Ch 11: Rising From the Bottom
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After the transplant, my body was completely destroyed.
There’s no gentler way to say it. The treatment had done its job—wiped out my immune system, cleared the slate—but it left me in a state I could never have imagined. I wasn’t just weak. I was hollowed out. A shell.
And then, on New Year’s Eve, I was released from the hospital. It was a quiet moment, but deeply symbolic. A subtle reminder that this wasn’t just the end of a brutal chapter—it was the beginning of a new one. A new year. A new life.
But here’s the wild thing about a stem cell transplant: my blood is no longer my own. It’s my son’s. His cells moved in, took root, and rewrote me at the most fundamental level. If you were to test my DNA through my blood today, it wouldn’t match me—it would match him. (Which means if I ever committed a crime and left blood behind, the cops would be knocking on his door. Sorry, Danny!)
I was required to stay close to the hospital for 90 days. Not because I was healing—at least not yet—but because I was vulnerable. Dangerously so. Any infection, any complication, could have been catastrophic. I needed to be within minutes of emergency care at all times.
I couldn’t walk more than a few steps without help. I couldn’t shower without getting exhausted. I needed a wheelchair just to get from the hospital parking lot to the doctor’s office. And once I got there, I often slept through the visits as they poked and prodded, gave me infusions of magnesium, potassium, or whatever the bloodwork showed I was missing that day.
On top of that, I was taking upwards of 40 pills a day to manage the side effects. It was a complex regimen of drugs, each designed to suppress my immune system to prevent rejection—but that same suppression made recovery even harder. Every pill was a reminder that my body wasn’t mine yet. That healing wasn’t just about strength—it was about endurance.
It was humbling. It was brutal. It was bottom.
But I made it through—day by day.
There was no grand comeback moment. No cinematic turning point. Just small, stubborn steps. A little more strength. A little less pain. A little more hope. I had to rebuild everything from the ground up. Not just my body, but my identity. My sense of control. My understanding of what it meant to be strong.
This was not the resilience I knew before. This was something deeper. More primal. It wasn’t about pushing through. It was about surrendering to the process, trusting that healing was happening even when I couldn’t see it.
I borrowed strength again—this time not just from my son, whose cells were now becoming part of me—but from the nurses who held my hand when I was too weak to speak. From my family, who showed up every day with love and patience. From the quiet voice inside that whispered, “You’re not done yet.”
This was the valley. The bottom. But it was also the beginning of the climb.
And slowly, I began to rise.
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True leadership is revealed in moments of profound weakness.
When everything familiar is stripped away—strength, control, routine—you are forced to confront the raw realities of dependence, endurance, and patience. Rising from the bottom teaches a leader that progress is rarely dramatic or immediate; it comes in small, deliberate steps.
This process cultivates humility, because you recognize that no achievement is purely your own—support from others, guidance, and shared strength become essential. It also fosters empathy, as enduring hardship firsthand allows a leader to deeply understand the struggles of those they lead.
Resilience, in this context, is not about “pushing through” or projecting invincibility—it’s about surrendering to the process, trusting the unseen progress, and embracing incremental growth. Leaders who experience the climb from their lowest point learn that strength is relational: it is built by leaning on others, allowing others to lean on you, and finding the courage to persist even when the path forward is unclear.
Ultimately, this kind of leadership is transformative. It shifts the focus from individual achievement to collective endurance, from control to guidance, and from authority to presence. Leaders who have risen from the bottom bring a depth of perspective, patience, and authenticity that inspires trust and loyalty in those around them.
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When you are at your lowest, how do you rise—not just for yourself, but in a way that strengthens and inspires those around you?
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Leaving the hospital wasn’t the finish line—it was the threshold. Reentry wasn’t a return to normal—it was the start of something entirely new.
My body was fragile, my mind clouded, my energy unpredictable. But the hardest part wasn’t physical—it was identity. For decades I had led with confidence and strength. Suddenly, I wasn’t sure who I was anymore.
Tomorrow, I’ll share the untold side of recovery: what it means to grieve the leader you once were, to battle “chemo brain,” and to discover new ways of living and leading—built not on intensity, but on empathy, grace, and courage.
Come back tomorrow for the story of reentry—the sacred, humbling work of beginning again.
