Ch 12: Reentry
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Emerging from the depths of treatment wasn’t a finish line—it was a threshold. After months of hospitals, infusions, isolation, and uncertainty, I found myself back in the world I had once moved through with ease. But nothing felt easy anymore. Reentry was not a return to normal—it was the beginning of something unfamiliar. My body was different. My energy unpredictable. My immune system fragile. But it wasn’t just physical; reentry tested my very identity.
For decades, I had built a career defined by decisiveness, presence, and strength. I was the one people turned to in a crisis, the one who led from the front. And suddenly, I wasn’t that person anymore. I couldn’t be. My body wouldn’t allow it. My mind was still catching up. And my spirit—though resilient—was tired. Grieving the loss of who I was as a leader took a heavy toll on my psyche. I remember sitting alone in my home office, staring at my calendar, realizing I didn’t have the stamina to attend meetings the way I used to. I couldn’t travel. I couldn’t lead with the same intensity. For a moment, I questioned whether I still belonged in the role at all. It wasn’t just about work—it was about identity. Who was I if I couldn’t lead the way I always had? Was I still valuable? Was I still relevant?
Then there was chemo brain—a fog that settled over my thoughts, making it harder to concentrate, to recall details, to process complex information. I found myself second-guessing my ability to engage in strategic discussions, to make sound decisions, to lead with the clarity that had once defined me. It was disorienting and deeply unsettling. For someone whose leadership was rooted in sharp thinking and confident execution, this cognitive uncertainty felt like a quiet erosion of self. That internal dialogue was brutal. It chipped away at my confidence. It made me feel like I was watching my former self from a distance—close enough to remember, but too far to reach.
And yet, slowly, I began to rebuild. One conversation at a time. One act of grace at a time.
There were moments of joy, too. Small victories. A walk around the block. A full night’s sleep. A laugh that didn’t feel forced. These became my new milestones. And then there was the quiet work of reintegration—relearning how to lead with empathy, reconnecting with colleagues who had carried the torch in my absence, rebuilding routines that honored my limits without compromising my purpose.
But even in remission, the reminders of what I’d been through were never far away. The transplant had saved my life, but it had also left me vulnerable in ways I never expected. One of the lasting side effects is a heightened susceptibility to skin cancer—a consequence of the intense treatment and the immune system’s altered state. Now, every time I step outside, I do so with caution. Sunscreen is non-negotiable. A wide-brimmed hat shields my face. Long-sleeved shirts protect my arms. These aren’t just habits—they’re lifelines. They’re daily acknowledgments that healing doesn’t mean forgetting. It means adapting.
I learned that healing doesn’t end when treatment does. It continues in the way you show up—in meetings, in relationships, in moments of solitude. Reentry was humbling. It was slow. It was sacred. And it taught me that survival is not the same as living. Living requires intention. Living requires courage.
Living requires grace.
And so, I began again.
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Reentry after a major disruption—whether illness, personal crisis, or organizational upheaval—reveals that leadership is not just about maintaining authority or driving results. True leadership emerges in the ability to adapt, to recognize your own limitations, and to rebuild thoughtfully and intentionally. It requires humility to accept that you cannot lead exactly as you did before, and courage to show up even when your confidence is shaken.
This chapter illustrates that leadership is relational: it depends on connecting with those around you, listening deeply, and collaborating with empathy. It shows that performance isn’t just about efficiency or decisiveness—it’s about presence, care, and impact on others. Survival or returning to “normal” is not the end goal; leadership is a continuous practice of aligning your actions with your values, honoring your own limits, and redefining what it means to contribute.
Ultimately, reentry teaches that a leader’s influence is measured not only by what they accomplish but by how they navigate vulnerability, rebuild trust, and inspire others through resilience, patience, and grace. It’s a reminder that leadership is not static—it evolves with circumstances, experience, and self-awareness.
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When faced with a period of personal or professional disruption, how can you adapt your leadership style to honor both your own limits and the needs of those you lead, while still creating impact and fostering trust?
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Cancer taught me many lessons, but none more profound than this: grace and gratitude are not feelings—they are choices. And they’re not always easy ones.
Some days, gratitude felt impossible. Some days, grace felt out of reach. Yet in the presence of my family, the kindness of nurses, and even the smallest victories—like a laugh that didn’t feel forced—I discovered that healing wasn’t just about my body. It was about perspective.
Tomorrow, I’ll share how grace softened my hardest moments, how gratitude reshaped my leadership, and why choosing both has become the most powerful practice of my life.
Come back tomorrow—I think you’ll see yourself in this one.
