The Power and Pain of Belonging

My 5 Years in Cancer Communities

This afternoon, as I sat with my grief over the passing of my brother-in-law, I found myself reflecting on what it means to belong to a cancer community. In the five years since my stage 4 colon cancer diagnosis, I’ve found both incredible strength and unbearable heartache in these connections.

When I first heard those words—”you have cancer”—I had no idea how to navigate what lay ahead. Medical decisions, treatment options, side effects that no one warns you about—it was overwhelming. But then I found my people: Man Up To Cancer, COLONTOWN, and the advocates at Fight CRC.

These communities became my lifelines. In Man Up To Cancer, I found men who understood the unique challenges of facing mortality while trying to maintain our roles as fathers, husbands, and providers. In COLONTOWN’s neighborhoods, I discovered peers who could translate medical jargon and offer advice on managing specific side effects. Through Fight CRC, I learned how to channel my experience into advocacy, ensuring the patient voice is heard in research design and implementation.

The power of these communities is immeasurable. Where else can you post at 3 AM about a strange new pain and receive responses from others who’ve been there? Where else can you find people who understand exactly what “scanxiety” feels like? Who else truly gets the mixture of gratitude and guilt that comes with surviving another day while others don’t?

But there’s another side to belonging that we don’t talk about enough—the pain of loss.

In the past few weeks since our Gathering of Wolves men’s cancer retreat, we’ve lost several brothers who have been with me from the beginning of my journey. Men whose stories gave me hope, whose humor lifted me in dark moments, whose courage showed me how to live fully despite uncertainty. This morning, my wife’s brother joined them, his battle with colon cancer finally ending.

As Trevor Maxwell wisely said, “The pain we feel in losing them is only eclipsed by the joy we have from knowing them.”

This is the bargain we make when we open ourselves to community during cancer: we gain support that sustains us, but we also open our hearts to more grief than seems bearable at times. Some choose to leave these communities once active treatment ends—a self-protective choice I completely understand. The constant reminders of our vulnerability can become too much.

But I’ve chosen to stay. To continue advocating with Fight CRC, to keep showing up in our Man Up To Cancer gatherings, to answer questions from newly diagnosed patients in COLONTOWN. Not because it’s easy—some days it breaks my heart—but because these connections have transformed me.

I’ve learned that we humans aren’t meant to face our darkest challenges alone. That vulnerability creates strength. That the most meaningful support often comes from those walking the same difficult path.

So today, as I grieve, I also give thanks. For my brother-in-law who fought so valiantly, in his own way. For the men we’ve lost who showed me how to live with purpose despite uncertainty. For those still in the fight who inspire me daily. And for these communities that hold space for both our triumphs and our tears.

This is the paradox of cancer communities: the deeper we connect, the more it hurts when we lose each other. And yet, the deeper we connect, the richer and more meaningful our lives become—however long or short they may be.

To those we’ve lost: we carry your banners forward. And to those newly diagnosed who haven’t found your community yet: we’re here, waiting to welcome you. The journey is hard, but you don’t have to walk it alone.