He Walked Away from My Pain — But I Walked Into My Power

I’m thirty-seven. Seven months ago, I was diagnosed with cancer.

The treatments were brutal—the sleepless nights, the fear, the constant ache. But I held on, because I believed love meant standing together through the worst.

Then one morning, as I was finally beginning to recover, my husband packed his bags, emptied our joint account, and said the words I’ll never forget:

“It’s too hard watching you suffer. I need to move on.”

I just stared at him—not in anger, but with a quiet smirk. Because what he didn’t know was that I’d already prepared for this moment.

Months earlier, when I saw him growing colder—staying out late, speaking less, looking at me like I was already gone—something inside me shifted.

I opened a separate bank account under my own name and moved most of my savings there. Not out of spite, but survival.

I had prepared for the worst—medically, emotionally, and financially.

The Diagnosis

My name is Claire, and the day that changed everything started like any other Tuesday. I was at my annual checkup, expecting the usual routine—blood pressure, weight, the doctor asking if I was exercising enough and eating my vegetables. Instead, Dr. Patterson’s face grew serious as she examined my test results.

“Claire, I’d like to run some additional tests,” she said carefully. “There are some irregularities that concern me.”

Three weeks and countless appointments later, I sat in an oncologist’s office listening to words that didn’t feel real: Stage two breast cancer. Aggressive. Treatment needed immediately.

I remember driving home in a fog, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles went white. I rehearsed how I’d tell my husband, Daniel. We’d been married for nine years—not perfect years, but years I thought were built on a foundation strong enough to weather anything.

When I walked through our front door, Daniel was on the couch watching television, a beer in his hand. He looked up briefly, then back at the screen.

“You’re late,” he said, not as a question, but as an accusation.

“I need to talk to you about something,” I replied, my voice already shaking.

He sighed, a sound I’d become intimately familiar with over the past year—the sigh that said I was interrupting something more important. “Can it wait? The game’s on.”

“No, Daniel. It can’t wait.” I sat down across from him, forcing him to look at me. “I have cancer.”

The words hung in the air between us. He stared at me for a long moment, and I watched his face cycle through emotions I couldn’t quite read. Shock, yes. But also something else. Something that looked almost like… inconvenience.

“Cancer,” he repeated flatly. “What kind?”

“Breast cancer. Stage two. I start treatment next week.”

He set down his beer and rubbed his face with both hands. “Jesus, Claire. This is… I don’t know what to say.”

I wanted him to hold me. I wanted him to tell me we’d get through this together. I wanted him to be the man I’d married, the one who had promised to stand by me in sickness and in health.

Instead, he said, “How long will the treatment take?”

“Months. Maybe longer. It depends on how I respond.”

He nodded slowly, but his eyes had already gone distant. That was the first moment I understood: I would be fighting this battle largely alone.

The Slow Unraveling

The first round of chemotherapy hit me like a freight train. I’d read about the side effects, prepared myself mentally for the nausea and fatigue. But nothing prepares you for the reality of your body turning against itself while poison courses through your veins, killing the bad cells but taking good ones with it.

I lost my hair within two weeks. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror one morning, running my fingers through what remained, watching clumps fall into the sink. I thought about crying, but I’d already cried so much that week that my tears felt depleted.

Daniel knocked on the door. “You almost done in there? I need to get ready for work.”

I opened the door, my hands still full of fallen hair. He looked at me—really looked at me—for the first time in days. His face showed a flash of something that might have been sympathy, quickly replaced by discomfort.

“You should probably just shave it,” he said. “It’ll be easier.”

Then he brushed past me to the shower, leaving me standing there with my hair in my hands and a hollow feeling in my chest that had nothing to do with cancer.

That afternoon, my best friend Maya came over with lunch she’d made—chicken soup, which she claimed was from her grandmother’s recipe that could cure anything. We sat at my kitchen table, and I told her about the hair, about Daniel’s reaction.

“He’s scared,” Maya said, always trying to see the best in people. “Men don’t always know how to handle these situations.”

“I’m scared too,” I replied. “But I’m still here, Maya. I’m still showing up.”

She reached across the table and took my hand. “I know you are. And I’m showing up too. Whatever you need, whenever you need it.”

That promise meant more to me than she could have known. Because as the weeks went on, Daniel showed up less and less.

He started working late. Not occasionally, but consistently—every night, sometimes not coming home until I was already asleep. The few evenings he was home, he’d eat dinner in front of the television, responding to my attempts at conversation with one-word answers.

