I hadn’t planned to write much this week. Tuesday hit me hard — the first truly rough day since starting chemo. I got slammed by a wave of nausea around lunchtime that didn’t let up until evening. It was the kind of day that made me hesitate to post anything at all because I’ve been trying to keep this blog optimistic, and Tuesday just didn’t fit that tone.
But if I’m being completely honest, it wasn’t just about tone — I also didn’t want to acknowledge that things might get harder. Up until now, I’ve been lucky. The side effects have been manageable, and I’ve been able to keep a sense of normalcy in my life. But feeling that sick made it real in a new way. It forced me to confront the possibility that chemo might not stay this manageable, that it could get tougher. And that was a thought I wasn’t ready to sit with — much less write about.
Thankfully, I work for a company that allows the flexibility to work from home, and I needed every ounce of that grace on Tuesday.
But Wednesday? Wednesday brought something so unexpectedly good, I found myself nearly speechless.
Let me back up for a second: I work at General Motors — and have for nearly 12 years now. It’s been a wild ride full of incredible opportunities, amazing colleagues, and work I’m proud of. When this cancer “adventure” is behind me, I hope to transition into the security space at GM under our new CISO. It’ll be a challenge, especially while finishing my master’s during treatment, but it’s one I’m excited to tackle.
Anyway, back to Wednesday — and why I’m even bringing up work in the first place.
I had the chance to chat with the SVP of GM Software. He’s got a million demands on his time, so I was grateful he took a few moments to talk after I reached out to offer help with a few small issues I genuinely enjoy working on. As tends to happen, we veered into life conversations — easy, casual, the kind I love.
Toward the end, I mentioned how thankful I am for one of GM’s best benefits: the company car. I drive to Houston every two weeks for treatment, and having a reliable vehicle makes that trek so much easier. He asked if my car had Super Cruise—GM’s self-driving technology—and I told him it didn’t, though a few generous coworkers had offered to trade cars with me so I could try it out. Just another example of the kind of people I’m lucky to work alongside.
When the SVP asked if I’d like a car with Super Cruise, I assumed it was a symbolic offer — a kind gesture from someone with far bigger things on his plate. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
By the next morning, I received messages from both the SVP and our CIO letting me know that a new car was waiting for me at the office — equipped with Super Cruise. I was stunned. Nearly in tears. The gesture, and the kindness behind it, hit me hard. Our CIO is one of the most respected and beloved leaders at GM — someone you want to work for because of how genuinely good she is — and knowing she was involved made it all the more meaningful.
I know the SVP and our CIO did a lot to make this happen, but I also know they didn’t do it alone. There were others behind the scenes who helped make this switch possible, and while I may not know everyone by name, please know that I see your effort — and I’m so deeply grateful. It’s the kind of quiet support that speaks volumes, and it matters more than I can say.
In the grand scheme of things, it might seem like a small gesture. But practically and emotionally, it made a world of difference. If you’ve never used Super Cruise, it’s a hands-off, feet-off-the-pedals driving experience that sounds futuristic until you try it — and then you wonder how you ever lived without it. For someone like me, coming home from MD Anderson with a chemo pump strapped to my side, it’s not just convenient — it’s a lifeline.
But more than that, this experience reminded me of something bigger: the goodness of people. Titles, positions, power — none of it matters when someone chooses to show up, to help, simply because it’s the right thing to do.
There’s so much noise out there, so many stories that chip away at your faith in humanity. I just wanted to share this one — a reminder that the good is still out there. Sometimes quiet, sometimes unexpected, but always powerful.