One of the most important things I learned this year is that there isn't a trophy for suffering.
When some friends found out I have cancer, a few reacted. They apologized for not knowing sooner, for not being there "with me."
My answer was always the same: "My shit didn't stop your shit."
I did not say it defensively or with malice. I said it because it was true. I understood almost immediately that I had a level of privilege going into this that many people never get. I have a great support system. I live in a major city with access to high-quality care. I have insurance and good jobs. My wife and I have savings, and my family could help if we ever needed it. I have a strong mind and a body that was healthy before cancer got here.
That matters. And it does not erase the reality that this is now part of my life.
Cancer is not a chapter or a season. It does not historically go quietly into the night. So this will be ongoing. It is something I will carry.
And not everyone signs up for that. My wife did. My mom did. Nobody else is supposed to.
Somewhere along the way, many of us learned that pain has to be shared to be valid. A lot of my old nonprofit colleagues know that lesson well. We learned that if you are not visibly struggling, you must be hiding. Because if people do not know everything, how can they know how brave you are? When they cannot see it, it makes them uncomfortable.
I've never believed that.
What I have always believed — and what I have tried to write about for years — is the value of being rooted in yourself first. Trust yourself enough to decide what support you actually need, in a life that can be long and short at the same time.
This experience reminded me that there is no moral high ground in suffering. I am not going to win a prize for endurance. There is no extra credit for making it harder on yourself so other people can feel included or absolved.
People are allowed to keep living while you navigate something life-altering. Their lives do not pause because yours does.
In the same vein, you are allowed to choose who is in your corner for the long haul.
If there are lessons here, they aren't about cancer. It is about being honest with yourself about capacity, releasing guilt that does not belong to you, and letting support be real — not symbolic.
There is no trophy for how much you can carry alone. There is only the quiet, personal work of choosing what you protect, who you let close, and how you want to live after something changes you.
If you are carrying something heavy right now, this is not a reminder to be tougher or louder. It is a reminder that you get to decide what is shared, what is held, and who earns proximity to it.
How often do we confuse proximity with care, and visibility with love? How easily can guilt sneak in on both sides? I wonder if a lot of us are exhausted not because we are unsupported — but because we are carrying things that were never meant to be mutual.