Ch 3: The First Choice
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That night, I faced my first real decision after the diagnosis: how to tell my kids, my parents, my team. I rehearsed the words in my head, searching for a version that might make it easier for them—but there wasn’t one.
So, I chose honesty. Not dramatics. Not false optimism. Just the truth, delivered with calm.
There’s a moment after a diagnosis when silence can feel heavier than any words. I had just read the message—Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia—alone at first, the room unbearably quiet, the words pressing down on me like a weight I had to carry by myself. Then my wife entered, and everything shifted. Her presence grounded me, reminding me that even in fear, I was not alone.
We sat together, stunned, the room impossibly still, as if time itself had paused to let the weight of those words settle. We searched for answers, trying to understand the science, the statistics, the treatment paths. But no amount of research could soften the truth: I had cancer.
And now, I had to tell the people I love.
The Weight of Disclosure
Telling your spouse is one thing. Telling your children is another. Telling your team—your colleagues, your peers—is something else entirely.
But the hardest call I had to make was to my parents.
I remember pacing, phone in hand, rehearsing the words in my head. I wanted to sound calm. I wanted to protect them from the fear I was feeling. I wanted to be strong—for them.
But the moment my dad answered, and I heard his voice—steady, familiar, safe—I broke.
I tried to speak, but the words caught in my throat. My voice cracked. And then the tears came—sudden, uncontrollable, like a dam had burst inside me. I slumped in my chair, hand covering my face, sobbing into the phone.
I could hear my mom in the background, asking what was wrong, her voice rising in panic. When I finally managed to say, “It’s Leukemia… I have Leukemia,” there was a beat of silence. Then I heard her say, “Oh no,” in a way I’ll never forget—worried, fragile, full of fear. It was the sound of a mother’s heart breaking.
Then came my father, trying to stay composed, asking questions I couldn’t answer. I had never felt so small, so helpless. I wasn’t the executive in that moment. I wasn’t the leader. I was just a son, terrified of what was coming, terrified of what this news would do to the people who raised me.
That call shattered something in me. It stripped away the armor I had worn for decades. There was no script for that moment. No strategy. No strength—just raw, human pain.
And yet, in that vulnerability, something else began to take shape: the first flicker of truth. The first step toward acceptance.
The Executive’s Dilemma
As a leader, I’ve always believed in transparency. But this was personal. Vulnerability in the workplace isn’t always easy—especially when you’re the one people look to for stability.
I remember drafting the message to my team. I wanted to strike the right tone: informative, but not alarming. Human, but not heavy. I wanted them to know I was still here, still engaged, still committed to the business—even as I faced the biggest challenge of my life.
That message was my first quiet act of resilience.
The Power of Presence
What followed surprised me.
Support came from every corner—emails, texts, calls, handwritten notes. People didn’t just respond with sympathy; they responded with strength. They mirrored the tone I had set. They leaned in.
And that gave me something I hadn’t expected: a sense of continuity. I wasn’t stepping away from my life. I was stepping into it more fully.
Even during treatment, I stayed connected. I joined Teams calls from the cancer center, tubes in my arm, camera on. I contributed to strategy sessions while undergoing infusions. I wasn’t trying to prove anything—I was trying to preserve something.
My sense of self.
My role.
My purpose.
One of the most meaningful gestures came from my close friends in Rocklin, California. They suggested we start a fantasy basketball team together. It wasn’t just about sports—it was about commitment. It was their way of saying, “We’re in this with you.” Over the course of the long NBA season, that team became a source of joy, distraction, and connection. It was something fun to look forward to, something that pulled my mind away from treatment and back into life. Their invitation was simple, but its impact was profound. It reminded me that presence doesn’t always come in the form of grand gestures—sometimes, it’s just showing up with something light, something human, something that says, “You’re not alone.”
Choosing to Show Up
That choice—to show up, to speak up, to stay engaged—wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was powerful.
It reminded me that resilience isn’t just about enduring pain. It’s about choosing how to live through it. It’s about deciding, moment by moment, who you want to be in the face of adversity.
And sometimes, the strongest thing you can do is simply tell the truth.
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Leadership Lesson: Vulnerability can strengthen trust and connection.
This chapter shows that leadership isn’t about always projecting unshakable strength—it’s about having the courage to share the truth, even when it’s uncomfortable or deeply personal. By being open about hardship, you give others permission to respond with empathy, support, and solidarity.
In moments of adversity, vulnerability doesn’t weaken your role as a leader—it deepens it. It transforms leadership from a position of authority into a shared human experience, building a stronger foundation of trust that can carry a team, a family, or a community through difficult times.
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When facing personal or professional challenges, how comfortable are you with showing vulnerability, and how might doing so strengthen the trust and connection with the people you lead?
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Tomorrow, I’m sharing the story of how cancer forced me to rebuild my mornings—piece by piece, moment by moment.
It’s about clawing my way out of bed when my body refused to cooperate.
It’s about keeping a morning routine, not because I felt strong, but because I needed something worth holding onto.
It’s about stepping away from the work I loved—and realizing that sometimes surrender is the most courageous leadership decision you can make.
And it’s about how a Lego race car, a few handwritten notes, and the kindness of a team reminded me that resilience is built on small wins… and the people who believe in you when you can’t believe in yourself.
Tomorrow, I’ll tell you why my mornings became my sanctuary—and how that simple ritual kept me tethered to hope.
