There are moments in life that teach you very quickly that you were never meant to carry everything alone.

I used to think strength meant figuring things out on my own. Asking for help felt uncomfortable. I didn’t want to inconvenience anyone or admit that I couldn’t do it all.

Then cancer happened.

When I was diagnosed at 24, my world stopped. Suddenly, my calendar filled with surgeries, scans, appointments, treatments, and unknowns. There were days when simply getting out of bed felt like climbing a mountain. I physically couldn’t do everything anymore, and emotionally, I was exhausted.

That’s when my community showed up.

Family members rearranged their lives to care for me. Friends sat beside hospital beds, brought meals, prayed, checked in, and reminded me that I wasn’t fighting alone. Nurses became familiar faces who offered encouragement on the hardest days. Doctors carried not only the responsibility of my treatment but also hope when I struggled to find it myself.

Cancer may have happened to my body, but it affected everyone who loved me.

Caregivers often carry a burden that isn’t talked about enough. They manage appointments, medications, meals, laundry, bills, and countless sleepless nights. They celebrate good scan results while quietly carrying their own fears. They become the steady presence when everything else feels uncertain.

Caregivers need a community just as much as patients do.

No one should have to pour from an empty cup.

Years later, after healing physically, Ian and I stepped into another journey we knew little about: foster care.

Once again, community became everything.

We quickly realized fostering isn’t something a family can do in isolation. Children entering foster care have experienced tremendous loss and uncertainty. They don’t just need a safe home—they need an entire village of people willing to love them well.

That village might look like grandparents who gladly babysit, friends who drop off dinner, teachers who extend extra grace, church members who pray faithfully, neighbors who cheer at soccer games, caseworkers who advocate tirelessly, therapists who help children process trauma, and strangers who become lifelong supporters.

The children in our home have taught us something beautiful: healing happens through consistent, safe relationships.

The same was true during cancer.

Whether someone is battling a disease, caring for a loved one, grieving a loss, or learning how to parent children from hard places, healing rarely happens in isolation.

It happens when someone says, “I’ll come with you.”

It happens when a friend sends a text just to say they’re thinking about you.

It happens when someone drops a meal on your porch without being asked.

It happens when people show up—not because they have all the answers, but because they’re willing to simply be present.

Community doesn’t require perfection.

It requires consistency.

It requires compassion.

It requires choosing to stay when life gets messy.

I’ve learned that the people you surround yourself with matter more than you realize. Find people who celebrate your victories without jealousy. People who sit with you in heartbreak without trying to rush your healing. People who remind you of hope when you’ve forgotten what it feels like. People who tell you the truth with love and encourage you to keep moving forward.

And be that person for someone else.

You don’t have to cure cancer to make a difference.

You don’t have to become a foster parent to change a child’s life.

Sometimes the greatest gift you can give is simply showing up.

A phone call.

A meal.

A prayer.

A hug.

A listening ear.

A reminder that someone isn’t alone.

Looking back, I don’t remember every medication I received or every difficult appointment. I remember the hands that held mine. The people who laughed with me, cried with me, prayed for me, and believed I would make it through.

Today, as we walk alongside children in foster care, I see those same moments unfolding again.

Healing has many forms.

Sometimes it looks like ringing the bell after cancer treatment.

Sometimes it looks like a child finally feeling safe enough to laugh.

Neither journey is meant to be walked alone.

If there’s one lesson both cancer and fostering have taught me, it’s this:

Life is always better when we choose to carry one another’s burdens.

Because hope grows stronger in community.

And sometimes, the greatest miracle isn’t that someone made it through the storm.

It’s realizing they never had to face it alone.