We treat suffering as if it were a mistake—a deviation from our perfect plan, a crack in our carefully laid foundation. We act as though pain is something that only happens when we’ve done things wrong. But life isn’t a neat blueprint.
The myth of a flawless existence is dangerous because it convinces us that pain is a personal failing, something that only happens if you aren’t cautious, resilient, or virtuous enough. The truth is that no one escapes unharmed—not the strongest, the smartest, or the kindest. Everyone, at some point, breaks.
Once we stop viewing our breaking as failure, we begin to see it for what it truly is: an intrinsic part of being human, an experience that binds us together rather than setting us apart.
We’re animals, whether we like to admit it or not. Every creature endures loss—a fox mourning a lost mate, a bird witnessing the destruction of its nest, a whale in profound grief. Suffering is woven into the very fabric of life, a natural consequence of impermanence. Yet uniquely among species, we see pain as a personal shortcoming.
We build meticulously organized lives with plans, goals, and routines, and when something shatters that structure, we treat it like an anomaly—a glitch that shouldn’t have happened. But pain is not a mere blip; it is the cost of living. And if it is universal, perhaps it isn’t meant to be concealed but shared, witnessed, and carried together.
Alfred Adler believed that life is subjective—not because of the events we experience, but because of our perception of those events. That idea saved me. When faced with a total change in identity, when your reflection no longer resembles who you once were, perception becomes all you have. The unavoidable truth is that life ends for us all. We know this, yet live as if we are invincible.
This fact should reshape how we measure our days—not by striving to avoid pain, but by embracing its meaning. Suffering won’t automatically make you stronger; that choice is yours. When you decide to give your pain purpose, something within you shifts. Perspective doesn’t erase the hurt, but it offers a solid ground on which to rebuild.
I once believed that if I strove hard enough—if I stayed strong and focused—I could shield myself from life’s fractures. I thought that enough preparation could keep pain at bay, that vulnerability was a problem to be managed rather than felt. But hardship doesn’t wait for permission—it arrives unbidden and transforms you. Cancer, and all that it brought with it, hasn’t just inflicted damage. It has reshaped me.
The process has made me more genuine, more grounded in the present rather than obsessed with performance. I don’t have a foolproof plan for navigating tough times, but I’ve learned to sit with my struggles, to remain curious, and to shift my question from “Why me?” to “What now?” This journey is molding me into someone I can trust—a person who doesn’t need to appear flawless, but can embrace the complexity and keep moving forward. Perhaps that is the true purpose in all of this: not to escape the mess, but to grow into someone who can navigate it with grace.
The belief that a good life must be spotless only serves to shame us for our scars. It tells us that our suffering is evidence of personal failure and that, when we struggle, we should hide it. Strength is portrayed as unruffled composure, and pain is something to erase before anyone sees it. Yet I believe the opposite is true.
Suffering proves that we are truly present in life—that we’re open to its impact and striving to understand its many facets. We can’t skip the hard chapters, but we can choose how to carry them. We decide what meaning to draw, what empathy to cultivate, and what kind of leadership to offer amid life’s chaos.
This life isn’t neat or polished; it’s raw and real. And that’s more than enough. If you’re moving through your own messy chapter, know this: you’re not off track. You’re alive.
