Strength doesn’t always roar…sometimes it whispers

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I was sitting in the chemo chair the day my doctor told me the treatment was no longer working. The room felt colder than usual, and the steady hum of the machines suddenly sounded louder, sharper almost like they were echoing her words back to me. Stage 4 metastatic lung cancer. “Terminal,” she said gently, as if softening her tone could soften the blow. The chemo wasn’t curing anything anymore; it was only keeping me comfortable.

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Comfortable.  

What a strange word to use for a battle that had left me bruised, breathless and exhausted beyond measure.

As she walked away, I stared at the IV pole beside me, the same one I had leaned on in hope for so long. That day, it felt like a reminder of everything slipping through my fingers. I felt the fight drain out of me. I felt the weight of cancer pressing into my fragile body. I felt tired in a way that no amount of rest could fix.

In that moment, all I could think was: Where’s my cape? Because I cannot do this anymore.

I’ve carried that cape for so long—faith, optimism, resilience, all stitched together by sheer determination. But somewhere between the flare-ups, the scans, the pills, the side effects, and the ache threaded through every inch of me…I sat it down. I didn’t misplace it. I let it go. Out of frustration. Out of fear. Out of the quiet grief that comes with hearing the word “terminal.”

I whispered a prayer.  

But as I sat there with the IV pumping into me, cold sweat on my skin, heart racing and weakening from the very chemotherapy meant to sustain me, I whispered a prayer. Not a long prayer. Not a polished prayer. Just a trembling, desperate question: God, where is my cape?

I expected silence. Maybe a sign later. But I found the answer right there in that chair.

My cape wasn’t some bold, fearless strength. It wasn’t confidence or power or anything stitched with perfection. My cape was the simple, stubborn truth that even when I was exhausted, terrified and told there was nothing much more to do to help, I was still showing up. I was still fighting. I was still believing that I deserved a chance no matter the prognosis, no matter the odds.

That realization washed over me as the chemo ran through my veins. My body shook, but my spirit did not break. In that moment, I promised myself I would keep showing up for as long as I could—not because I was fearless, but because I was worth the fight.

Strength doesn’t always roar.  

The truth is: strength doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it whispers. Sometimes it trembles. Sometimes it sits in a chemo chair with a failing heart and still decides to stay in the fight.

I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. Some days I cry. Some days I dance. Some days I wonder how I’m still here. But every day I choose to keep going. Every day I choose to believe that God’s grace is enough to carry me when my body cannot. And if you’re reading this, maybe you need that reminder, too.

You may not feel like a superhero. You may feel worn down, weary and stretched thin. But your cape isn’t something you put on—it’s something you carry inside you. It’s in every prayer you whisper, every morning you rise, every step you take when the world tells you to give up.

Your cape is still with you, even on the days you don’t feel strong. Strength looks human. Strength looks honest. And strength looks like you—showing up, one brave breath at a time.