Ch 2: The Illusion of Control
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In business, control is currency.
As an executive, I built my life around structure, strategy, and systems. I led teams through crises, navigated uncertainty, and made high-stakes decisions with limited information. I thrived in chaos—so long as I had a plan.
But cancer doesn’t care about your plans.
The Operational Mindset
In the days after my diagnosis, I defaulted to what I knew best: I tried to manage it. I built spreadsheets for lab results, color-coded calendars for appointments, and asked questions like I was preparing for a board presentation.
I needed to understand everything—prognosis, treatment options, timelines. I needed to know what came next, and after that, and after that. I convinced myself that if I just worked hard enough, stayed organized enough, thought clearly enough—I could stay ahead of it.
But cancer doesn’t care about your clarity.
The Cracks in the System
The first crack appeared when I realized how little was actually in my control. Blood counts that shifted overnight. Side effects that arrived like uninvited guests. Doctors who said, “We’ll have to wait and see,” as if waiting were easy.
But waiting wasn’t easy. It was excruciating.
I remember sitting in a sterile treatment room, watching the IV drip into my arm, and thinking: This is the first time in my life I can’t outwork the problem. I couldn’t lead my way out of it. I couldn’t delegate it. I couldn’t fix it.
That’s when the truth began to settle in: control isn’t strength. It’s comfort. And sometimes, it’s a lie.
Staying Connected
Still, I wasn’t ready to let go—not completely. I needed to stay connected to work, not just for the business, but for myself. It was a lifeline to the person I used to be.
So I showed up. Even from the infusion chair.
There I was, logged into Teams calls while I was being infused with platelets, magnesium, and potassium to help steady the rapidly increasing white blood cells. I kept my camera on. I contributed. I reviewed documents. I gave input. I clung to the rhythm of work like a raft in a storm.
It wasn’t about denial. It was about dignity. About holding on to something familiar in a world that suddenly wasn’t.
Letting Go, Gaining Ground
Letting go didn’t happen in a single moment. It came in waves—when I stopped trying to predict every outcome, when I allowed myself to rest without guilt, when I finally admitted I was scared. More scared than I’ve ever been.
And strangely, that’s when I began to feel stronger.
Not because I had control, but because I had clarity. I began to focus on what I could influence: my mindset, my attitude, my presence with the people I love. I started measuring progress not in test results, but in moments of peace, connection, and courage.
A New Kind of Strength
There’s a quiet power in surrender—not giving up but giving in to the truth of what is. It’s not weakness. It’s wisdom.
I had spent decades building systems to manage risk. Now I was learning to live with it. And in that space—between what I could control and what I couldn’t—I found something unexpected:
Resilience.
Not the kind that rushes to action, to solutions, but the kind that stands still. The kind that breathes. The kind that waits.
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True strength comes from knowing what to let go of.
Leaders often equate control with competence—believing that if they can organize, plan, and anticipate every variable, they can secure a favorable outcome. But some challenges—whether in business or life—refuse to be managed into submission.
This chapter reveals that leadership isn’t about clinging to control at all costs. It’s about the humility to accept uncertainty and the wisdom to shift focus toward what you can influence: your mindset, your presence, and the way you show up for others. Surrendering the illusion of control doesn’t make you weaker—it frees you to redirect your energy toward the things that truly matter.
In the end, the leader who can stand steady in the unknown inspires more confidence than the one who tries to control the uncontrollable.
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When faced with a situation you can’t control, how do you decide what to hold on to and what to let go of—and how does that choice shape the way you lead?
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Tomorrow’s post was the most difficult to write.
It’s about the moment you have to say the words out loud—the words you wish you could unhear.
It’s about the phone call that strips away every ounce of your professional armor, leaving you not as the leader, not as the executive, but as someone’s child… terrified.
It’s about how a single conversation can shatter you—and still, somehow, plant the first seed of resilience.
Tomorrow, I’ll share the story of telling my parents I had leukemia… and what that moment taught me about leadership, presence, and the quiet power of simply telling the truth.