“How was your day?”

“Fine.”

“Dr. Chen said the treatment is working. The tumor is shrinking.”

“Good.”

“I’m really struggling today. The pain is bad.”

“Take your medication.”

It was like living with a ghost—the outline of a person I’d once known, all substance drained away.

The Shift

Three months into treatment, something changed in me. It wasn’t a sudden revelation, but a slow dawning understanding that crept in during the long hours I spent alone, feeling my body fight for survival while my marriage quietly died.

I was lying in bed one night, too nauseous to sleep, when I heard Daniel come home. It was past midnight. I heard him move around downstairs, heard the refrigerator open and close, heard his footsteps on the stairs.

But instead of coming to our bedroom, those footsteps stopped at the guest room.

He’d been sleeping there for weeks, claiming my restlessness kept him awake, that he needed good sleep for work. But in that moment, listening to him settle into a different room, a different bed, in the house we’d bought together—I understood with perfect clarity that he’d already left me. He just hadn’t made it official yet.

The next morning, I got up early despite my exhaustion and went through Daniel’s study. I wasn’t looking for anything specific—maybe that’s a lie. Maybe I was looking for confirmation of what I already knew.

I found it in his laptop history. Dating sites. Messages to women whose profile pictures showed them smiling, healthy, whole. Women who weren’t fighting for their lives. Women who wouldn’t require the inconvenience of care or compassion.

One message thread made my stomach turn:

Her: How long have you been single?

Daniel: Technically still married, but it’s complicated. She’s sick. I’m basically on my own.

Her: That must be so hard for you.

Daniel: You have no idea. I feel like I’m losing my life watching hers fall apart.

I closed the laptop and sat there in his desk chair, staring at nothing. Part of me wanted to scream, to confront him, to demand he explain how the man who’d promised forever could be so eager to write me off before I was even gone.

But a stronger part—a part I was just beginning to discover—understood that confrontation would be pointless. He’d already made his choice. My job now was to make mine.

That afternoon, I called my financial advisor, Margaret Chen, someone I’d worked with before I married Daniel. We’d let our finances merge over the years, the way couples do, operating out of joint accounts and shared investments.

“Margaret,” I said when she answered, “I need to set up a separate account. Just in my name.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Is everything alright, Claire?”

“No,” I said honestly. “But it will be. I’m making sure of it.”

Over the next week, working between treatment sessions and moments when I had enough energy to think clearly, I systematically separated my financial life from Daniel’s. I moved my salary—I’d continued working remotely through treatment, determined to maintain some sense of normalcy—into the new account. I transferred savings that I’d brought into the marriage. I documented everything, carefully and thoroughly.

I didn’t take anything that was his. I wasn’t trying to punish him or hide assets. I was simply claiming what was mine and protecting it for the battle I knew was coming.

My oncology nurse, Patricia, noticed the change in me. “You seem different today,” she said during one treatment session. “More… present.”

“I’m preparing,” I told her.

“For what?”

“For whatever comes next. All of it.”

She squeezed my hand, understanding in her eyes that went beyond words. Later, she brought me a small bracelet from the hospital gift shop—cheap metal with the word “Hope” engraved on it.

“For strength,” she said. “Not just for fighting cancer, but for fighting whatever battles you’re facing.”

I wore it every day after that, a reminder that hope isn’t passive. It’s a choice you make, over and over, especially when everything else is falling apart.

The Abandonment

Four months into treatment, I started to feel the shift—not just emotionally, but physically. The exhaustion that had been my constant companion began to lift, just slightly. The nausea became manageable. Dr. Patterson’s scans showed the tumor continuing to shrink, my body responding to the treatment better than we’d initially hoped.

“You’re doing remarkably well,” she told me during one appointment. “I’m cautiously optimistic.”

I should have been relieved. I should have been celebrating. Instead, I felt a strange sense of dread, like standing at the edge of a cliff knowing you’re about to fall but not knowing exactly when.

The fall came on a Saturday morning. I woke to find Daniel standing in our bedroom doorway—the first time he’d been in that room in weeks—already dressed, a duffel bag in his hand.

“We need to talk,” he said.

I sat up slowly, my body still heavy with the aftermath of treatment. “Okay.”

He didn’t sit down. He didn’t even come fully into the room. He stood there in the doorway like he might need to make a quick escape.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said, his voice flat and rehearsed. “It’s too hard watching you suffer. I need to move on.”

