and sat in the dark, the cold stillness wrapping around me like a shroud. For just a little longer, I pretended I hadn’t read what I read.
The Shift
It started small. Letting my wife take over the calendar. Letting others drive me to an appointment. Letting someone bring dinner, even when I said I didn’t need anything.
Each time, I felt a twinge of guilt. But I also felt something else: relief.
I began to realize that asking for help wasn’t a sign of weakness. It was a sign of trust. It meant I was letting people in. It meant I was choosing connection over pride.
One of the most powerful moments came when my good friend from Philadelphia called. He didn’t ask if I needed anything. He didn’t offer to come out—he just said, flat out, “I’m coming out.” No negotiation. No arguing. It was happening. That was it. What a wonderful, unshakable show of love. In that moment, I understood something deeper: sometimes the people who love you the most won’t wait for permission to show up. They just do. And that’s when you realize—you’re not alone in this.
The Leadership Paradox
In business, we talk about delegation all the time—empowering others, building strong teams, trusting people to step up. But when it came to my own life, I had a hard time letting go.
I had to learn that leadership doesn’t mean doing everything yourself. Sometimes, it means knowing when to step back—so others can step in.
And many did.
My family surrounded me with strength. Friends, colleagues, neighbors, even people I hadn’t spoken to in years reached out. Their support didn’t just help me survive—it helped me heal. Every message, every meal dropped off, every quiet moment of presence reminded me that I wasn’t alone.
One moment that truly humbled me came from the leadership team at Wawanesa. During a Quarterly Managers Meeting, they surprised me by wearing custom “#SharrahStrong” shirts—a powerful, emotional gesture that left me speechless. But they didn’t stop there. They launched a fundraising challenge in my name to support Leukemia and Lymphoma Cancer Research. What an incredible show of support. It wasn’t just symbolic—it was action. It was heart. It was leadership in its purest form.
And then, one of my colleagues took it a step further. She had designed the “#SharrahStrong” logo, framed it, and sent it to me as a gift. That framed logo now hangs in a prominent spot in my home office—a daily reminder of the strength of community, the power of compassion, and the kind of leadership that shows up when it matters most. What a gift.
But not everyone showed up
There were people I thought would be constants—those I believed would be there for me no matter what. People I had stood by through their own storms, who I trusted would stand by me now. Yet, when my own storm came, some disappeared. I remember one moment that still stings—a conversation where someone asked me how I was making decisions about my treatment. I began to explain the careful, sometimes agonizing process I was going through, trying to balance hope, fear, and facts. Instead of empathy or curiosity, their response was a dismissive “LOL.” Just like that, as if my pain and struggle were a joke, something trivial to laugh off. It was a small moment, but it landed like a punch. And after that, the silence stretched—calls unanswered, texts unread, visits never made. The absence was loud. Deafening.
At first, I told myself maybe they didn’t know what to say. Maybe they were overwhelmed or distracted. Maybe this was a burden too heavy for them to bear. I wanted to believe they cared but just didn’t have the words or the strength. But as the days bled into weeks and the distance only grew, I had to confront a harsher truth: some people simply couldn’t—or wouldn’t—walk beside me in this. That realization broke something inside me. Not with anger, but with profound grief. Because cancer doesn’t only test your body; it tests your relationships. It pulls back the curtain and reveals who is really in your corner, and who quietly slips away.
That kind of heartbreak is different. It cuts deeper than any chemo burn or sleepless night. It is a loneliness wrapped in disappointment. A quiet mourning for the loss not just of health, but of connection. It made me realize that sometimes the hardest part of illness isn’t the disease itself—it’s the shattering of trust and the painful clarity about who truly loves you when it matters most. And in that aching space, I had to learn how to hold myself steady, to fill the silence with my own voice, and to find strength in the unexpected places where kindness and presence did appear.
Receiving with Grace
There’s a quiet dignity in receiving. It requires vulnerability. It requires humility. But it also creates space for others to show up with love, with generosity, with purpose.
And in that space, something beautiful happens: you realize you’re not alone.
Even if not everyone stays, the ones who do matter more than ever.
A New Kind of Strength
Asking for help didn’t make me less of a leader. It made me more human. And in that humanity, I found a deeper kind of strength—one rooted not in independence, but in interdependence.
Because resilience isn’t just about standing tall. Sometimes, it’s about letting others hold you up.
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Asking for help and communicating openly are forms of strength.
This chapter illustrates that true leadership isn’t about doing everything alone—it’s about knowing when to step back, let others step in, and receive support with humility and grace. Even the most capable leaders face moments when they can’t carry the full weight themselves, and asking for help strengthens both resilience and relationships.
Equally important is how leaders share difficult news. Delivering bad news verbally, rather than through email or text, allows for empathy, immediate dialogue, and shared understanding. It transforms a moment of fear or uncertainty into a space where trust, compassion, and connection can flourish. By communicating directly, leaders demonstrate courage, presence, and respect for those affected, reinforcing that leadership is not only about action, but also about human connection.
In combining these practices—asking for help and sharing truth face-to-face—leaders model vulnerability, interdependence, and integrity, showing that strength often comes from letting others in rather than carrying everything alone.
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When faced with a challenge you can’t handle alone, how willing are you to ask for help—and how do you approach sharing difficult news in a way that fosters trust and connection?
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When you’re fighting for your life, words aren’t just words—they’re survival.
I thought I knew the power of language. I’d used it to lead teams, close deals, calm crises. But cancer taught me something different: the words you speak—especially to yourself—can steady you… or break you.
On Monday, I’ll share the moment I stopped hiding behind “I’m fine” and learned to speak the truth, even when it scared me. I’ll tell you why certain phrases, though well-meaning, felt like heavy stones—and why others became lifelines I held onto in the darkest nights.
Most of all, I’ll share the surprising lesson that resilience isn’t only about what you do—it’s about how you talk to yourself while you’re doing it.
This chapter isn’t just about cancer. It’s about the language of survival, and why sometimes the most powerful thing you can say is the simplest truth.
Come back Monday—this is the chapter where my voice saved me.
