Seeking Connection: Finding the Wild Unknown

Healing Through Helping

From my haunting Halloween outing, I realized how little I had in common with my peers. The need for connection weighed on me, but for now with Dr. Sterling’s approval, I returned to work—brace in place, challenges in tow, pain ever-present. Amid all that, I found joy in being useful again, in helping others.

I took it slow, and my employer was incredibly supportive, easing me back into a role that mattered. I assisted in one of the preschool classrooms, where the children greeted me with bright-eyed curiosity. My brace was a novelty to them—unusual, funny, something to be explored. They wanted to touch it, to run their fingers over its shiny parts, their fascination innocent and unfiltered. But in the end, the brace didn’t define me; what mattered was the connection we built.

My imagination has always been vivid, alive. That made interacting with the children even more rewarding. One boy, often distant due to his special needs, struggled to connect with his classmates and teachers. But on the playground, he found me, and together, we sailed into our own world. Pirates aboard a great ship, braving imaginary storms, discovering treasure—his imagination met mine, and we built a space where he belonged.

Between Isolation and Hope

I also connected with a cancer support group, attending meetings and getting to know the members. But even here, where shared experience was supposed to unite us, I found it difficult to fit in. My cancer was rare, unfamiliar to the others, and while they bonded over similar diagnoses, I remained on the outskirts. The divide wasn’t just about the type of cancer—it was about life itself.

At nineteen, I was the youngest by far. The others had spouses, children—some even had grandchildren. Their conversations revolved around milestones I had never reached and might never reach. Each meeting, they caught up with each other, swapping stories of their families, their routines, their memories. I listened, but their words floated past me—I had no tether, no shared experience to latch onto. Instead, my thoughts drifted elsewhere, toward a future I wasn’t sure I had. Could I even set goals? Could I imagine a life beyond this? The statistics in the back of my mind whispered reminders—only fifty percent of people made it to five years. Few lived beyond that.

I didn’t know if I would make it long enough to be married, build a family, create a future. Still, I kept attending the group for a while, because at least it was a place to be around people. But what I longed for was something deeper—a connection with someone who understood me, who stood at the same fragile crossroads I did.

It was dangerously easy to slip into the quicksand of self-pity, and I refused to let myself sink. Pity itself disgusted me—especially when directed at me, my brace, my condition. When people looked at me with sorrow instead of respect, I felt the weight of their assumptions pressing down. I wouldn’t allow myself to drown in that narrative. My life—uncertain, fractured, and wholly mine—was not a thing to be pitied. It was something I would fight for.

Searching For Understanding

In my next appointment with Dr. Sterling, I asked if there were others with my type of cancer—or any form of bone cancer—who were closer to my age. He connected me with someone on his team who said she would look into it. I knew patient privacy would make it difficult, but I appreciated her willingness to try.

I felt a strange mix of nervousness and excitement. Were they doing better than I was? They were further out of treatment—had they found clarity, or were they tangled in the same uncertainty I wrestled with? Did they struggle to connect with others?

On one hand, I longed to find someone who understood this experience firsthand. On the other, I hoped no one else my age had to go through what I was enduring. Eventually, she called with news: she had found two young people who had had bone cancer—one male and one female. Both had agreed to meet me.

I met the guy first. He pulled into our driveway in a 1970s black muscle car, its engine growling with authority. He walked with a cane—a contrast to the effortless confidence of his car. His bone cancer had been in his femur. We talked, swapped stories. He was immersed in his family’s business, speaking with conviction about his brothers, his father, and his future role. His path seemed carved out, unwavering. My uncertainty—my fears about the unknown—never seemed to register. He didn’t express doubts about his future, while I carried the weight of a future I was not even sure existed.

We met a few more times, but the conversations stayed surface-level, skimming across the depths I longed to explore. My excitement for what this connection could be slowly faded, slipping away along with our meetings. The ache of something missing settled deeper inside me.

