Ch 9: The Shift in Perspective
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Time became sacred—not something to manage, but something to honor.
Before cancer, I treated time like a resource to be optimized. Every hour had to be productive. But when you’re told your time might be limited, you stop trying to manage it—and start revering it. I began to see time as a gift, not a guarantee. I learned to be present in the moment, not just efficient in the day.
I stopped measuring life in milestones and started measuring it in moments.
Promotions, achievements, accolades—they used to be the markers of progress. But lying in a hospital bed, what mattered most were the small, quiet moments: a hand held, a laugh shared, a sunrise seen. Those became the true milestones. The ones that made life feel full.
Priorities shifted from achievement to presence—from doing more to being more.
I used to chase the next goal, the next win. But cancer stripped all that away and asked me: Who are you when there’s nothing left to prove? I realized that being present—with my family, my team, myself—was more powerful than any accomplishment.
Legacy stopped being about what I built and started being about who I impacted.
I once thought legacy was about structures—companies, strategies, systems. But now I see it’s about people. It’s about the lives you touch, the encouragement you offer, the example you set. Legacy is not what you leave behind—it’s what you leave within others.
Letting Go of Old Definitions of Success
Success used to mean titles, outcomes, recognition.
I won’t lie—those things mattered to me. They validated the hard work. But when you’re stripped of your role, your routine, your ability to contribute in the ways you’re used to, you’re forced to ask: If I’m not my title, who am I?
Now, it means alignment—living in a way that reflects my values.
Success today looks like integrity. It looks like making decisions that align with who I am, not just what I want. It’s about leading with authenticity, not authority. It’s about being the same person in the boardroom as I am at the dinner table.
It means showing up fully, listening deeply, and leading with heart.
I used to think leadership was about vision and execution. Now I know it’s also about presence. It’s about being fully there for your people. Listening not just to respond, but to understand. Leading not just with your head, but with your heart.
It means leaving people better than I found them.
That’s the new metric. Did I encourage someone today? Did I help someone feel seen, heard, valued? If I did, that’s success. Because in the end, people won’t remember your résumé—they’ll remember how you made them feel.
Preparing for the Transplant
When the path forward is steep, you don’t climb it with strength alone—you climb it with surrender.
Before the planning for the stem cell transplant even began, I met with my local oncologist. He sat across from me, looked me in the eye, and said gently, “I’m sorry you’re going to have to go through this.” At the time, it didn’t land. I had endured chemotherapy, hospitalizations, and their side effects before, and I suppose I thought this would be another hard—but manageable—treatment. How wrong I was. His words would echo in my mind later, when I realized just how much this procedure would demand of me.
After the call with my oncologist, I stood still for a long time. The world kept moving around me—cars passed, birds chirped, the sun kept shining—but inside, everything had gone quiet. I had just learned that I would need a stem cell transplant. A procedure that would take me to the edge of myself—physically, emotionally, spiritually—and ask me to trust that I could come back.
I didn’t feel brave. I felt broken.
But I also knew I wasn’t done fighting.
The Emotional Preparation
Emotionally, preparing for the transplant was like preparing for a storm you couldn’t outrun. I had to face the reality that this wasn’t just another treatment—it was a full reset. High-dose chemotherapy would wipe out my immune system. Radiation would follow. Then, the donor’s stem cells would be infused, with the hope that they would take root and rebuild me from the inside out.
It was terrifying. Not just because of the risks, but because of what it required: surrender. Surrendering control. Surrendering certainty. Surrendering the version of myself I had clung to. I had to grieve the life I thought I’d be returning to. I had to sit with the fear that this might not work. And I had to find a way to believe in something I couldn’t yet see.
I leaned hard on the people around me. I had long conversations with my wife, my kids, my closest friends. I wrote letters—just in case. I prayed. I cried. I let myself feel everything, because I knew I couldn’t carry it into the transplant with me. I had to go in clear. Empty. Ready.
The Physical Preparation
Physically, the preparation was grueling. There were tests—so many tests. Scans, labs, pulmonary function, cardiac clearance. Every part of my body had to be evaluated, measured, and cleared for what was ahead.
I also met with my oncologist in Denver to go over all the information I would need. He handed me a one-inch thick binder—my new survival manual. Page after page spelled out do’s and don’ts, what to bring to the hospital, what to avoid, even down to which lotions might help guard against Graft-versus-Host Disease.
