Redefining Resilience: 7 Lessons I Learned

Have you ever woken up from a dream and tried to describe it? Some details are foggy, and other parts are so vivid that you question if it really happened. 

That’s how I sometimes describe the experience when Madi, the youngest of my 4 children, was diagnosed with an aggressive form of leukemia (acute myeloid leukemia).

Throughout her treatment, people often made comments about how strong she was and how resilient kids can be. They would refer to her as a fighter and tell me what a strong mom I was. Those words were meant to be encouraging.

But we didn’t feel strong, equipped, educated, or ready for a fight.  

Madi said, “I’m not a fighter. I didn’t do anything to be here, and I just want to go home.”

Five years later, we both know that resilience doesn’t look the way you might expect it to look. Resilience didn’t come from being strong or fierce. It was quiet, steady, and showed up day by day.

What I learned about resilience

Here are a few of the lessons I learned about resilience along the way:

1. Everyone’s journey is different

No 2 stories of pediatric cancer are the same. Someone will always have it better or worse than you, but we each have our own story.     

I found purpose in sharing our pain. If our story can comfort someone else walking a similar road, then something good can come from what we endured.

I recently heard a quote by Philip Yancey: “Faith is believing in advance what will only make sense in reverse.”

I can’t say that I’ve made sense of all that we saw and experienced, but looking at our journey in reverse, I learned a lot more than I realized. Now I look at life from a new perspective. 

2. Fight the urge to isolate and self-preserve

It’s human to want to protect yourself and your family, to close in and do it all alone. But you can’t. You’re not meant to.

If you’re like me, accepting help is difficult and uncomfortable. I had to learn to ask for help and accept it when offered.

Let people bring meals. Let them fold your laundry. Let them care for your other kids. Let the nurse hold your hand or the social worker listen when you fall apart. It’s humbling, yes—but necessary.

Some of the best therapy I had was sitting outside at the hospital playground, watching the kids play and talking with other parents who were going through similar experiences.

If your hospital offers groups or family activities, try to go. One of our closest friendships began at a LEGO^® table.

3. Give yourself grace

I often fell short and cried over the smallest stuff because I was at my max. One day, when I was completely overwhelmed, my counselor said, “Sara, how do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time.”

Things will be different for a while, or maybe forever. It’s easy to feel that you’re falling short when you aren’t living up to your expectations or doing what you normally do.

But grace meets us where we fall short. It reminds us that we’re human and that surviving this day is a victory. As author Kimberly Stuart writes, “Grace is enough in all the spaces I am not. Grace cushions the hard falls and takes our hands and leads us home.”

I’m still learning to have more grace for myself and others. 

4. Keep moving forward with purpose

Going through treatment can be a physical and emotional roller coaster. Some days are chaotic, while others are slow and mind-numbingly repetitive. You wait for test results. You wait for labs. You wait for the chemo to finish.

What exhausted me the most wasn’t the stress itself—it was stress without purpose.

I had to remember to put purpose in every day and keep moving forward to the next thing.

5. Feed your faith, not your fear

Whatever your faith looks like, take care what you let into your mind. I had to stop reading scary statistics and guard myself from conversations that drained me. Not everything out there is helpful.

Ask yourself, “Does this feed my peace, give me hope and even joy?” If not, it might be time to quit drawing strength from circumstances and look to something that breathes life into your thirsty soul. For me, that meant clinging to a God who loves me, meets me in my sorrow, and never changes.

I drew strength in hearing other people’s stories, processing experiences with a trained counselor, and making fun memories with Madi. 

6. Have tenacious hope

The minute Madi was diagnosed with cancer, my heart began to mourn. I was terrified of what she would endure—and what we might lose.

But our care team met us with more than medicine. They gave us a plan—a timeline. They also gave us words of hope. And even when we didn’t feel brave, we had experts beside us whose goal was to stay one step ahead of this disease.

Madi had several ups and downs, trips to the ICU, and life-threatening moments.

Hope was uncomfortable at times. It took intentionality, thought, and mental discipline.

Even on the worst days, I had to hold onto a tiny thread of hope. Because hope gets you to the finish line.

7. Have Madi’s kind of strength

There was one moment I’ll never forget. We were getting ready for another round of chemo. Madi lay on her back, arms over her head, waiting for me to get things together.

I wheeled the chair up to the bed and asked, “Are you ready to go?” She looked at me and, with a breathless smile, said, “Let’s do this!” 

That’s what resilience looks like. To show up. To let others help you. To never lose hope.

Madi always kept it simple: “Do whatever it takes to get better and go home.”

Looking back

It's been 5 years since Madi was diagnosed with this awful disease. Today, she is healthy and strong. You would never know what she overcame to be here today.

We were resilient—but not because we felt brave. We were resilient because we kept showing up. Because we let others help us. Because we refused to let fear have the final word.

If you’re walking this road now, know this: You don’t have to feel strong to be resilient. Just take the next step. Let love in. Let hope stay.

Even the dust of your brokenness can be shaped into something new.

Season 3 of Caregivers SHARE, a St. Jude Podcast, features Sara Lohse. Listen to the podcast episode below.