When Bad News Breaks In
Sooner or later, bad news finds all of us.
If it hasn’t yet, it will. As the years pass, people you love will face illness. Some will die. You may encounter your own medical challenges. And eventually, your own life will come to a close.
We don’t talk about this much. Yet when crisis comes — when the doctor’s voice shifts tone, when the phone call changes everything — it can feel isolating and disorienting. Facing serious illness or the reality of death is often a lonely road, even when you’re surrounded by people.
I slowly watched my 36-year-old wife walk through stage 4 cancer. For three and a half years after her diagnosis, we lived in three-month increments — scan, wait, hope, and often, more bad news. Each appointment carried the possibility of a new blow.
“You need to get your affairs in order.”
“Prepare your will.”
“Review your finances.”
“Update your health care directives.”
Those words are heavy. They rearrange your world.
And yet, in the midst of recurring bad news, we discovered four anchors that gave us hope and direction each time the ground shifted beneath us.
This post is an invitation — not to live in fear of crisis, but to prepare your heart for when it comes. Consider now how you want to navigate suffering, uncertainty, and loss. Because when bad news breaks in, it helps to already know what will hold you steady.
Emotional Permission
Sit… in the shock.
Cry. It is good to cry.
Hurt. It is natural to hurt.
None of this is abnormal.
Your crisis is uniquely yours, but your emotional response is profoundly human. What you are feeling — or what you will feel — is real. Raw. Sometimes overwhelming. Often disorienting.
I could list dozens of emotions that might surface: fear, anger, numbness, denial, sadness, confusion. But I hesitate to do that. I don’t want to project feelings onto you or add weight to what you’re already carrying. Whatever is rising in you belongs to your story. It doesn’t need to be compared, measured, or corrected.
What I can say is this: navigating those emotions alone is incredibly hard.
Looking back, I wish I had someone walking beside me — a guide with lived experience who could help me process the waves instead of being pulled under by them. That longing is what eventually led me to begin coaching caregivers. Not as a sales pitch, but as a response to a real gap I felt in my own journey.
When bad news breaks in, you need space to respond.
Even the simple realization that life will never quite look the same can trigger grief — even if the prognosis promises eventual recovery. When the outlook is uncertain or terminal, that grief can be sharp and immediate.
During our journey, we wrote a song called Why We Run from a Christian faith perspective. Every time I listen to it, even now, tears still come. The loss remains. The love remains. The ache remains. And that’s okay.
Emotions are not weaknesses to suppress. They are signals of love, attachment, and meaning.
So give yourself permission.
Let the tears fall.
Let the silence linger.
Let your heart respond.
And allow those around you to do the same.
Reality Substantiation
Emotions must be expressed.
But they cannot be allowed to make every decision for you.
When crisis hits, feelings are loud. Fear shouts. Grief clouds vision. Anxiety predicts futures that may never arrive. If we let those emotions steer unchecked, they can quietly begin determining how we live, what we value, and who we become.
Moving forward with your emotions — not ignoring them, not suppressing them — is essential if you are to rediscover joy and hope. But forward movement cannot be processed clearly until you first take stock of your new reality.
Before you look outward to the future, look downward at your feet.
You can hold your head high and fight courageously. But metaphorically looking at your feet helps you stop spiraling through endless “what-ifs” and instead solidify the ground you are actually standing on. Anxieties, shattered expectations, and the many informed and uninformed voices offering advice can blur the horizon. Clarity begins by naming what is real.
This is the practice of listing the realities — plainly and honestly.
For us, it looked something like this:
We have stage 4 cancer.
It hurts deeply — emotionally and physically.
We are worried about our kids.
The treatments are no longer working. There are no medical options left.
We do not control whether this ends in healing or death.
We believe God can heal — or He may use this as a doorway to heaven.
What we can control is how we respond.
We can choose to be victims of cancer, or victors over it.
We choose to be victors.
Cancer may end in death, but we refuse to let it steal our life before then.
Heaven with Jesus is our ultimate hope.
Every one of us will face death someday.
We choose faithfulness, no matter the outcome.
The rest belongs to God, not to us.
Laying out each piece did something powerful. It separated fear from fact. It clarified where we stood. It reduced confusion in moments of trembling. It gave us shared language when emotions ran high.
