Unexpected Challenges of Watching my Wife Recover from Cancer

It's been a brutal period in our lives but there are lessons to be learned and I wanted to share some of them with you

Regular readers will know that my wife was diagnosed with a rare and aggressive form of cancer around 18 months ago. She’s now cancer free after some brutal treatment but there’s been a lot of unintended consequences and I wanted to discuss one she raised on her blog recently as it really resonated with me and some of the challenges I’ve faced since November 2024. Since her diagnosis, I’ve become a qualified coachand learnt many coping strategies through my training which I wanted to share with you.

Supporting my wife through cancer treatment has been the hardest, loneliest and most disorientating experience of my life. I knew cancer would be brutal on her body; I didn’t realise how quietly it would hollow out the rest of our life; our friendships, our sense of belonging, even the way I see myself as a man, a father, husband and friend.

It’s a particular challenge because my parents and older son (with whom I am very close) still live in my native South East of England (I moved to Scotland in 2018) and my friends are spread all over the world; New South Wales, Jakarta, Vancouver, Dublin, Manchester, Wales, Sussex and Croydon. I do have some good friends in Scotland but my long-term close friends are no-longer so close. So support for me comes mainly in the form of a WhatsApp message, the occasional call or FaceTime. We received a few cards when all first started.

What has been useful is that I’m not only living this as a husband and dad; I’m also a Henley‑trained coach. This has been very helpful and also enabled me to develop some experience that will benefit my coaches. Through my training I’ve learnt to treat people as whole, resourceful human beings even in the middle of chaos. Through my experience I’ve developed vital understanding that I need to apply that same stance to myself, not as another thing to “perform” or get right, but as a way to stay intact and humane in the middle of something that often feels unmanageable and slightly surreal.

Kat’s recent blog “I think people are scared of me” really resonated with me. Friends have faded. Some step up in amazing, practical ways; others quietly disappear. I hear the social messaging that men should “reach out,” talk, be open. I do reach out, and sometimes the echo comes back empty. No-one’s listening. People don’t know how to stay with the conversation beyond a single “that sounds tough.” They are, understandably, afraid of the depth of this reality. The result is a particular sort of loneliness: I am doing what I’ve been told is healthy, but the world doesn’t always meet me halfway.

Through my training I’ve learnt that this mismatch, between what I’m encouraged to do and what people can actually cope with, is not a sign that I’m too much. It’s a sign that most people have never been taught how to listen to real pain. As a coach, that’s one of my core skills; as a husband and carer, it’s been a real challenge.

Layered on top of all this is life with our two‑year‑old. Parenting a toddler is relentless even in ordinary times. In this season, it’s a constant negotiation between my love for him and sheer exhaustion. Through my experience I’ve developed vital understanding that I have been robbed of the chance to simply revel in early fatherhood. Every tantrum, broken night and nursery virus lands on top of hospital appointments covering a whole range of subjects from prosthetics through to CT scans. I am often very tired, and yet I’m still needed, constantly.

So how do I coach myself through this? How do I use what I know, not as a mask of professionalism, but as a lifeline?

Through my training I’ve learnt to start from a person‑centred foundation: empathy, unconditional positive regard, and congruence (Rogers). When I turn that towards myself, it looks like this

· I try to name what I’m feeling without editing: rage, jealousy of “normal” families, fear of the future, shame about my limits.

· I remind myself: “Any human in my position could feel this. I’m not defective; I’m human.”

· I practise being honest with myself instead of pretending I’m coping better than I am.

Carl Rogers wrote, “The curious paradox is that when I accept myself just as I am, then I can change.” Through my experience I’ve developed vital understanding that self‑acceptance here doesn’t mean resigning myself to misery; it’s the starting point for any realistic shift. If I deny that I’m tired, I can’t make a plan that respects my actual capacity.

Existential coaching is another lens I lean on. Through my training I’ve learnt that some realities are not fixable: mortality, unfairness, limitation. The question becomes not “How do I eliminate this suffering?” but “Who do I choose to be within it?” I ask myself:

· Given that I can’t control the diagnosis or the timeline, what kind of husband do I want to be today?

