The Tools That Changed Everything
- Surviving Breast Cancer
- Jun 4
- 4 min read
Updated: Aug 12
By Sara Corckran
It was 2002, and I was a 30-year-old pregnant teacher who had taken the day off of school to sit next to my husband, Alex. I perched in the visitor’s chair, a packet of tissues tucked away in my very first purse. I loved that purse—I think I still have it today. It was blue with a subtle plaid and red handles, a gift from my mother-in-law that made me feel very grown up.
As I reached into the purse for another tissue, I dropped the crumpled one in my lap. The tiny movement startled Alex, pulling him from his chemo daze. He noticed the tissue exchange and, for the thousandth time, asked why I was crying. It surprised him every time. To me, it couldn’t have been more obvious.
I didn’t have the words yet to tell him I was exhausted from the fight. While he was battling cancer, I was trapped in my own kind of war—a relentless boxing match with my thoughts. My thoughts had gloves—a right hook, a gut punch, a knockout. I never saw the punches coming, but I felt every single one of them. I felt alone, powerless, and scared. I believed that darkness was inherent with cancer.
Fast forward 18 years. I know it was 18 years because just a week before my daughter’s 18th birthday, I went in for a routine checkup. And that’s when I heard the three words I never thought I would hear: “You have cancer.”
The floor dropped out from under me, taking my breath, my balance, my blood pressure with it. Here we go again.
On the morning of my first chemo treatment, I laced up my sneakers and took my dog, Oliver, for a walk. My husband walked beside me, quiet but present. The air was crisp, the water shimmered in the early morning light. It should have been a peaceful moment, but I felt the familiar weight settle in. That sinking feeling—like I was stepping back into the boxing ring.
I braced myself for the punches. For the fear. For the darkness I thought was inevitable.
But something was different.
This time, I noticed the lights were on. I could see things coming. And I realized I wasn’t defenseless—I had gloves of my own. I had a strong stance, a steady foundation. And I had something else, too: a backpack filled with tools.
These weren’t just ordinary tools. They were hard-won, tested by time, and refined by experience. They were the 11 strategies I had learned over the years—through my work in positive psychology, through the practice of resilience, through the quiet lessons of struggle and survival. They weren’t just theories or feel-good ideas. They were what kept me upright. What reminded me that I wasn’t powerless. What helped me choose hope instead of despair.
Hope isn’t just something we feel—it’s something we practice, something we build. And when life hands us the unthinkable, it’s what helps us rewrite the story.
That’s the difference between who I was in 2002 and who I became in 2020. I no longer believe that darkness is inherent with cancer—or with any adversity. The darkness comes when we don’t have the tools to see the light. But light exists, even in the hardest moments. It’s in the people who show up for us, the small joys we allow ourselves to notice, and the practices that help us shift our thinking from fear to possibility.
I carried those 11 tools with me through every infusion, every surgery, every moment of doubt. They reminded me that even when I felt weak, I was strong. That even when I felt alone, I was loved. That even when I felt like I had no control, I had choices. And those choices—how we respond, how we show up for ourselves, how we frame our story—make all the difference.
Actionable Tool:
Shift your thoughts to shift your reality. When you’re facing difficult moments, ask yourself: What would I choose if I wasn’t afraid? Or: What would I do if I truly believed I was capable of handling this? This question has the power to pivot your mindset. Instead of reacting out of fear or doubt, start making choices aligned with your values. This practice empowers you to build resilience with intention.
Resilience isn’t something we’re born with; it’s something we build. And no matter what life throws our way, we all have the power to pick up the pen and write a new ending.
Reflection Questions:
What is one story you’re telling yourself about your current struggle?
What might I see or learn if I approached this challenge with curiosity instead of fear?
These tools aren’t just about surviving; they’re about thriving, no matter the circumstances.
About the author:
Sara Corckran has been on both sides of a cancer diagnosis—first as a caregiver, then as a patient. The first time, she didn’t have the tools to cope. The second time, she did—and it made all the difference. Now she shares what she’s learned in her book Grit and Grace and in her free weekly newsletter, The Heron’s Perspective. She believes that while pain is part of life, suffering doesn’t have to be the whole story.
Read More:
On the Podcast: Breast Cancer Conversations
Emotional and Physical Challenges Post-Treatment:
Katrece Nolen on IBC Survivorship
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