When I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer on my 58th birthday, I thought I knew what strength meant — until chemo, recovery, and vulnerability taught me otherwise. For years, I was the strong one, the capable one, the woman who rarely asked for help. But cancer didn’t give a shit about my control plan. What saved me wasn’t grit — it was surrender. Vulnerability didn’t make me weak; it made me real. And that, my friends, is where true strength lives.