I’ve noticed something lately with a few of my closest friends. Since my diagnosis, when we talk, they start shrinking their own struggles—minimizing them, brushing them aside, or not even bringing them up at all. I assume it’s because they don’t want to seem like they’re comparing their problems to mine.
And honestly? That’s stupid.
Let me be clear: they aren’t stupid. Not at all. They’re thoughtful, kind, considerate people who are trying to protect me in the best way they know how. But the idea—that your problems are somehow less important because I have cancer—is just… stupid.
I know some of you are reading this right now. And you know who you are.
Everyone has something going on. And just because mine comes with a scary label doesn’t mean yours suddenly becomes less real, less painful, or less deserving of attention.
One friend in particular (who would absolutely kick me in the head if I named her—and she could, because her legs are approximately eight feet long) has been struggling with self-esteem. It kills me to know that. And what makes it worse is that she didn’t want to talk to me about it… because of cancer.
Seriously?
Let me tell you about this woman.
She’s a statuesque blonde—fit in that effortless, unfair kind of way that most people would secretly kill for—but somehow, she never makes anyone feel less than around her. She’s got these ridiculously kind eyes that make you forget what you were saying, and a smile that literally makes guys on the Town Lake trail stop mid-stride, spin around, and walk past again hoping they’ll get another shot at being the reason she smiled. I’ve watched it happen. Repeatedly. It’s kind of hilarious.
But what really gets you is the rest of her. She’s kind. Like genuinely, deeply kind. The kind of person who listens when you talk and actually hears you. She’s thoughtful, humble, and has this quiet empathy that just makes you feel seen. And if you did want to be jealous, good luck—because she makes it impossible. She’s strong, too—not just physically, though she absolutely is—but in the way she carries herself. Solid. Sure of who she is. Able to handle whatever’s in front of her.
And the wildest part? She can’t see any of that. Because of her self-esteem struggles, she doesn’t view herself this way—which blows my mind. Like, truly blows my mind. I see her so clearly. I wish she could see herself even half as clearly.
I hate that she’s hurting. I hate even more that she feels like she has to bottle it up around me—like somehow my cancer has earned a monopoly on pain.
Because here’s the truth: in the grand scheme of things, my problem is no bigger or smaller than hers. If either one of us ignores what’s eating us alive—whether it’s cancer or self-doubt—things get bad. Real bad. The outcomes of neglect can be terrible for both.
But maybe the part that cuts the deepest is this: when people hold back their pain, I get robbed of the thing I love most—the chance to help someone I care about.
And look, I get it. I’m not always going to have a solution. Like my buddy in Chicago with the degenerative back. Aside from sending him bourbon (which, let’s be honest, I do consider a helpful contribution), there’s not a lot I can fix there. But he still keeps it to himself now because he thinks my situation is “worse.”
That’s that same stupid thinking again. (Not calling you stupid, my friend. Just your logic.)
He’s one of the smartest people I know—miles ahead of me in brainpower—but even smart people fall into this trap.
So here’s the real point of this late-night ramble:
Your problems matter.
Your pain matters.
Your voice matters.
Just because I have cancer doesn’t mean I stop being a friend. I don’t stop wanting to be there for you. Just like you show up for me—again and again—I want the chance to show up for you.
Don’t let stupid cancer change the way we love and support each other. If you were open with me before, keep being open now. Whatever it is—self-esteem, back pain, relationships, finances—I still care. I still want to care.
I’m writing this for one particular, amazing friend—the same one I mentioned earlier—who I know will read this tomorrow. And I hope when she does, she really hears me: your pain matters, too. I want you to reach out more, not less. Let me be there. Like I always would’ve been. Like I still am.
But this isn’t just for her. It’s for every friend who’s convinced they need to “protect me” from their struggles now. Please don’t. That’s not how this works. That’s not how we work.
Let me show up for you.
Let me keep being me.
And if you’re someone who’s been praying for me—first, thank you. That means more than I can say. But if you’ve got room in your prayers, send a little her way too. She needs it. Maybe more than I do right now.
Thanks for coming to my TED Talk on problems.