One slow-as-mud day in elementary school, I was called into the principal’s office, and then my life split back and forth. There was no room in my trapper’s planner for the words, “Your father has cancer.” There was no script for watching him disappear. Then I didn’t have it because of my mother’s diagnosis. And when mine came, ironically I wasn’t lost. Three shocks, each one more unplanned than the last.
There are no Pinterest boards for this. There is no proper checklist. You don’t really need a bucket list. What’s there, as I’ve discovered over and over again, is people.
And here’s the catch. To need someone, you have to admit that you need that person. It’s vulnerability, and it’s about as comfortable as attending a black tie dinner in your pajamas.
I’ve always prided myself on being strong, or at least portraying myself as strong in public. stoic. Someone who “has it together.” I was often told, “You’re strong.” It felt like a compliment, so I kept asking for validation. But the truth was not. Strength, at least in our definition, is a weight, not a badge. And if you hold on to it for too long, it doesn’t make you stronger. It crushes you.
In his book, Give and Take, Adam Grant reminds us:
“The most meaningful way to be successful is to help others succeed.” True strength lies in lifting others, not in carrying burdens alone. ”(1)
When my father became ill, my young self tried to make do. But grief isn’t something you can schedule or manage on your own. It will leak out. Break down the carefully built walls. Perhaps it comes up when you’re watching Armageddon, where – spoiler alert – Bruce Willis sacrifices himself by staying on an asteroid to detonate a bomb. Or the sadness remains like a pit in your stomach, causing actual physical pain, lack of sleep, crying alone, and a real sense of abandonment.
When my mother was diagnosed, I wanted to be a capable daughter. That person understood every aspect of the diagnosis, fed them, encouraged them, provided assistance in every way, and got them through the storm. But strength didn’t protect me from fear, nor did it replace the need for someone to just sit next to me. Instead, my strength put me in a negative position, kept me busy with work, and prevented me from being as considerate as my mother might have needed.
And when it was my own diagnosis, I didn’t want to ask for help. I didn’t want to be poor. I didn’t want to be that person. But I was. I.
Vulnerability is the price of connectivity
Researcher and author Brené Brown says it best: “Vulnerability is the birthplace of connection and the path to a feeling of worth.”
she’s right. Vulnerability feels exposed, raw, messy, and unfiltered. But it’s also the only way to build a true connection. It’s scary to ask for help, to ask for prayer, to admit that you can’t carry it all. And that is what brings love.
Being strong is not the answer, but being courageous is. It takes real courage to ask for help. It’s about letting go of your fears, hopes, and pain and being vulnerable enough to trust another person. Through my breast cancer journey, I learned how much courage it takes to reach out to breast cancer. I sought out mentors who had walked this path before, joined online communities, and found people in the church who understood the unique challenges of breast cancer. At that time, I wasn’t just looking for advice or support, I was looking to see myself reflected in others. The first act of reaching out, admitting that we can’t do it alone, was the beginning of a connection. And often, the foundations of true community are built in the simple act of finding friends, people who say “me too.”
C.S. Lewis said, “Friendship is born the moment one person says to another, ‘What! You too? I thought I was the only one.'” (2) Friendships, in their purest form, are the first bridge from isolation to belonging, and it is through these connections that we begin to experience the strength and comfort of community.
Brown also reminds us that “connections are why we are here. It is what gives purpose and meaning to our lives.” That’s true. You never realize how much you need someone until life takes a turn.
unplanned community
Communities emerge in unexpected ways. Sometimes it looks like a casserole on the porch. Sometimes, a card just randomly ends up in the mail from a friend who knows that sending you that “this sucks” feeling is exactly what you need. Even though people at work know that you’re wearing a wig on your bald head from chemotherapy, they may say to you with enthusiasm and sincerity, “Your hair looks great today.” Sometimes a stranger in an online group will type exactly what you needed: “Me too.”
Communities can be transactional, and that’s not a bad thing. meal. vehicle. Prayer messages received from all over the country. The doctor explains something for the fifth time because your brain is still spinning. These small interactions can make the unbearable a little more bearable.
Community can also mean unity. A patient sits in the IV chair next to her and smiles knowingly. A widow who has walked this path before is not afraid of your tears. A circle of people in your Healthcare Sharing Ministry (HCSM) who share your name and your story in prayer.
Build before you need it
The problem is that you can’t build community in the middle of a crisis. You take advantage of what you have already invested. Mine was built by faith, friendship, and the imperfect but solid structure of my HCSM. It wasn’t perfect, but it was there. And when you’re fighting for your life, it’s all there.
The community doesn’t promise to fix what’s broken. The diagnosis, loss, and fear don’t go away. But it makes survival possible. It reminds us that being human is not about invincibility, but about connection.
Choose connectivity over isolation
If there’s anything I’ve learned through my father’s cancer, my mother’s cancer, and my own cancer, it’s that self-sufficiency is a myth. Strength does not come from silence. Independence won’t save you.
We survive by asking for help, acknowledging our needs, and accepting others, even when it’s uncomfortable. Especially when it’s uncomfortable.
Moments come that we don’t plan for. The question is, who will sit next to you then?
After all, we cannot survive on strength alone. We will live with each other.
Tricia Bell is the Chief Legal Officer of Christian Care Ministries, the nonprofit organization that operates the Medi-Share healthcare sharing program.
(1) “Give and Take: Why Helping Others Promotes Our Success” (Penguin, 2013).
(2) Lewis, C.S. (1971). four loves. harvest book
Photo credit: ©Getty Images/Curly_photo
Tricia Bell is the Chief Legal Officer of Christian Care Ministries/Medi-Share, the nonprofit organization that operates the Medi-Share healthcare sharing program.
