Beyond Survival, Into Leadership

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Ten years ago, my life took an unexpected turn: I was diagnosed with cancer.

Those moments cracked something open in me. Conversations with strangers cut straight through the small talk and into the heart of things—fear, hope, grit, love. And in that rawness, I noticed something: people relate to their diagnosis in dramatically different ways.

Some see it as a chapter—painful, intense, but ultimately finite.
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Others weave it into their identity so thoroughly that it becomes the lens through which they interpret everything. They don’t just move through the experience; they become it.

Whether it’s cancer or any life-altering event or relationship, it’s worth examining the choice we make about how tightly we hold on. Tiny shifts in attention, tone, or energy can reveal how much of our present is still being hijacked by our past.

There are benefits to clinging to the story—comfort, gentleness from others, protection, even a sense of belonging. But it’s a slippery slope.

How long do we stay tethered to the event itself instead of distilling what it gave us—perspective, gratitude, clarity—and letting the rest fall away?

Years ago, I listened to something Debra Jarvis said, which, to this day, has never left me. As a hospital chaplain, she visited a woman in remission who recounted her cancer journey with such intensity that it was as if she were still in the middle of chemo. While she recounted her story, her daughters quietly removed themselves from the room, having lived the story with her, over and over, and now not wanting to revisit it yet again.

In her TED talk, Jarvis begins by asking an audience member:

“Tell me three things about yourself that help me understand who you are.”
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How many people, without hesitation, list their survival story or a moment of injustice?

It’s fascinating—and sobering—to consider how we choose the identities that we lead with. What we cling to as “my story” can be less about resilience and more about limitation. A past pain held too tightly can quietly dictate our choices, our relationships, our confidence, our courage.

Jarvis recounts saying something both bold and compassionate to that woman:

She wasn’t diminishing her suffering—she was inviting her to stop living in it. The woman had become so attached to the identity of “cancer survivor” that she inadvertently trapped herself there. Her needs were being met by a story that no longer served her.

Jarvis believes that to truly heal, the crucified self—our wounds, our grief, our old identity—must be allowed to die. Only then can something new be born.

And this is where leadership enters.

To be a leader worth following requires courage—not the absence of fear, but the willingness to release what’s outgrown. So let me ask you:

What are you holding onto that no longer serves the leader you’re becoming?
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What story are you willing to set down so that growth and expansion have room to take root?
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And, are you approaching your leadership from a place of clarity that aligns with who you want to be, not who you’ve been?

Your experiences matter—but they are not the sum of your identity.

Claim your experience and use it as fuel. Don’t let it claim you.