The words should have hurt more than they did. Maybe I’d been preparing for them so long that they’d lost their power to wound. Or maybe I was just too tired to feel anything beyond a dull acceptance.

“Move on,” I repeated. “You mean leave.”

“I need to think about my own wellbeing,” he continued, as if reading from a script he’d practiced. “This situation isn’t healthy for me. The stress, the constant worry—it’s affecting my work, my life, everything.”

“Your wife having cancer is affecting your life,” I said, hearing the edge in my voice. “Imagine how it’s affecting mine.”

He flinched but pressed on. “I’ve been looking at apartments. I found a place downtown. I’m moving out today.”

“Today.”

“I think it’s better to just… make a clean break.”

I watched him standing there, this man I’d built a life with, this person who’d promised to stand beside me through everything. And I realized I didn’t know him at all. Maybe I never had.

“The bank accounts—” he started.

“Already handled,” I interrupted. “I moved my money weeks ago.”

His face showed genuine surprise for the first time in months. “What? Why would you—”

“Because I saw this coming, Daniel. I saw you pulling away. I saw you checking out of our marriage while I was fighting for my life. So I protected myself.”

“That’s—you had no right to—”

“I had every right. It’s my money, from my work. I didn’t touch anything that was yours.”

He opened his mouth to argue, then seemed to think better of it. “Fine. Whatever. My lawyer will be in touch about the divorce.”

“I’m sure he will.”

He turned to leave, then paused. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t want it to be this way.”

“Yes, you did,” I said quietly. “You wanted an easy exit, and you found one. You just didn’t expect me to be prepared for it.”

He left without another word. I heard him moving through the house, collecting things. I heard the front door open and close. I heard his car start and drive away.

And then I was alone in the house we’d shared, in the bed I’d slept in while poison coursed through my veins, surrounded by the deafening silence of abandonment.

I should have cried. I should have broken down. Instead, I felt something unexpected: relief.

The pretense was over. The waiting was done. Now I could focus entirely on the only thing that truly mattered—surviving.

The Recovery

Maya showed up twenty minutes later with coffee and pastries, her face fierce with protective anger.

“I saw his car leaving,” she said, not bothering with pleasantries. “Tell me what happened.”

I told her everything. She listened, her jaw getting progressively tighter, until by the end she looked ready to track Daniel down and exact some form of revenge I didn’t want to think about too closely.

“That coward,” she spat. “That absolute coward. You’re fighting cancer and he—” She stopped, taking a deep breath. “You know what? He doesn’t deserve your tears or your anger or even your thoughts. He’s shown you who he is.”

“I know.”

“So what do you need? What can I do?”

I thought about that question. What did I need? For so long, I’d been focused on survival in its most basic form—surviving cancer, surviving chemotherapy, surviving the slow death of my marriage. But what came next?

“I need to heal,” I said finally. “Not just physically. Everything.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” Maya said firmly. “Starting now.”

She stayed the rest of the day. We ate pastries and watched terrible movies and talked about everything except Daniel and cancer. It was the first normal afternoon I’d had in months, and it felt like breathing fresh air after being underground for too long.

The next day, my neighbor Mrs. Chen knocked on my door with a container of soup. “I heard,” she said simply. “My husband left me during my treatment fifteen years ago. I understand.”

The day after that, Patricia from the hospital stopped by with groceries. “Just wanted to check on you,” she said, though we both knew it was more than that.

A pattern emerged over the following weeks. People showed up. Not people I expected—not my father, who sent a brief email saying he was “disappointed in Daniel” but offered no other support. Not Daniel’s family, who seemingly vanished along with him.

But friends appeared. Neighbors I’d barely spoken to brought meals. Women from my office organized a schedule to help with errands and appointments. Even the teenager across the street started mowing my lawn without being asked.

I’d thought cancer would show me who truly cared. Instead, it was Daniel’s abandonment that revealed the depth of compassion in the world—from places I’d never thought to look.

My treatment continued. The tumor shrank. Dr. Patterson began using words like “excellent prognosis” and “remission possibility.” My hair started growing back, soft and fuzzy like a baby’s. My energy returned, slowly but steadily.

And with each physical improvement, I felt something else growing stronger: myself.

The Rebuild

Six months after Daniel left, I was declared in remission. I sat in Dr. Patterson’s office, hearing the words I’d been working toward for so long, and I cried—not from relief at surviving cancer, though that was part of it, but from the realization of everything I’d survived.

I’d survived cancer. I’d survived betrayal. I’d survived abandonment at my most vulnerable moment. I’d survived discovering that the person I’d trusted most was the one least worthy of that trust.

