The General Manager Never Stops Scouting

Clear scans, positive ctDNA, and why I'm still taking meetings

I’ve told this story before, but it keeps growing with me.

When I was first diagnosed, I approached my health like a player on the field. Show up. Execute the plays. Trust the system. I was present, I was compliant, and I thought that was enough.

Then I decided I needed to be the quarterback. Calling my own plays, directing my care, taking more control.

Then the coach. Studying the game, building strategy, pushing back.

But the real shift came when I realized my role wasn’t on the field or the sidelines at all. My role was General Manager. The GM doesn’t play every position or call every play. The GM builds the team — the right oncologist, the right specialists, the right support network — and makes sure everyone is working toward the same goal.

Here’s the thing about general managers, though: they never stop scouting. Not even when the team is winning.

Where I am today

Right now, I’m in a strange and fortunate place. My scans are clear. My ctDNA is positive. If you know, you know, it’s the kind of situation that doesn’t fit neatly into a treatment algorithm. No visible disease, but evidence it may still be there at a molecular level.

I have an amazing oncologist. The person who got me here. If this were only about loyalty, my roster would be set and I’d never take another meeting.

But this isn’t about loyalty. It’s about being the GM of a team facing a situation most teams never see.

So I’m making calls.

I’m reaching out to Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville, where the oncology team works directly with the transplant team, because in my situation, that collaboration matters.

I’m reaching out to MD Anderson, where they lead an MRD trial and run a dedicated survivorship program, because when your disease status lives in the space between “clear” and “cleared,” you want to talk to the people studying exactly that space.

This is not a trade deadline

Let me be clear about what this is and what it isn’t.

I’m not adding players. I’m not cutting anyone. My oncologist isn’t going anywhere, and reaching out to other centers isn’t a vote of no confidence in the team that got me here.

I’m interviewing. I’m gathering information. I’m sitting down with the experts who know the most about the specific, unusual situation I find myself in, so that whatever decisions come next are made by an informed patient, not a passive one.

That’s the GM’s job. You don’t wait until the team is losing to learn what else is out there. You scout constantly, you build relationships, you know your options before you need them. The worst time to start looking for a specialist is the moment you urgently need one.

Walking the walk

I write about this. I talk about it, on my podcast, on stages, on TV segments. And I’ll be honest: it would be easy for the General Manager framework to become a nice line I deliver, a tidy analogy that lands well in a talking point.

But I don’t believe in it because it sounds good. I believe in it because I live it. This season — clear scans, positive ctDNA, more questions than answers — is exactly the moment the framework gets tested. It’s easy to be the GM when the path is obvious. The job matters most when it isn’t.

So if you’re in remission, in treatment, in surveillance, or somewhere in between: your doctors work for you, not the other way around. Ask the questions. Take the meetings. Get informed about your specific situation from the people who know it best.

Your team doesn’t need you on the field.

It needs you in the front office.

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If this resonated, share it with someone building their own team. And if you’re navigating your own version of the space between clear and cleared — I see you.