· What kind of father do I want my son to remember, even if he’ll only have story‑memories of this time?

· What do I want to stand for: honesty, presence, tenderness, steadiness; even when I feel none of those inside?

Viktor Frankl wrote, “Forces beyond your control can take away everything you possess except one thing, your freedom to choose how you respond.” Through my experience I’ve developed vital understanding that my “freedom” here is tiny but real: the choice to stay in the room emotionally, to tell the truth gently, to take one step toward my values in the most difficult of circumstances.

Practically, I use coaching questions on myself. I journal, or think them through on a walk or in the car after nursery drop‑off:

· What, specifically, is hardest for you today? (Not this year, not this illness – today).

· Which tiny part of this is within your influence in the next 24 hours?

· If a client sat where you are now and told you this, what would you want them to hear first?

Through my training I’ve learnt that bringing things down from global (“my whole life is impossible”) to specific (“tonight I’m afraid of tomorrow’s appointment”) stops me from drowning. Through my experience I’ve developed vital understanding that specificity is an act of kindness: small, defined problems sometimes allow small, defined responses.

Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT) has become a quiet backbone. Through my training I’ve learnt three key moves:

1. Accept what’s outside my control (illness, other people’s reactions, the distance from family).

2. Choose values (love, presence, honesty, care).

3. Act in tiny ways that line up with those values, even while I feel awful.

On a bad day, I might feel detached from my son. A values question then is: “What does a loving father do when he feels empty?” The answer might be: five undistracted minutes of building blocks, or reading one book with my phone in another room. Through my experience I’ve developed vital understanding that values‑based action doesn’t wait for the right feeling; it’s choosing who I want to be in spite of the feeling.

My training also taught me to think systemically, to see myself not as a lone struggler but as part of interlocking systems: family, healthcare, work, friendships. Through my training I’ve learnt to ask:

· What roles am I playing over and over (the strong one, the fixer, the emotional sponge)?

· Where might I gently disturb those patterns in service of everyone’s health?

In practice, this has led me to:

· Be clearer with distant family (they live in my native South East of England, I live in Scotland): “We really need you to visit for a weekend; here are three dates.”

· Ask specific things of friends who are willing: “Can you text me every Thursday?” or “Could we schedule a 20‑minute call once a fortnight?”

· Say no to emotional labour that drains me: cutting short conversations where I end up comforting other people about our situation, this happens far too much.

Through my experience I’ve developed vital understanding that systemic shifts don’t have to be dramatic. A small, clear request or boundary can change a dynamic enough to let some air back into the system.

Self‑compassion work, especially Kristin Neff’s, has been another key methodology. Through my training I’ve learnt that self‑criticism activates the same threat systems as external attack, making it harder to cope. When tings go wrong, I try to run Neff’s three steps:

1. Mindfulness: “This is a moment of suffering.”

2. Common humanity: “Other carers and parents in crisis feel this too.”

3. Kindness: “May I give myself the compassion I need right now.”

It can be as simple as placing a hand on my chest and thinking: “Of course you’re furious and exhausted. You’re not a monster; you’re overwhelmed.” Through my experience I’ve developed vital understanding that this doesn’t make me complacent; it gives me just enough inner safety to take responsibility and, if needed, repair.

Speaking of repair: as a father of a toddler, Winnicott’s “good enough” parenting has been a quiet blessing. Through my training I’ve learnt that children need reliability and repair more than they need flawless parents. When I shout, I apologise. I explain in simple terms: “Daddy was very tired and got cross. I’m sorry I shouted.” Through my experience I’ve developed vital understanding that this models something profoundly human: even in crisis, we can own our impact and reconnect.

Cognitively, I borrow from Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT) when my thoughts spiral. Through my training I’ve learnt to distinguish thoughts from facts:

· Thought: “Everyone has abandoned us.”

