Ch 8: Borrowed Strength
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How Others’ Resilience Became My Own
There’s a kind of strength that doesn’t originate from within—it’s borrowed. It arrives quietly, often when you’re too tired to ask for it. It comes in the form of a look, a word, a gesture. And when your own reserves are running dangerously low, it carries you.
I learned this during one of the most emotionally charged chapters of my treatment: CAR-T therapy.
The Hope of a Cure
CAR-T was supposed to be the breakthrough. The science was cutting-edge—my own immune cells, reengineered to hunt down the cancer. It felt like something out of science fiction. And for the first time in a long time, I felt something I hadn’t dared to feel fully: hope.
There was a buzz around it. My doctors were cautiously optimistic. I was excited—truly excited. Not just for a better outcome, but for a cure. I remember sitting in the hospital room, IV in my arm, watching those cells drip back into my body and thinking, this could be it. This could be the moment everything changes. I cried - hard.
And in a way, it did. Just not how I expected.
When Hope Meets Reality
The month that followed was a blur of side effects, monitoring, and waiting. I held onto every data point, every scan, every word from my care team like it was sacred. CAR-T therapy had felt like a lifeline—a scientific marvel that might finally turn the tide. And in some ways, it did.
The treatment worked.
It successfully targeted and attacked my specific type of Leukemia. That was the good news. The kind of news that makes you exhale for the first time in weeks.
But then came the call.
I was out on a walk, trying to clear my head, when my oncologist phoned. I remember the way the sun felt on my face, the sound of my footsteps on the pavement, the way the world seemed to pause as I answered. He told me the CAR-T had done its job—but in doing so, it had revealed something we hadn’t seen before. A different, underlying type of Leukemia. One that CAR-T wasn’t designed to target. One that was still very much alive inside me.
I stopped walking. I just stood there, phone pressed to my ear, heart sinking. The treatment hadn’t failed. But it hadn’t succeeded either. And now, the path forward was even more intense: a stem cell transplant.
A procedure that would require high-dose chemotherapy, radiation, and the infusion of donor stem cells. A reset of my entire immune system. A third mountain to climb—steeper, more uncertain, and more physically demanding than anything I’d faced before.
I was devastated. Not just because the cure I had hoped for had slipped through my fingers, but because I had let myself believe. I had dared to imagine a life beyond cancer. I had tasted hope—and now I had to swallow disappointment.
That’s when borrowed strength showed up.
The Quiet Heroes
The kindness came in small, almost invisible moments—like the nurse who always remembered my name and asked how my kids were doing, even when I couldn’t keep track of what day it was myself. Her gentle voice cut through the haze of medications and exhaustion, reminding me I was still seen as a person, not just a patient. Then there were colleagues who didn’t bombard me with questions about deadlines or deliverables; instead, they simply said, “We’re thinking of you,” their words carrying a quiet, steady support that felt like a lifeline in the middle of chaos. And I’ll never forget a former teammate who reached out to share their own journey through relapse and recovery. Their honesty reminded me that healing isn’t a straight path—it’s messy and unpredictable, but it’s still healing. These weren’t grand gestures or dramatic moments—they were small, deeply human acts of connection. Yet they mattered more than I could say. They taught me that leadership isn’t always about being the pillar others rely on; sometimes, real strength is knowing when to let others lean in—and accepting that support with open arms.
The Power of Unexpected Allies
Support didn’t always come from where I expected it. Some of the most meaningful encouragement arrived from people I hadn’t spoken to in years—old connections I thought had quietly faded away. A simple message popped up on LinkedIn, a handwritten card arrived in the mail, or a voicemail from someone who’d heard through the grapevine and just wanted to say, “You’re not alone.” Those moments felt like little lifeboats in an ocean of uncertainty. They reminded me that true connection doesn’t have an expiration date; it simply waits quietly in the background, ready to reemerge when you need it most. The surprise of these unexpected allies brought with it a profound sense of belonging, proof that even when you feel isolated, there are hands reaching toward you, waiting to hold you steady.
Resilience is contagious. Hearing others’ stories of survival, their raw and unvarnished truth, gave me permission to believe in my own strength. Their courage became a mirror, reflecting back the bravery I hadn’t realized I possessed. Their honesty carved out space where I could be vulnerable without shame. Their victories, no matter how different from what I’d imagined for myself, made my own path feel possible. Borrowed strength is not a weakness—it is grace. It’s the invisible thread that ties us together when everything else feels like it’s falling apart. Sometimes, that shared courage and quiet solidarity is the only thing that gets you through the day.
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Leadership is strengthened by the kindness of others.
True leadership is not just about the strength you project, but also about the humility and awareness to recognize the kindness of others. In times of extreme challenge, like facing illness or uncertainty, the support of those who step forward—through small gestures, words of encouragement, or simply being present—can become a lifeline. These acts of kindness are powerful reminders that leadership is not a solo endeavor. Accepting help does not diminish your role; it strengthens it by creating a network of trust, empathy, and shared resilience. Those who step up in moments of vulnerability not only carry you through adversity—they model the very values of courage, generosity, and humanity that define exceptional leadership. Leadership, in this sense, is both giving and receiving: it’s about recognizing that the people who show up for you reflect back your own capacity to rise and persevere, and their care becomes a mirror that amplifies your own inner strength.”
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Who in your life or team has stepped up to support you during a difficult time, and how can you both acknowledge their kindness and allow it to strengthen your own leadership?
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Before cancer, I managed time like a spreadsheet—every hour accounted for, every goal tracked. But when life shifted, so did everything else. Time became sacred. Success was no longer about titles. And strength? It came from surrender, not control.
Tomorrow, I’ll share the emotional and physical journey of preparing for a stem cell transplant—and how it forced me to let go of old definitions and embrace a new kind of leadership rooted in presence, purpose, and grace.
If you’ve ever questioned what really matters, this story will meet you there.