And in surviving all of it, I’d discovered something Daniel never understood: I was stronger than he ever gave me credit for. Stronger than I’d given myself credit for.

The divorce was finalized without much drama. Daniel wanted it done quickly, probably eager to fully move on to whatever life he’d been building in secret. I let him have the house—I didn’t want to live there anymore anyway, surrounded by memories of the marriage I’d lost and the illness I’d fought within those walls.

I found a small apartment near Maya, with big windows that let in morning light and a balcony where I could grow herbs. It wasn’t much, but it was mine, and that made it perfect.

I returned to work full-time, surprised by how much I’d missed it, how good it felt to use my mind for something beyond medical appointments and survival strategies.

But more than any of that, I started thinking about what came next. Not just for me, but for others who’d walked similar paths.

During treatment, I’d joined an online support group for cancer patients. I’d watched people share their fears, their victories, their struggles. I’d seen how often the conversation turned not just to physical healing, but to the emotional toll—the relationships that crumbled, the friends who disappeared, the family members who couldn’t handle the reality of serious illness.

One night, I posted in the group: Has anyone else dealt with abandonment during treatment?

The responses poured in. Dozens of people sharing stories eerily similar to mine—partners who left, families who withdrew, friends who vanished when support was needed most.

My husband left two weeks after my diagnosis, one woman wrote. Said he “couldn’t handle it.” Meanwhile, I was handling cancer and raising three kids alone.

My parents stopped visiting after my second surgery, another posted. Said it was “too depressing” to see me sick.

My friends dropped off one by one, someone else shared. Each treatment session, fewer people asked how I was doing. By the end, I was completely alone.

Reading these stories, I felt both heartbroken and energized. Heartbroken that so many people experienced this particular cruelty on top of fighting for their lives. Energized by the possibility of doing something about it.

The idea came to me fully formed one morning while I was having coffee on my balcony, watching the sun rise over the city. A support group. Not online, but in person. A place where people fighting illness—and the abandonment that often came with it—could find community, understanding, and practical support.

I spent the next month researching. I talked to social workers, therapists, and other survivors. I found a community center willing to donate space for weekly meetings. I created flyers and reached out to hospitals and oncology practices.

Eight weeks after my remission diagnosis, I held the first meeting of what I’d decided to call “Standing Strong”—because that’s what we were all doing, standing strong when others had walked away.

The First Meeting

I wasn’t sure anyone would come. I’d set up chairs in a circle in the community center’s small meeting room, put out cookies and coffee, and waited nervously by the door.

Maya had offered to come for moral support, but I’d asked her to let me do this alone. This needed to be a space for people who understood from the inside what it meant to fight illness while navigating abandonment.

The first person arrived ten minutes early—a woman around my age with a scarf covering her head and the telltale pallor of recent chemotherapy.

“Is this the support group?” she asked hesitantly.

“It is. I’m Claire. Welcome.”

“Rachel,” she said, shaking my hand. “My husband left three months ago. Right after my diagnosis.”

“Mine left four months into treatment,” I told her. “You’re not alone.”

By seven o’clock, twelve people sat in that circle. Twelve people who’d been left behind by partners, family members, or friends during their medical battles. Twelve people who’d been told in various ways that they were too much, too sick, too inconvenient.

We went around the circle, each person sharing their story. I went first, setting the tone by being honest about Daniel’s abandonment, about my anger and hurt, about the small ways I’d learned to rebuild.

Rachel went next, her voice shaking as she described her husband packing his bags while she was still recovering from surgery. “He said he couldn’t be expected to give up his life just because I was sick. Like my cancer was some kind of lifestyle choice I’d made that affected him.”

A man named Tom shared about his family withdrawing after his diagnosis. “They visited once in the hospital. Once. Then nothing. No calls, no texts. I’d see their posts on social media, all of them together at family dinners I wasn’t invited to anymore. Like I’d died already and they’d just forgotten to tell me.”

Maria talked about her partner leaving after five years together. “She said watching me go through treatment was triggering her anxiety. That she had to prioritize her mental health. But what about mine? Who was prioritizing mine?”

Each story added weight to what we all knew but needed to hear acknowledged: we weren’t imagining the cruelty. We weren’t being oversensitive. What had happened to us was real, and it was wrong.

But more than that, we were still here. Still fighting. Still standing.

By the end of that first meeting, something had shifted in the room. People who’d arrived alone and defeated left with phone numbers exchanged, with plans to meet for coffee, with the understanding that they had a place to come where their experience was recognized and validated.