· Fact‑check: Who texted or called this week? Who helped in the last month?

· People have their own busy lives to live.

I’m not trying to talk myself into optimism; I’m trying to keep my mind from turning pain into total catastrophe. Through my experience I’ve developed vital understanding that all‑or‑nothing thinking is a red flag that I’m overloaded and need rest, not more rumination.

Narrative coaching ideas help me hold multiple truths. Through my training I’ve learnt to listen for the dominant story and then invite alternative threads. One dominant story might be: “I am failing; I can’t fix anything; I’m not strong enough.” An alternative, equally true story might be: “I am a man who keeps turning up. I am learning to love in a way that doesn’t depend on control or certainty.” I don’t use the second story to erase the first; I let them coexist. Through my experience I’ve developed vital understanding that identity in crisis is layered: I can be terrified and devoted, resentful and loving, depleted and still showing up. I find this very powerful.

As for resources, I’d recommend to myself the books and voices that don’t flinch from reality:

· Viktor Frankl – “Man’s Search for Meaning”: for the reminder that meaning can exist without happy endings.

· Russ Harris – “The Happiness Trap”: for ACT tools that fit messy, real life.

· Kristin Neff – “Self‑Compassion”: for practical exercises on treating myself less harshly.

· Pema Chödrön – “When Things Fall Apart”: for learning to sit with fear and uncertainty.

· Donald Winnicott – essays on “good enough” parenting: to dial down perfectionism as a dad.

· David Drake – “Narrative Coaching”: for re‑framing my story without sugar‑coating it.

Certain quotes become anchors. Frankl’s line about our last freedom. Rogers’ paradox about change through acceptance. Neff’s reminder that “This is a moment of suffering,” not my or my wife’s entire identity, but a moment through which we are moving.

Through my training I’ve learnt that the right sentence at the right time can interrupt a destructive inner monologue. Through my experience I’ve developed vital understanding that I don’t need a shelf of theories in a crisis; I need a handful of phrases I can actually remember at 3 a.m.

Energy and boundaries are perhaps the most concrete coaching “solutions” I apply. Through my training I’ve learnt to notice my own early warning signs of burnout: irritability, numbness, forgetting simple things, fantasising about escape. When those show up, I try to:

· Schedule ideally an hour (even 10 minutes) a day that is only mine: a walk, a coffee, a book.

· Protect one slightly bigger pocket a week (half a day but even an hour will do) where I am not a carer, husband or dad; just a human allowed to exist.

· Say “not today” to non‑urgent requests, even from well‑meaning people.

Through my experience I’ve developed vital understanding that these are not indulgences; they are structural supports that keep me functioning. If a client described my week to me, I would insist they find these pockets; I am learning to extend that same insistence to myself.

Finally, I’ve learnt to be honest about when coaching isn’t enough. Through my training I’ve learnt that there is a threshold where distress becomes clinical; depression, anxiety, trauma and needs medical and therapeutic support, not just reflection and values work. I keep an eye on myself for persistent hopelessness, inability to get out of bed, thoughts of harming myself or simply not wanting to be here at all. Through my experience I’ve developed vital understanding that reaching out to a GP, a therapist, or a cancer carers’ service is not a failure of my coaching skills; it is an extension of them. A good coach knows when to bring in other professionals.

If I could say one straightforward thing to the world from this place, it would be: Don’t be scared of us. You don’t need perfect words. You don’t need to turn our story into a lesson. Just don’t disappear. Ask how she is and stay long enough to hear a real answer. Ask how I am and mean it.

And if there is a second truth, it’s this: Love, in the middle of all this, looks very ordinary. Through my Henley training I’ve learnt that change often comes through small, consistent actions rather than dramatic breakthroughs. Through my experience I’ve developed vital understanding that my job is not to be heroic; it is to keep taking those next tiny, value‑aligned steps; holding her hand, reading to my son, resting when I can, telling the truth when someone is able to listen. It feels small. But it is, right now, the bravest and most honest work I am able to do.