At the time, I didn’t fully grasp what that meant. But I would come to understand it deeply.
Graft-versus-Host Disease, or GvHD, is what happens when the donor’s stem cells—meant to save your life—begin to see your body as the enemy. They attack. Not out of malice, but out of confusion. It’s the paradox of healing: the very thing meant to restore you can also threaten you. GvHD can affect the skin, the gut, the liver, the eyes, the lungs—sometimes all at once. It’s unpredictable. It’s relentless. And it’s a reminder that this journey isn’t just about surviving cancer—it’s about surviving the cure.
The binder also included “Activities and Lifestyle Considerations” for after the transplant—covering everything from sports, to yard work, to simple daily habits most people never think twice about. It was extensive. It was overwhelming. It was a reminder that nothing in my life would be untouched by this procedure.
I tried to stay strong. I walked when I could. I ate when I could. I rested when I couldn’t do either. But the truth is, nothing can fully prepare you for what a stem cell transplant demands. You just do your best. You show up. You trust the process. And you hold on.
And in the middle of it all, I remembered my oncologist’s words: “I’m sorry you’re going to have to go through this.”
Now, I finally understood. This wasn’t just another round of treatment. This was a dismantling and a rebuilding. A stripping down to nothing and a hoping for rebirth. His words weren’t a warning of pain—they were an acknowledgment of the courage it would take to walk through fire, knowing it was the only way forward.
I packed a bag for the hospital with more intention than I’d ever packed anything in my life. Notebooks. Photos. A sweatshirt that still smelled like home. I wasn’t just packing for a hospital stay—I was packing for a journey into the unknown.
Borrowed Strength, Again
In the days leading up to the transplant, I found myself reaching for strength wherever it might be hidden, borrowing it from the smallest gestures and quietest moments. There was the nurse who looked me square in the eye and said with unwavering warmth, “You’re not alone,” as if those words alone could anchor me amidst the storm. A simple note from a friend arrived, just three words scrawled on a card: “Thinking of you.” It was brief but enough—a reminder that someone, somewhere, was holding me in their thoughts. My wife was a constant presence, her hand clasping mine tightly, never once letting her fear show on her face, even when I knew it must have been there. And then there were my children—their laughter, bright and unguarded, cutting through the heaviness of the days, reminding me why I was fighting with everything I had.
I didn’t feel ready for what lay ahead. I was scared, uncertain, raw. But I was willing. And sometimes, just being willing is enough to carry you through the darkest nights.
Looking Back
When I think back to that early conversation with my oncologist, I hear his words differently now. “I’m sorry you’re going to have to go through this.” At the time, I couldn’t grasp the weight of what he meant. Later, I lived it. And now, on the other side, I’ve come to translate it into something new:
“I’m grateful I went through this, because it changed me.”
The journey stripped me bare, but it also gave me clarity. It showed me what truly matters—time, presence, people, love. And though I would never wish the road on anyone, I can say honestly: I am not the same man who walked into it. I am stronger, softer, more present, more human. And for that, I am thankful.
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True leadership is not just about achievement or authority.
It’s about presence, authenticity, and impact. When time and circumstances are stripped down to their essence, leadership becomes less about what you do and more about how you show up for others. Presence, listening deeply, and leading with heart create a legacy that endures beyond titles and accomplishments. Leading with authenticity, valuing moments over milestones, and leaving people better than you found them is the most profound measure of success.
This chapter also highlights the power of surrender: a leader doesn’t need to control everything to lead effectively. Sometimes, resilience is built through presence, humility, and trusting both yourself and those around you.
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When was the last time you measured your leadership not by outcomes or accomplishments, but by the presence, support, and impact you had on the people around you? How can you prioritize being fully present and leaving others stronger in your daily leadership?
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Resilience isn’t just about bouncing back. It’s about rebuilding—slowly, painfully, and sometimes with borrowed strength.
Tomorrow, I’ll share the story of the day everything changed: the transplant that wasn’t just science, but grace. A moment when my son’s gift became my lifeline, when Christmas was spent in a sterile hospital room, and when I learned the humblest, hardest lesson of all—sometimes, the people you once carried will carry you.
It’s a story of rhythm, of discomfort turned into a teacher, and of the sacred bond between father and son.
Come back tomorrow—I promise, this one will stay with you.