Eventually, I met the gal. She agreed to meet, but it was clear from the start she wasn’t looking for anything beyond this meeting. We sat at a bar in a crowded restaurant, surrounded by chatter, the hum of voices, and a sports game flashing across the television. The noise made it difficult to hear each other at times, adding to the sense of disconnection.

We talked, shared our stories, ate a meal—but that was it. She seemed determined to leave her cancer experience behind, to put distance between who she had been and who she was now. She was willing to talk, but unwilling to take the risk of diving deeper, of forging something meaningful.

I accepted the exchange for what it was, but I felt the quiet sting of disappointment. I had hoped for more—for a kindred spirit, for a connection that made me feel less alone. But I didn’t let the disappointment settle too deeply. I carried hope into the next opportunity, still believing that somewhere out there, I would find the connection I was searching for.

Echoes of Recovery: Then and Now

I also learned about an organization that hosted weekend workshops for cancer survivors. Fortunately, they offered scholarships, and after applying, I was granted one. With eager anticipation, I prepared to attend the next available session, excited to meet others navigating their own cancer journeys—people seeking growth, understanding, and the chance to learn from their experiences, just as I was.

The venue itself held a quiet, haunting beauty. It was an old tuberculosis treatment site built in the early 1900s, its walls steeped in history that seemed to hum beneath the surface, waiting to whisper their secrets in quieter moments. I was mesmerized by the setting, unaware that one day, I would return here for a work opportunity.

We gathered in the rotunda—a striking, circular space with windows stretching from floor towards the vaulted ceiling, the architecture lending itself to a feeling of reverence. Beyond the windows, nature unfolded in soft hues—the lush greenery of bushes and trees framing abundant beds of flowers. It was the perfect setting for reflection, learning, and connection.

It wasn’t until I arrived that I learned the workshop was designed for both cancer survivors and their support people. I had come alone. The staff assured me I wasn’t the only one, but apprehension tugged at me. Would I be able to truly gain something from this experience on my own?

As I had come to expect, I was the youngest participant by far. The group spanned across generations, reaching all the way to a woman in her 80s. Yet despite the difference in ages, I could feel the energy of possibility—the unspoken understanding that we were all creating something meaningful together in this space.

Still, being surrounded by strangers in such a large group stirred my natural shyness. My nerves pressed against my excitement, leaving me both hesitant and exhilarated. This was my first experience of its kind, and I could feel its significance settling into my bones—I was buzzing with emotion, standing at the edge of something I knew would leave its mark on me.

We spent the weekend exploring the challenges faced by both those battling cancer and the support people walking alongside them—wanting to help but often unsure how. Through guided journaling sparked by thought-provoking questions, group exercises, interactive activities, and meditations, we examined the complexities of these relationships. A few of the experiences from that weekend are still with me today. One of the most striking was the realization of how difficult it is to support someone without strong communication.

A Course in Trust and Communication

To emphasize this, we took part in an interactive obstacle course. When I first heard about it, I felt a rush of excitement—was I capable of completing the challenge? I wanted to rise to the occasion, though I wasn’t sure what was ahead.

We were divided into pairs—one cancer survivor, one support person. As they formed the groups, the air buzzed with waves of anticipation and uncertainty. I was paired with the woman in her 80s, a frail but determined figure who needed a cane or a guiding arm to climb the rotunda stairs. She struggled to hear even in the best conditions. When she learned about the course, uncertainty flickered across her face, but she nodded—she would try.

The obstacle course was no simple feat. We had to guide our partner to climb stairs, descend into a basement thick with abandoned relics, crawl under furniture, and, impossibly enough, get into a shopping cart. Any one of those tasks would have been difficult on its own, especially for someone in their 80s. But the real test? The support person—my 80-year-old frail partner—would be blindfolded. The cancer survivor—me—would have to guide her entirely through verbal communication although they made the accommodation that I would be her physical support because the cane wasn’t feasible to use in the course.

As they walked the cancer survivors through the course first, I took in every detail, knowing I’d have to navigate it guiding my blindfolded partner soon. And then the realization hit—I would have to guide this woman, unable to see, into a shopping cart and push her through the basement.

