The Geography of Limits

Hope is easy to believe in when things are going your way. It’s harder when you’ve followed every instruction, embraced every treatment, and still the cancer spreads.

This excerpt from The Edge of Now comes at a point when my understanding of resilience was breaking down—and being rebuilt.

The story moves from a moment of despair into a memory: 90 days in the wilderness with NOLS, soaked and exhausted, learning to keep going.

Hope is a funny thing: one day, you’re full of it, and with the blink of

an eye, it’s gone. When that happens, it can be devastating. While

you can’t touch or see it, hope is a very powerful state of mind—a

feeling or expectation that something good will happen, especially

during difficult times. It’s a belief in positive outcomes, even when

the present situation seems dire. How many stories have we heard

where the odds were stacked against someone, yet they overcame

them? Hope was the fuel that kept them fighting, the reason they

rose each day to face their challenges. This belief provides comfort

and motivation, acting as a psychological and emotional anchor

that keeps a person moving forward.

But hope is also fragile. It can fade in the face of harsh realities, as I’m

experiencing now. For years, I embraced hope, believing I could be

the one who beat the odds. I’m a positive person by nature, always

striving to find the silver lining in any challenge. It doesn’t hurt that

I have a track record of overcoming obstacles when I put my full

mind and attention toward them. I also don’t like to lose. But with

this latest prognosis, it feels as though hope is slipping through my

fingers. I feel as though I’ve lost. How does one rebound from that?

I understand that failure is as much about progress as success is. But

this feels different. I didn’t just fail—failing suggests there’s a lesson

to be learned, a way to improve upon what you were doing. Failure

is part of growth. Did I do enough to stave off this progression of

tumors? I followed the recommended protocols: prostatectomy,

radiation, and androgen deprivation treatments. Yet here I am,

stage IV, with tumors in my pelvic and thorax regions. Have I lost this

battle with cancer? What does the future hold for me now? Should

I still have hope?

Reflecting on this latest setback, I can’t help but think back to my

initial diagnosis in 2016. At the time, I remembered something

unexpected: my days with the National Outdoor Leadership School

(NOLS). It was about twelve years ago when I did a semester with

NOLS. It was 90 days of living in a tent, experiencing absolutely

magnificent vistas, enduring long days of activity, rain, and other

adverse weather, and traversing British Columbia and Washington

State, all while learning new skills. We spent months in the wilderness,

facing unpredictable weather and long days of uncertainty. I still

recall those endless days in the rain—pushing forward with aching

limbs and soaked clothes, never knowing when the storm might

end. Our instructors drilled into us the importance of resilience and

navigating adversity without losing our sense of direction. Back

then, I didn’t fully grasp the depth of those lessons. But when I faced

the daunting reality of cancer, the parallels became clear.

One topic we spent time on was “tolerance for adversity and

uncertainty.” Of all the principles of leadership that were taught,

this one caused the most discussion between the instructors and

me. It wasn’t until I was diagnosed with prostate cancer in 2016 that

the penny finally dropped. Like a good risk manager, I had felt that

adversity and uncertainty could be mitigated with proper planning.

The better the planning, the less chance there is for adversity or

uncertainty. But then, as they say, stuff happens.

The instructors’ points were, “If you can learn to live in a world where

things are hard, and you don’t have all the information, and don’t

know when it’s going to get better—if you can do that, you can do

anything.” Had I known then that I would now be living in a time of

constant adversity and uncertainty, the conversations would have

taken on a different form. That is my life these days, living with the

adversity and uncertainty of cancer and its treatments and side

effects.

Unlike this recent diagnosis, my initial battle didn’t trouble me as

profoundly. Perhaps it was because I wasn’t alone—I felt I had to

remain strong for my then-wife. Or maybe it was my naïve belief

that I would beat it, that if I followed the treatment plan—a prostate

removal—I’d be fi ne. Bad things like this happened to others, not

to me.

Years later, when I experienced a relapse and underwent radiation

and hormonal treatments, the lessons from NOLS resurfaced. Just

as I had in the wilderness, I focused on putting one foot in front of

the other, enduring the grueling daily trips to Boston for radiation.

I remembered those endless rainy days when we kept moving

forward despite exhaustion and discomfort. The wilderness taught

me to embrace endurance, to focus on the next step, and to find

beauty in simply surviving. That mindset got me through the

darkest days of treatment—one hour, one day at a time. For four

years after, I did my best to stay active despite lingering side effects,

traveling and savoring life where I could.

At NOLS, we were taught that you can plan meticulously in the

wilderness, but nature has its own agenda. It’s about adapting to

whatever comes your way, maintaining your spirit, and finding the

strength to push forward even when the path ahead is uncertain.

Cancer, I’ve come to realize, is much like that wilderness—

unforgiving, unpredictable, and demanding of every ounce of

your resilience. In the same way we faced the unknowns of the

wilderness, I’ve had to face the unknowns of my illness. It’s about

finding that same tolerance for adversity, embracing uncertainty,

and continuing to live fully—even when you don’t know what the

next day will bring.

Yet this morning, as I sit here enveloped in the tranquil beauty of

the snow-covered world, I feel a strange sense of calm. It’s as if I’ve

come to terms with my path and am ready to face what lies ahead.

Yesterday, I met with my doctor to discuss the treatment plan. I was

hoping it wouldn’t derail my long-anticipated expedition to South

America. After a candid conversation about treatments and “quality”

versus “quantity” of life, we decided to delay the treatment until July.

“There’s no point in feeling any more miserable on your trip than

you have to,” the doctor said.

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about the “quality of life” versus

“quantity of life” debate. At its core, it revolves around the decision

to prioritize either the length of one’s life (quantity) or the overall

well-being and comfort during the time one has left (quality). It’s not

an easy decision, and at some point, it will need to be made. From

what I’ve learned, this question is often asked in the remaining days

of one’s life, usually centered on staying in the hospital or hospice.

Some find it surprising that I’m asking this question now. But I

believe I’m far from that point in my life. I’m 68 years old and still

pretty mobile. Some may consider that young, others old. For me,

it’s just a number.

Reflection:

I used to believe that good planning could protect me from hardship. That if I did everything “right,” I’d earn my reward.

But cancer doesn’t play by those rules. And neither does the wilderness.

What I’m learning is that resilience isn’t resistance. It’s not muscling through. It’s adapting when there’s nothing left to control.

It’s making peace with uncertainty.

Hope looks different now. It’s quieter. Less about outcomes, more about presence. And that shift—that surrender—might be the strongest thing I’ve ever done.

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