My ‘One Word’ this week is: OVERREACTING

𝐌𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐮𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐚 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐮𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐮𝐬 𝐰𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐞.

That happened to me at 26.

Everyone told me I was overreacting to the pain I was feeling in my groin. That I was fine. That it was probably nothing.

But I knew something wasn’t right.

So I went alone for a scan. That part still sticks with me.

The technician didn’t say a word. Left the room. Came back with the doctor. More scanning. More silence.

They told me I’d get the results in a few days.

A few days later, I heard four words that froze my life in place: 

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐫 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫. 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝟐𝟔.

When I was a kid, cancer meant one thing. People died.

So my first thought wasn’t treatment or timelines.

It was this: I’m going to die.

My whole life was still ahead of me. How could this be happening now?

And then everything else rushed in at once.

• Would I ever be a dad?
• I had just committed to the woman who would become my wife.
• Would she leave because I might not be able to have kids?
• How would I pay for treatment with the insurance I had?
• Would my company let me go once I needed time off?
• What would my life even look like on the other side of this?

That’s what cancer does.

In an instant, it strips life down to essentials.

Everything you thought mattered suddenly doesn’t. The only thing that does is survival.

Here’s the part I didn’t expect.

That word cancer didn’t just change my life then.

It’s been shaping how I live ever since.

Thirty-two years later, every hard moment, every fear, every decision gets run through a quiet filter in my head:

𝐈𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐢𝐠 𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫?

Most of the time, it isn’t.

That perspective doesn’t erase fear. But it calms it. It clarifies what matters. It makes decisions simpler.

The silver lining of my illness, and there always is one, was this:

𝐈𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐳𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞.

Today, I’m grateful to say I have two adult children (the old-fashioned way).

Their happiness and success matter more to me than anything I build, earn, or achieve.

And now, watching my daughter in medical school ask me questions about my cancer experience feels like a full-circle moment I never could’ve imagined at 26.

I often say this, and I mean it:

𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐠𝐢𝐟𝐭.

Not because it was easy. But because it forced clarity.

My hope in sharing this isn’t sympathy. It’s awareness.

You don’t need a diagnosis to wake up. You don’t need a shoe to drop to get your priorities straight.

Life changes in a snap. Don’t wait for fear to teach you what matters.

If this resonates, you’re not alone.