Ch 7: Family as a Mirror
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The Quiet Witnesses to Your Battle
Cancer didn’t just happen to me—it happened to us. My family didn’t sit in the infusion chair or the hospital bed, but they carried the weight of every appointment, every side effect, every moment of uncertainty. They became the quiet witnesses to my most vulnerable moments. And in doing so, they became mirrors—reflecting back to me a strength I often couldn’t see in myself.
There were days I felt like a shadow of the leader I once was. But then I’d see the way my partner looked at me—not with pity, but with unwavering belief. I’d hear my children’s laughter on Zoom calls, a reminder that life was still happening, still beautiful. I’d feel the steady presence of my closest friends, showing up not with answers, but with presence.
They reminded me who I was, even when I forgot.
As my treatment journey evolved, I was moved onto my next type of therapy—CAR-T, a novel scientific breakthrough that felt like something out of science fiction. My white blood cells were extracted and sent to a lab, where they were reprogrammed to become Leukemia killers. I came to call them my “Little Pacman’s”—tiny warriors trained to seek out and destroy any lingering cancer cells in my body. When those cells were infused back into me, it wasn’t just medicine—it was hope, precision-engineered.
CAR-T therapy required a short hospital stay followed by a mandatory 30-day period living close to the hospital in case of severe side effects. That meant staying in a hotel, away from the comforts of home and the familiar rhythms of daily life. One of the more frightening possibilities was the onset of neurological symptoms—confusion, anger, not recognizing loved ones, and in rare cases, seizures or coma. It was a sobering reality.
Because of that risk, my wife—my caregiver—was given the responsibility of watching me like a hawk. She couldn’t leave my side for the entire 30 days, not even briefly, for fear that I might suffer serious complications and be unable to identify or communicate them myself. It was a heavy burden, and she carried it with grace, vigilance, and unwavering love.
On a lighter note, one of my former colleagues sent us a pair of Nerf guns—her way of injecting a little humor into a tense situation. The idea was simple: when we got on each other’s nerves, we could gently “target” one another instead of letting the stress boil over. It was silly, playful, and exactly what we needed. In the midst of uncertainty, that small gesture reminded us that laughter still had a place in our lives.
Thankfully, I avoided the serious complications. My only side effect was an elevated temperature—a small price to pay for the chance at healing.
And once again, my family stood by, watching, waiting, believing.
How Loved Ones Amplify Strength - They See the Whole You
At work, I was the executive. In the hospital, stripped of my title and my armor, I was just me—tired, vulnerable, and sometimes angry at a reality I didn’t choose. My family didn’t look away from any of it. My wife would pull a chair close to the hospital bed, tucking her legs underneath like she planned to stay all day, just to be near me. My kids would sit on the edge of the mattress, pretending the IV pole was just part of the furniture. They didn’t cling to an edited version of me; they embraced the whole, unvarnished truth.
Their acceptance was more than comfort—it was liberation. I didn’t have to perform. I didn’t have to be “strong” every second. I could cry, rage, or sit in silence, and they would simply be there. In a world where we often feel we must prove our worth, they reminded me that my worth was constant, unearned, and unshakable.
They Carry the Load You Can’t
There were days my body betrayed me—when even getting dressed felt like climbing a mountain. My family didn’t just fill in the gaps; they anticipated them. They cooked meals I could stomach, handled logistics I couldn’t face, and took on the invisible weight of holding everything together.
It wasn’t obligation. It wasn’t pity. It was love in its most practical form—love that rolls up its sleeves and gets to work. They became part of my resilience equation, proving that sometimes strength is less about standing alone and more about letting others stand with you.
They Reflect Your Courage Back to You
Cancer has a way of making you forget what you’ve already survived. In my lowest moments, when doubt clouded my vision, my family became my mirror. They recounted battles I’d fought before, decisions I’d made with resolve, and challenges I’d once deemed impossible but overcame anyway.
Their words weren’t just encouragement—they were a lifeline. They reminded me that courage isn’t a permanent state; it’s a flame that sometimes flickers and needs others to shield it from the wind.
The Guilt of Being the Patient
For someone used to being the provider, the protector, the one others leaned on, needing care felt foreign and uncomfortable. I wrestled with guilt—guilt that my illness shifted burdens onto the people I loved. Guilt that they had to rearrange their lives because mine had been upended.
The lesson was humbling: sometimes the most courageous thing you can do is to receive love without apology. To let it in fully, without diminishing its gift by calling yourself a burden.
The Fear They Don’t Speak
My family did their best to shield me from their own worry. They wore brave faces, but I could still see the shadows behind their eyes. There was a silent language between us—fear unspoken but deeply understood.
We learned, slowly, to talk about the hard things. To acknowledge the uncertainty without letting it crush us. Some days, we chose distraction—movie nights, inside jokes, anything to feel normal. Other days, we sat in the raw truth, holding it together with nothing more than shared presence. That balance—between naming the elephant in the room and refusing to let it trample us—became an act of resilience in itself.
The Gift of Being Seen
In the end, my family didn’t just stand beside me—they became part of me. They showed me that resilience is not a solo performance. It’s a choir. It’s a web. It’s the shared heartbeat of people bound together by love and belief.
They reflected back more than my own strength—they revealed my grace in surrender, my patience in uncertainty, and the quiet, enduring power of being fully seen.
Because sometimes the greatest gift we can receive is not someone’s help, but their willingness to see us exactly as we are, even when we’ve forgotten ourselves.
“Sometimes the people who love you most are the ones who remind you who you are—especially when you forget.”
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True leadership recognizes the power of interdependence.
Even the strongest leaders benefit from a support system that reflects their strengths, bears burdens they cannot carry alone, and reminds them of their courage and value. Allowing others to stand with you—and to see you fully, flaws and all—is not a sign of weakness, but a way to sustain resilience and lead more authentically.
It underscores that leadership isn’t just about what you do alone; it’s also about cultivating and leaning into a network of trust, care, and mutual support.
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Who in your life or team acts as a mirror for your strengths, and how often do you allow yourself to receive their support without feeling the need to ‘perform’?
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Hope can be a powerful force. So can disappointment. After CAR-T therapy gave me a glimpse of healing, a single phone call changed everything. The cure I had dared to believe in slipped through my fingers—and a new, harder path emerged.
Tomorrow, I’ll share how I found strength in the most unexpected places: a nurse’s gentle voice, a colleague’s quiet support, a message from someone I hadn’t spoken to in years. Their resilience became my own. Their stories, their presence, their belief in me—those were the lifelines that carried me forward when I couldn’t carry myself.
If you’ve ever needed someone else’s courage to find your own, this story is for you.
