Ch 4: Rituals of Resilience
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Cancer strips away many things—certainty, vitality, even the sense of who you are. But it doesn’t take everything.
In the quiet hours before the world stirs, I discovered something unexpected: mornings held a kind of sacred power. Amid the fog of treatment, fear, and fatigue, they became my sanctuary. A space I could still shape. And so I did.
The Ritual of Rising
Some mornings, I didn’t rise—I clawed my way out of a pit. Chemotherapy had a way of hollowing me out from the inside. My body was constantly sick, my mind clouded by a fog so thick I sometimes forgot what day it was. I’d sit on the edge of the bed, trembling, nauseous, and unsure if I could stand. The mirror didn’t show me—it showed a stranger. Pale. Sunken. Lost.
There was one morning I’ll never forget. I had just finished a particularly brutal round of chemo. I hadn’t eaten in two days. My skin felt like paper. I tried to get up, but collapsed back into bed, tears spilling before I could stop them. I wasn’t crying from pain—I was crying because I didn’t recognize myself anymore. I felt broken. Useless. Done.
But even then, something stirred. A whisper, not a roar. “Try again.” So I did. I sat up. I breathed. I opened the blinds and let the morning light touch my face. That was all I could manage. But it was enough.
Reclaiming Routine
I began to craft a morning rhythm—not because I felt strong, but because I needed something to hold onto. Wake. Shower. Dress like I was heading to the office—even if I wasn’t. It wasn’t about pretending life was normal. It was about preserving dignity, identity, and a sense of control.
Routine became my quiet rebellion. Against chaos. Against helplessness. Against the narrative that cancer had taken everything.
Even on infusion days, I kept the rhythm. I prepared like I was going into a meeting. Because in truth, I was—meeting myself where I was, and choosing to show up.
When the Body Says Stop
Eventually, the toll became unbearable. Eating was a chore. Sleep was a stranger. My thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind. I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t lead. I couldn’t even fake it anymore.
That’s when I made another intentional choice: I stepped away. I took a leave of absence.
It felt less like a choice and more like failure. My identity had always been so deeply intertwined with my work. I wasn’t just walking away from a job—I was stepping back from a part of myself. Would I still matter? Would I still be me?
But my body wasn’t asking anymore—it was demanding. My mind was fraying. My spirit was dimming. And I knew, deep down, that if I didn’t stop, I might not make it through.
So I surrendered. And I learned that sometimes the bravest thing a leader can do is admit they can’t do it all.
Rituals as Anchors
When everything feels out of control, ritual becomes a lifeline. Cancer doesn’t just disrupt your body—it fractures your sense of time, identity, and safety. The days blur. The nights stretch. You wake not knowing what your body will feel like, what the labs will say, or whether you’ll have the strength to get out of bed. In that kind of chaos, ritual isn’t just helpful—it’s essential.
One of the hardest days came over Mother’s Day weekend. I was supposed to be on a plane, flying to see my son graduate with his master’s degree—a moment I had looked forward to with pride. But I couldn’t go. My immune system was too fragile, the risk of infection too great. To make matters worse, that was the weekend my hair began falling out in large clumps. I eventually shaved my head. Alone, in the quiet of that moment, I felt stripped bare—physically, emotionally, spiritually.
But I wasn’t without tools. I turned to ritual. I prayed. I made tea. I breathed. These small, steady acts became anchors—reminders that even in grief, I could still choose presence.
Some rituals were small, almost invisible: cradling the warmth of my favorite coffee cup each morning, listening to the same playlist on the drive to the cancer center, wearing the same soft sweatshirt to every infusion. They weren’t just habits—they were anchors. They whispered that I still had choices.
Some were about movement: pushing myself to walk outside after treatment, even when my legs felt like stone. I needed the sun’s warmth, the bark of trees under my fingertips, the taste of fresh air—proof that life was still happening, and I was still in it.
Some were about meaning: opening a devotional, scrolling a leadership quote, or sitting quietly with no words at all—just breathing, letting my soul catch up with my weary body.
The Power of Small Wins
Every morning I chose to rise, I was practicing resilience. Not loudly. Not perfectly. But faithfully.
And resilience began to show up in unexpected ways.
My team at Wawanesa sent care packages—food, clothing, handwritten notes, and even a Lego F1 race car and motorcycle. At first, I smiled at the idea. But soon I realized: these weren’t just toys. They were tools, designed to keep my finger dexterity active. Each piece I snapped together reminded me that healing isn’t just physical—it’s emotional, mental, and deeply personal.
Those packages were more than gifts. They were reminders that I was seen, supported, and cared for. And in those moments, surrounded by plastic bricks and heartfelt words, I found strength in the smallest of wins.
Sacred Rituals
Over time, these rhythms became more than routines. They became sacred—the scaffolding that held me up when everything else threatened to fall apart. They created space for grief, room for gratitude, and whispers of hope.
Healing wasn’t just about the body. It was about remembering who I was—piece by piece, ritual by ritual—until I began to believe again that I could keep going.
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Resilience is built through small, intentional actions.
This chapter illustrates that leadership isn’t only about big decisions or visible achievements—it’s also about the quiet, consistent choices you make each day to preserve your purpose, identity, and well-being. By creating small routines, honoring personal rituals, and celebrating incremental progress, leaders can sustain themselves through the most difficult circumstances.
Showing up—even in a limited capacity—signals commitment, models perseverance, and reinforces the idea that progress doesn’t have to be monumental to be meaningful. True leadership recognizes that maintaining momentum in adversity often starts with the smallest, deliberate steps.
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What small, intentional actions or routines could you create in your life to maintain resilience and presence, even during periods of stress or uncertainty?
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Tomorrow, I’m sharing the chapter of my cancer journey I almost didn’t write.
It’s about the day the chemo didn’t work.
It’s about reading the worst news of my life—not from my doctor’s voice, but from the cold glow of an email.
It’s about who showed up without asking… and who quietly disappeared.
And it’s about the hardest leadership lesson I’ve ever learned—one that had nothing to do with boardrooms, and everything to do with letting go of pride and learning to receive.
Because resilience isn’t just about standing tall. Sometimes, it’s about letting others hold you up.