A surge of angst tightened in my chest. How was I supposed to do this? The logistics felt overwhelming, the weight of the task pressing down on me. I stood there, momentarily frozen, unsure where to even begin.

Trusting the Unknown: A Blindfold, a Voice, and the Test of Support

The facilitators made sure everyone was ready. Each pair had someone blindfolded, standing side by side. Once everyone was lined up, they let the first pair begin.

As the course unfolded, one of the facilitators pulled me aside, recognizing that I had extra challenges to navigate—my partner’s age, frailty, and hearing impairment. She told me I could watch other pairs go through the course first to gather ideas on how best to guide my partner. It felt like a glimmer of light in an uncertain path.

Determined to learn from the challenges and successes of others, I observed every moment with care—watching not just the instructions given, but how they were delivered and interpreted. The cancer survivors had been shown the course beforehand, making them the only ones in each pair who knew what to expect.

I saw frustration flare when guides rushed through instructions, expecting their blindfolded partners to grasp directions immediately. In one case, the blindfolded person remained silent, failing to communicate their needs, leaving their guide blind in an entirely different way—unsure how to help. Yet, when pairs found success, the difference was clear. The best guides paused, listened, adjusted. They engaged in real conversations, working through confusion before moving forward.

Our Turn: The Gift of Communication & Collaboration

I still didn’t fully know how I was going to navigate this course with my assigned partner, but I trusted that everything I had observed would serve me. My doubts lingered, but my confidence had grown.

She took my elbow, and I did my best to describe every detail of what lay ahead—each step, each challenge. When she didn’t understand, I tried again, adjusting until she could grasp the next move. We meandered through the course with care, taking our time, pausing at each obstacle. It was worth it to be mindful, to approach each challenge with patience and precision.

The most difficult obstacles were crawling under furniture and climbing into the shopping cart. When I first explained how she needed to move to crawl under the furniture, frustration flared. I could feel her resistance—the sheer impossibility of the task pressing against her willingness. It was as if she had put up a wall. But compassion and patience chipped away at that barrier, and together, we found a way forward.

By the time we reached the shopping cart, something had shifted. The trust we had built through our first victory emboldened us. We were fully in sync, navigating the final challenge with the confidence of knowing we had already conquered something daunting.

And then—it was done.

Overwhelmed with joy, we embraced, holding onto the triumph we had created together. We expressed our appreciation for one another, for what we had endured and accomplished side by side.

I felt a deep gratitude for the foresight of the facilitators—for allowing me to observe, to learn, to prepare. Without it, I don’t know that we would have been able to achieve what we did.

The Rewards of Transformation Through Challenge

I learned a great deal about myself and others through that experience. I saw firsthand how much stronger we are when we work together to overcome obstacles, achieve our goals, and push beyond what we think is possible. Conquering the shopping cart challenge—something that had initially seemed insurmountable—proved to me the power of collaboration.

Through this, I also came to understand the depth of my own ability to observe. As a quiet child, I had spent years taking in my surroundings, absorbing interactions, watching patterns unfold. But until this exercise, I hadn’t fully realized what those years of observation had given me. The challenge of being quiet and reserved wasn’t just an obstacle—it was a gift, a powerful tool for learning, adapting, and transforming insights into action.

I also discovered something essential: I do have the ability to communicate in difficult situations. When my partner met the challenge with resistance, I faced it with patience, listening, adjusting, and pushing forward. That moment reinforced that communication isn’t just about speaking—it’s about truly hearing, understanding, and navigating challenges together.

Perhaps one of the most significant lessons was learning the depth of my own internal strength. Without realizing it, I had flipped my angst on its head, using it as momentum to push past my fears of the unknown. Looking back, I see how being present—moving through each challenge moment by moment—gradually dismantled those fears. What once felt daunting faded with each obstacle overcome and began filling me with confidence.

Another Challenge: Breaking Through the Impossible

A new team, “Breakthroughs,” arrived, bringing with them the concept of chi—how to harness it, focus it, and channel it into something powerful. Each of us received a wooden board, instructed to write whatever we needed to release or overcome. I wrote about my fears surrounding this exercise and, more broadly, about how I would navigate my life moving forward. I poured my feelings onto the board—the sense of being broken, like damaged goods because of the rod in my back and the physical challenges that had reshaped my world.