“Same time next week?” I asked as people gathered their things.

The chorus of yeses filled me with more hope than I’d felt in months.

The Growth

The group grew. Word spread through hospitals, oncology wards, and the quiet underground network of people fighting illness. By the third month, we’d outgrown the small room and moved to a larger space. By the sixth month, we had a waiting list.

But it wasn’t just about size. It was about what happened in those circles every week.

People arrived broken and left slightly less so. They came alone and found community. They shared their darkest fears and were met with understanding rather than judgment.

We developed systems to help each other practically. A ride-share network for treatment appointments. A meal train for people too weak to cook. A buddy system for the hardest days.

Patricia, my oncology nurse, started referring patients to the group. Dr. Patterson mentioned it during consultations. Other survivors found us through word of mouth.

And slowly, I watched people transform—not because their medical situations improved, though some did, but because they stopped being alone in their suffering.

Rachel, who’d cried through that first meeting, became one of the group’s strongest voices, mentoring new members with a fierce protectiveness. Tom reconnected with his siblings who’d withdrawn, setting boundaries but leaving space for reconciliation. Maria left her partner officially, finally accepting that someone who abandoned you during crisis didn’t deserve a place in your recovery.

As for me, I found purpose in a way I never had before. My job had always been just a job—something I was good at, but not something that fed my soul. This group, these people, this work—it mattered in a way nothing else had.

Maya noticed the change. “You’re glowing,” she said during one of our weekly dinners. “I mean, your hair’s grown back and that helps, but it’s more than that. You look alive again.”

“I feel alive,” I told her. “For the first time in years, maybe longer. I’m not just existing. I’m actually living.”

The Encounter

Nine months after Daniel left, I saw him at a coffee shop downtown. I was meeting Rachel to discuss expanding the group, and he was in line ahead of me, ordering something complicated that involved multiple modifications.

He turned with his drink and almost ran directly into me. His face went through a series of expressions—surprise, discomfort, maybe something that could have been guilt.

“Claire,” he said. “Hi.”

“Daniel.”

We stood there awkwardly, the line of customers flowing around us like water around stones.

“You look… good,” he said, which was possibly the most inadequate thing he could have said given the circumstances.

“I’m in remission,” I replied. “Have been for six months.”

“That’s great. Really great. I’m glad.”

I studied him, this man I’d loved, and felt absolutely nothing. Not anger, not hurt, not even mild curiosity about his life. He was just a person I used to know, someone who’d played a role in my story but wasn’t part of the narrative anymore.

“I should apologize,” he said, lowering his voice. “For how I handled things. The timing, everything. It wasn’t right.”

“No, it wasn’t,” I agreed. “But it’s done now.”

“Are you… I mean, how are you doing? Beyond the medical stuff?”

I thought about telling him about the support group, about the community I’d built, about discovering strength I never knew I had. But he didn’t deserve those pieces of my story.

“I’m doing well,” I said simply. “Better than I’ve been in a long time, actually.”

He nodded, looking oddly disappointed, like he’d expected—or maybe wanted—to find me devastated by his absence. “That’s good. That’s really good.”

Rachel appeared at my elbow. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic was—” She stopped, looking between Daniel and me, reading the situation with practiced ease.

“Rachel, this is Daniel. My ex-husband. Daniel, this is Rachel, a friend.”

The word “friend” didn’t do justice to what Rachel had become—a sister in survival, a companion through darkness—but it was enough for this moment.

“We should go,” Rachel said, taking my arm. “We have a lot to discuss.”

As we walked away, I heard Daniel call after me: “I really am glad you’re okay, Claire.”

I didn’t turn around. I didn’t need to. His approval, his relief, his guilt—none of it mattered anymore.

Outside, Rachel looked at me carefully. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, surprised to find it true. “I really am.”

The Anniversary

A year after my diagnosis, I organized a special meeting for the group. Not our usual circle of sharing, but a celebration. We’d lost some members—not to abandonment but to illness, and we honored their memory. But we’d also seen triumphs: people entering remission, completing treatment, rebuilding lives.

I stood in front of the group—now thirty-seven strong—and looked at the faces that had become my chosen family.

“A year ago,” I said, “I was diagnosed with cancer and simultaneously discovered that my marriage was already over. I thought I’d lost everything. My health, my partner, my future. I felt alone in a way I’d never experienced.”

I paused, letting the memory of that darkness wash over me without pulling me under.

