We treat suffering like it’s a mistake.
A deviation from the plan. A crack in the foundation. Something that shouldn’t be there—especially if we’ve done everything “right.”
But that’s not how life works.
The idea of an unblemished life is a myth.
And a dangerous one, because it keeps us believing that pain is personal. That it only happens to people who weren’t careful enough, strong enough, good enough. That suffering is optional.
The truth?
No one gets out unscathed.
Not the strongest. Not the smartest. Not the kindest or most disciplined.
Everyone breaks at some point.
And once we stop seeing that as failure, we can start seeing it for what it really is:
A shared part of being human. Not a disqualifier, but a deep connector.
Every Animal Suffers
We’re animals, whether we like to admit it or not.
And every animal suffers. A fox loses its mate. A bird’s nest gets destroyed. A whale grieves. Life is built on impermanence, and pain is woven into the design.
We are the only species that treats pain like a personal failure.
We build these carefully curated lives—plans, goals, daily routines—and when something shatters, we treat it like a glitch. Something that shouldn’t have happened.
But pain isn’t a glitch. It’s the cost of being alive.
And if it’s universal, maybe it’s not meant to be hidden.
Maybe it’s meant to be witnessed. Maybe we’re here to walk each other through it.
The Subjective Life
Alfred Adler believed life is subjective. That it’s not the facts of our experience, but our perception of those facts that determine who we become.
That idea saved me.
Because when you’re staring down a total rhinectomy, when your reflection no longer looks like you, when the idea of “normal” becomes a thing of the past—perception is all you have.
And here’s the truth no one wants to admit:
Life has a 100% mortality rate.
We all know it. But we live like we don’t.
That fact alone should change the way we measure our days—not by how little we suffer, but by how much meaning we’re willing to make from it.
Suffering doesn’t automatically strengthen you. That part is up to you.
But when you choose to give your pain a purpose—when you decide it won’t be wasted—something inside you changes.
Perspective is power. It won’t erase the pain, but it gives you a place to stand.
Who It’s Making Me
I used to think that if I stayed strong enough, prepared enough, focused enough—I could keep life from cracking open. That pain could be avoided with enough planning. That vulnerability was something to manage, not feel.
But hard things don’t ask for your permission.
They arrive anyway.
And they change you.
What cancer—and everything that came with it—has done isn’t just damage. It’s reshaping.
It’s made me softer.
More honest.
Less interested in performance, and more committed to presence.
I don’t have a five-step plan for getting through hard things.
But I’ve learned to sit with them. To stay curious.
To stop asking “Why me?” and start asking, “What now?”
This experience is making me into someone I trust more.
Someone who doesn’t need to be shiny or certain.
Someone who can hold complexity, and still move forward.
And maybe that’s the whole point. Not to escape the mess—but to grow into someone who can hold it with grace.
Why It Matters
This myth—that a good life is a spotless one—keeps us ashamed of our bruises.
It tells us that suffering is proof we’ve failed. That if we’re struggling, we should hide it. That strength looks like composure, and pain is something to clean up before you’re seen.
But I think the opposite is true.
Suffering is a sign that we’re in it. That we’re showing up. That we’re allowing life to touch us, and trying to make sense of it in real time.
We don’t get to skip the hard chapters.
But we do get to decide how we carry them.
What meaning we draw. What empathy we build. What leadership we offer in the middle of the mess.
This life isn’t clean. It isn’t polished.
But it’s real. And that’s more than enough.
And if you’re walking through something messy—you’re not off-course. You’re alive.