The team was skilled in motivation, raising our energy, inspiring us, and urging us toward belief. They walked us through the technique—focusing chi into our palm, directing it with force, and thrusting forward with our palm breaking through the board. If done properly, the breakthrough would come not from physical strength, but from the pure energy we channeled.

I was nervous. I was still wearing a neck brace, still navigating chronic pain, still healing from the surgery nearly nine months ago. The thought of disrupting my back, my spine, or the metal rod inside me made my anxiety spike.

I watched intently as they demonstrated the process, soaking in every detail. I studied the way others took their turn—some failing, some succeeding, each reaction raw and immediate. I saw bursts of exhilaration as people shattered their boards, breaking through what once seemed impossible. Yet standing on the sidelines, I felt weak, disconnected from that kind of triumph. Was this truly something I could do?

I refused to let doubt win.

I was one of the last to go.

The first attempt—failure. The sting of my palm reverberated through my arm.

The second—hesitation crept in, my mind replaying the sting of the first, slowing my movements.

The third—another failure. Doubt tightened its grip, threatening to take hold, to tell me that this wasn’t meant for me.

I fought back. I let go.

I silenced the voice whispering I couldn’t do this. I forced my hesitation aside, grounding myself fully in my body, fully in the moment. I focused my chi, visualizing the board splintering beneath the force of my energy, not my palm.

On the fourth try, I did it.

The board cracked, split, gave way to the power within me. There was no pain—only ease, clarity, and an undeniable surge of powerful energy.

I had done it.

I can’t explain the feeling of achieving something you once believed was impossible. It rushes through you, fills every inch of your being, rewrites the limits you thought defined you. In that moment, I wasn’t broken. I wasn’t damaged goods. I was powerful.

Savoring the Journey: A Weekend of Transformation

We had spent a full weekend together—exercises, conversations, emotions, challenges, and moments of vulnerability woven into a shared experience of growth. I embraced the opportunity to learn, to expand beyond what I had ever believed myself capable of.

On the evening of our final day, we gathered for one last meal, a quiet yet joyful celebration of all we had accomplished. There was a sense of ease in the room, a collective exhale of satisfaction. The table was elegantly set—tablecloths draped in soft folds, candles flickering, and glasses filled with non-alcoholic champagne, each with a ripe strawberry suspended in the bubbles.

I had never tasted anything so divinely unique. Perhaps my senses had been sharpened by the beauty of the weekend, each moment enriching my awareness, making the world around me feel heightened, alive. The sweetness of the strawberry, the delicate effervescence of the champagne—it felt like the perfect reflection of everything we had experienced together.

As I sat there, I let my mind drift back to the defining moments—the triumph of the obstacle course, the startling power I had discovered in breaking through the board. I carried these memories with me, knowing they had transformed something within me. I understood myself in a way I hadn’t before, grateful for the challenges that had led me here.

As the evening came to a close, we exchanged embraces, lingering in each hug, reluctant to say goodbye. Words of gratitude and well wishes filled the space between us. We had shared something rare—an experience that had reshaped us, softened us, and strengthened us all at once.

It was a dazzling evening of celebration. A gentle, luminous conclusion to a profoundly powerful weekend.

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What’s Next?

I find myself on the edge—facing new fears on the side of a cliff. What will I discover this time? Climb into the next story: Hanging On or Letting Go?

Would Love to Hear From You . . .

• What is a moment in your life when you faced something that felt impossible—but you overcame it? What helped you push through?
• Have you ever had an experience where observing others helped you grow or succeed? What did you learn?
• What fears have held you back in the past? How did you—or how might you—turn fear into strength?
• When have you worked through a challenge with someone else? How did collaboration shape the experience?
• Is there a moment when you realized you were capable of more than you ever imagined? What was it like?
• How do you navigate uncertainty? What strategies help you move forward when doubt creeps in?