“But I wasn’t alone. None of us are. Because we found each other. We built this space where abandonment doesn’t get the last word. Where illness doesn’t define us. Where survival is something we do together.”

I held up my wrist, showing the cheap bracelet Patricia had given me. “Someone once gave me this as a reminder to hope. But hope isn’t just waiting for things to get better. It’s actively building the life you want, even when everything seems to be falling apart. It’s choosing to stand up every time life knocks you down. It’s finding strength not despite the pain, but because of it.”

Rachel started clapping, then Tom, then Maria, and soon the whole room was applauding—not for me, but for all of us, for every small victory we’d achieved together.

After the meeting, Patricia pulled me aside. She’d been attending when her schedule allowed, offering professional insight but mostly just presence.

“You know what you’ve created here, don’t you?” she said.

“A support group?”

“More than that. You’ve created proof that healing isn’t just about the body. It’s about the whole person. It’s about connection and community and refusing to let abandonment be the end of your story.”

She hugged me tight, and I felt the weight of how far I’d come, how much I’d transformed from the terrified woman lying in a hospital bed a year ago.

The Lesson

Today, I’m thirty-eight. My hair has grown back, though it came in different than before—curly instead of straight, like my body decided to remake itself entirely. I have a small scar from my port removal that I wear without shame. I have a circle of friends who’ve seen me at my worst and love me anyway.

I have a purpose that gets me out of bed every morning, eager to see who might walk through our meeting room door, who might need the community we’ve built.

The divorce is final. Daniel remarried quickly—to someone he’d apparently been seeing even before he left me, which didn’t surprise me but didn’t hurt either. That life, that version of myself who’d needed his approval and love, felt like someone I used to know rather than someone I used to be.

I’m dating again, slowly. Learning to trust, learning to let someone see my scars—physical and emotional—without fear that they’ll run. It’s terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.

But more than anything, I’ve learned that the people who leave you during your darkest moments do you a favor, even if it doesn’t feel like it at the time. They clear space for the people who are worthy of your strength, your vulnerability, your survival.

Daniel walked away from my pain. He couldn’t handle the reality of illness, the inconvenience of a wife who needed support rather than just giving it. And in walking away, he gave me the greatest gift: the chance to discover who I was without him, without anyone who saw me as a burden.

I walked into my power. Not because I wanted to, but because I had no choice. And in doing so, I found a strength I never knew existed, a community I never knew I needed, and a purpose that makes every hard moment of the past year worth it.

The bracelet Patricia gave me still circles my wrist, the word “Hope” catching light whenever I move. But I’ve added others—gifts from group members, tokens of survival and solidarity. Each one tells a story of someone who fought, who survived, who refused to let abandonment be the end.

My name is Claire. I’m thirty-eight years old. I’m a cancer survivor. I’m divorced. And I’m more fully alive than I’ve ever been.

Because here’s what I learned: When someone walks away from your pain, they’re telling you everything you need to know about their capacity for love. Real love doesn’t flee from suffering. It doesn’t calculate the cost of care. It doesn’t weigh whether someone is “worth” the trouble of standing beside them during crisis.

Real love shows up. It stays. It holds your hand through the dark nights and celebrates the small victories and never, ever makes you feel like your struggle is a burden.

And if you don’t have that kind of love from the people you expected it from? You build it yourself. You find it in unexpected places. You create community where there was isolation, hope where there was despair, strength where there was only fear.

You survive. You rebuild. You become the person you never knew you had the strength to be.

And when people ask me how I made it through cancer and abandonment simultaneously, I tell them the truth: I didn’t make it through alone. I made it through by understanding that being alone and being lonely are different things. I made it through by finding family in faces I’d never seen before, by accepting help from hands I’d never held, by trusting that survival is something we do together, not despite our broken pieces but because of them.

That’s what Standing Strong means. Not standing without support, but standing because of it. Not pretending you don’t need anyone, but understanding that needing people isn’t weakness—it’s human.

Daniel thought leaving made him strong, made him free. But all it made him was absent. He missed watching me transform from someone who was afraid of being left to someone who was grateful to have been left behind, because being left behind meant I could finally move forward.

And I’m still moving, still growing, still standing. Not for him, not because of him, but despite him.

Standing strong, surrounded by people who understand that the truest form of love is presence, and the greatest form of power is choosing to survive—not just for yourself, but for everyone who comes after, everyone who needs to know that abandonment isn’t the end of their story.

It’s just the beginning of a different, stronger, more authentic one.