On May 2, 2018, I was diagnosed with Stage III Breast Cancer, which abruptly thrust me into the role of a patient instead of my much more comfortable role as a clinician. Thus began my personal journey to embrace my own vulnerability. 

There are many ways to define vulnerability, but I particularly like the words of Brené Brown: ‘Vulnerability is uncertainty, risk, and emotional exposure’.

Vulnerability is a space, a feeling, or more accurately a collection of feelings, that, if you’re anything like me, most of us would like to avoid. It can be extremely uncomfortable there, can’t it? Vulnerability is a runway to our amygdala, the “fight or flight” part of the brain that can save us from potential immediate harm (as in, “do something, the boat is sinking!”) but can also cause us — like it does for me — to feel anxious or uncomfortable even without a true immediate threat.

Going from clinician to cancer patient was a crash course that jump-started my stumbling journey of not just being, but allowing myself to feel vulnerable. 

As a nurse practitioner since 1982, I had been a primary care provider, plus faculty in an NP graduate program. I had also volunteered at a clinic for the uninsured, where I served mostly women’s health patients. I had done thousands of breast exams, reviewed countless imaging results, and made referrals to oncology physicians and surgeons when needed. I was used to being the empathetic giver of care, not the receiver. 

And then, one random day, I checked my own breasts, and was astonished to discover a large mass which I had not noticed previously. I felt certain it was cancer and began to contemplate what I was facing, and how long it might take to find out for sure. Waiting for imaging and biopsy results, once the C word becomes a possibility, is a special form of torture.  It awakened my amygdala at all hours of the day and night. 

Now facing my own diagnosis, I definitely experienced angst as I contemplated an undesired shift in my role to patient instead of clinician, but I quickly shut it down. I told no one, created a task list, and scheduled an appointment with my primary care physician. I stayed matter of fact, objective, allowing myself no hint of emotion for myself in private, or when telling a few family members and friends. Some said I was brave. But, at the time, I failed to even begin to embrace my own vulnerability. 

Several days after the mammogram and biopsy I met with the surgeon to hear my results in person. In a moment of pure irony, I recalled a previous conversation in this same room when we’d collaborated on a quality improvement project. I’d said to her, “I’m happy to see you but I’m glad I’m not a patient!” And had hastily and sheepishly added—“oh but if I were a patient you’d be the surgeon I’d want to see!” Now I was her patient. A patient waiting with other patients to hear the diagnoses and treatment plans that would change our lives in so many ways. 

In the weeks, months, and years since, and with the help of my highly attuned oncology social worker plus my involvement with A Fresh Chapter, I learned that instead of something to be avoided at all costs, vulnerability is a path to grace. This path requires allowing the feelings—all of them: frustration, anger, sadness, relief, happiness, joy and sorrow, and more. For me, it has been all about letting the tears and fears flow when they arise instead of fighting them. 

And, my social worker inspired me to create a hack: an imaginary box full of virtual, personal “permission slips.” Permission to embrace, to feel, to write about the emotions—permissions for self-care, whatever that may entail in any given week. Permission to not do some of the things that aren’t adding joy to my life; permission to do those that do. Permission to vegetate when needed. My box of permission slips never runs out!

I have found that embracing vulnerability requires far less energy than fighting it—my emotional equilibrium gets restored much more quickly when I allow and process my feelings rather than spending enormous amounts of energy suppressing them.

I had already been working on dropping my defenses for some time when I joined the Ignite Experience and its amazing circle of people impacted by cancer. I remember very clearly when, in the session on vulnerability, I could see that some in my circle were just beginning their dance with the topic. I instantly thought, “that used to be me!” That session resonates with me to this day, as exploring vulnerability with my circle validated what I had been working on. As stated so memorably in the Ignite Experience session and workbook, “When we choose to practice vulnerability, we allow others to see and appreciate us for who we truly are, imperfections and all.”

Carol Kerrigan Moore, a nurse practitioner from 1982-2018, practiced in a variety of settings and served as a faculty member in an NP graduate program and as an improvement advisor and educator in a large independent academic medical center. She is an advocate, a blogger, and an avid equestrian, living with cancer. She is also the beneficiary of a life-saving second opinion, and a grateful alumna of A Fresh Chapter’s Ignite program.