When the Silence Got Loud

The day I was diagnosed with stage 3 colorectal cancer, everything got very quiet.
Not in the room. The doctor kept talking. Words like “radiation,” “chemotherapy,” and “surgery” filled the space. But inside, something went still.
I remember thinking: This can’t be happening. I’m too active. Too healthy. Too needed.
I had kids who still needed their dad. A life that was moving fast. A body I trusted.
And suddenly, I didn’t trust it at all. Then my marriage began to crumble and the stress piled on further.
In the days after diagnosis, fear didn’t show up dramatically. It showed up at night. When the house was quiet. When the distractions faded.
It showed up in the question I didn’t want to say out loud: What if I don’t get to see my kids grow up?
That was one of the hardest moments.
What got me through wasn’t bravery. It was music.
Radiation and chemo attack the body. Fear attacks the mind. And if you don’t guard your mind, it spirals fast.
Before treatment even began, I recognized that music reminded me of who I was before cancer. When everything collapses into “patient,” you need something that says, you are still you.
Some nights I sat alone with headphones on, volume up, letting the rhythm steady my breathing.
Later, during treatment, when fatigue blurred the edges of the day, and nausea made everything smaller, I set up my old drumset and began to play. I hadn’t played seriously in years. There was something grounding and playful about creating sound when my body felt fragile. Something defiant about rhythm.
Cancer tries to shrink your world. Music kept me from closing in.
Treatment brought its own hardest moments.
Radiation pains. Chemo brain fog and fatigue. Surgery humbles you in ways you don’t expect.
After my surgery and temporary ostomy, I had to learn my body again. There is nothing glamorous about that process. There are days you don’t feel strong. You feel small. Dependent. Exposed.
On the worst days, my coping strategy wasn’t heroic. It was simple.
Make it through today. Drink water. Drive my kids to practice. Show up for the appointment.
Whether you’re 22 and pausing college or 35 and pausing a career, cancer interrupts who you thought you were becoming. It presses pause on a version of your life that suddenly feels out of reach.
After treatment ended, routine mattered even more. When there were no daily medical battles to fight, the routine gave my mind something steady to hold onto.
In the military, structure keeps you alive. During cancer, structure kept me steady.
Morning walks, even if they were slow. Morning yoga, beginning with restorative.
Breathwork before scans.
Short workouts when my body allowed it. More intense physical therapy when my body was ready.
Micro-goals. Not “beat cancer.” That was too big.
When fear tried to leap months ahead, I brought it back to minutes.
At the same time, my marriage was unraveling. Separation. Trying to steady my kids while I was unsteady myself. Supporting someone else’s mental health while my body was fighting to heal.
There are no scripts for fighting cancer while your family is shifting underneath you.
“Keep F’ing Going!” “You’ll get through this.”
Those phrases don’t land when everything feels unstable.
What carried me wasn’t advice. It was presence.
Former squadronmates showed up. Friends who understood loyalty. Their extended circles.
They didn’t try to fix me. Instead, they sat with me and helped me feel normal.
They checked on my kids and even brought them to meet a professional hockey player while I was recovering in the hospital.
They stayed, even when I insisted I was fine. I’ve since realized they were carrying their own fear quietly, even while holding mine.
Shared silence did more than any speech ever could.
Strength started to look different. For most of my life, strength meant pushing through. No weakness. No fear.
Cancer stripped that illusion away.
Strength became saying, “I’m scared.” Strength became taking a nap without guilt.
Saying no. Letting people help.
Letting myself grieve the life I thought I was going to have.
Gentleness wasn’t weakness. It was honesty.
After treatment ended, I expected relief. Instead, I felt unmoored.
During chemo and radiation, there was structure. Appointments. Protocols. A clear enemy. But when the appointments slowed down, the silence returned.
Surviving and living were not the same thing. There were nights I lay awake wondering why I didn’t feel grateful enough. Wondering why I felt unsettled when everyone else was celebrating.
I tried to make routine my anchor again.
And then one unexpected conversation happened. I flew to Arizona and met my coach, Rick.
He didn’t ask about my scans. He asked me who I wanted to be now.
I didn’t have an answer.
Cancer had reduced everything to survival. I didn’t know who I was beyond appointments and recovery timelines.
That question didn’t fix anything overnight.
But it reminded me I was still allowed to imagine a future, even if I wasn’t sure what it looked like yet.
At one point during recovery, I decided to thank my body.
I apologized for ignoring it for years. For assuming it would always just perform.
And then I thanked it for enduring radiation, surviving chemotherapy, and healing after surgery.
For letting me water ski again.
For letting me wake surf again.
Every scar told a story. Every ache reminded me I was still here.
When people ask what got me through, they expect one big answer.
There wasn’t one.
It was music in the dark, structure when everything felt unstable, and friends who refused to disappear.
It was my kids — my mission.
It was breath.
It was choosing, sometimes minute by minute, to stay.
Not because I wasn’t afraid. But because I was.
If you’re in the middle of treatment right now or just heard the words no one wants to hear — know this:
You don’t have to be fearless. You don’t have to be inspirational, and you don’t have to know who you’ll be on the other side.
Sometimes what gets us through is smaller than that.
One song, one walk, one person who stays.
One breath.
And sometimes, for today, that is enough.

——————————

kfgproject.org

Virtual Community: skool.com/kfg

The KFG Project is a registered 501(c)(3) nonprofit dedicated to supporting Adolescent and Young Adults (AYAs), Military, Veterans, Emergency Responders, and their Families as they face the challenges of cancer, whether as Patients or Caregivers. We provide professional life coaching and integrative healing modalities to help individuals rediscover identity, restore purpose, and move confidently through survivorship.