And often, it ended with declarations — choices we would return to again and again:
We will be faithful.
We will look for joy.
We will encourage one another.
We will live fully for our children.
We will be honest — with them and with ourselves.
Reality named becomes steadier ground.
And from steady ground, you can choose how you will stand.
Affected Consideration
As we clarified our reality and chose how we would respond, something else became clear: we were not the only ones walking through this.
Our children were.
Our families were.
Our close friends were.
Remembering who was most affected reshaped how we chose to live inside the crisis. It reminded us that our pursuit of joy wasn’t denial — it was leadership. It was stewardship. It was love.
There is something profoundly important about thoughtfully bringing others along with you in mutual care, support, and even grieving. Crisis can shrink your world. Pain can turn your focus inward. And while that inward focus is understandable, staying there too long can deepen isolation.
Gently lifting your eyes to consider who else is affected begins to widen your heart again.
When someone is struggling with depression, one of the healthiest practices is to slowly reintroduce outward care — to help the mind remember that it is part of a larger story. In crisis, this same principle applies. Considering the needs, fears, and dreams of those walking beside you creates shared strength. It restores purpose. It invites connection instead of withdrawal.
It is like shifting your gaze from your feet to the people right beside you.
These are the ones holding your hand. Sitting in hospital rooms. Watching your children. Sending texts. Bringing meals. Praying. Waiting.
When your eyes stay fixed on the distant horizon — the big picture, the endless “what ifs,” the outcomes you cannot control — anxiety multiplies. The horizon contains too many variables.
But the people beside you?
They are tangible. Present. Reachable.
Choosing to care for those who are also affected by the crisis grounds you. It transforms panic into purpose. It replaces helplessness with meaningful action.
You may not be able to control the outcome.
But you can choose how you love the people walking through it with you.
And sometimes, that choice becomes the steady rhythm that carries you forward.
Directional Motivation
When you begin lifting your eyes to the people around you, something subtle shifts.
You regain a measure of control.
The spiraling sense that everything is slipping through your hands begins to slow. You may still feel like you’re in a deep hole — trembling, exposed, unsure. But you are no longer free-falling. You have something steady to reach for.
For us, it was in the depths of that journey that we started asking legacy questions:
What do we want to give to others through this?
What do we want our legacy to be?
Who do we care about most?
Who will need us — now and in the days ahead?
Crisis compresses time. Life planning shifts from years in advance to days, sometimes even moments. At times, it feels impossible to plan anything at all.
That is when direction becomes less about long-term strategy and more about daily intention.
When we focused only on the diagnosis, it was overwhelming. When we focused on the day in front of us, it was manageable. When we thought about our children’s future — and even, at times, about what life might look like for me after my wife’s passing — we found small glimmers of hope.
Those glimmers mattered.
They helped us plan small things.
They helped us say meaningful words.
They helped us give intentional moments.
And those “little bits” — conversations, letters, shared laughter, deliberate memories — brought joy to the people we loved. Their joy, in turn, brought joy back to us.
Purpose does not erase pain.
But it steadies it.
So ask yourself:
What are you going to live for in this season?
Who are you going to hold close?
Who needs your strength — even in its fragile form?
Where will you look for moments of joy?
Being intentional about your direction — even when the road ahead is uncertain — changes how you experience the journey. It does not remove the crisis. But it gives you a compass.
And sometimes, a compass is enough to keep moving forward.
Closure
These steps do more than help us navigate crises as they happen — they strengthen us long after the storm has passed. Moving through a crisis well, and finishing well, is deeply enriching. It can reduce regrets, lessen the lingering weight of the experience, and soften grief. Not erase it, but soften it. Grief, when approached with intention, can be filled with meaningful memories rather than only loss.
Finding closure is a key part of this process. For some, journaling or documenting the journey provides a sense of order and reflection. For others, creating a tangible act — a ritual, a celebration, or a memorial — helps mark the end of a chapter or honor those lost. Each person affected by the crisis will navigate closure differently. Being gracious to yourself and to others is essential.
Whatever you face — now or in the future — you have a choice in how you respond. I trust you will take what resonates from this post and do your best to navigate your path. That measure will look different for each of us.
Above all, I hope you can find moments of joy, even in the midst of your crisis.
Fair well my friend
