To The Unsealed Community,

Typically, I am not someone who visibly shows the world how I feel. Whether it was a big loss in sports as a teenager or in fourth grade when a boy pretended to throw up when he found out I liked him, I have often, without even trying, kept a poker face.

But how I look doesn’t always reflect how I feel.

During my first year of college, I was having the time of my life: a new school, a new romance, a new city, and lots of new friends.

I looked like a happy, typical college student exploring an exciting new world. And in many ways, I was just that. However, amid this incredible adventure and privilege, there were moments I was overwhelmed and nearly debilitated by fear.

When the sun went down, I was terrified to walk on campus alone. It was only a year and a half since I had been drugged and sexually assaulted by two strangers. I felt so vulnerable that someone could hurt me again at any moment. Whether walking back from dinner, a party, or my boyfriend’s dorm, whenever I was by myself at night, my heart would race, and I would feel this aching pit in my stomach.

Sometimes, when I made it safely, I would go to a bathroom stall or somewhere private and let out a few tears, just as a sigh of relief. Walking at night on what was a beautiful and, statistically speaking, safe campus was a horrible, unsettling feeling – one that I had no idea if it would ever go away.

There are many ways I could have responded. I could have gone home – quit school, and simply remained in the confines of my parents’ home. I could have stopped going out and stayed in my room after dark. I could have withdrawn entirely and hidden from all my fears.

But I didn’t. Instead, my 17-year-old self, consciously or subconsciously, chose to be brave.

I dared to ask for what I needed and took advantage of those offering to help. I told my boyfriend I was scared and asked him to walk me home from parties or back to my dorm room. If he wasn’t available, there were five other 6’5 football players who told me to call or text whenever I needed someone to walk me home.

I had the courage to keep showing up, to keep walking, and to ask for what I needed, knowing deep down I didn’t want this fear to hold me back. No matter how often my heart raced or I got that pain in my stomach, I kept going out. I kept meeting friends, and  attending parties and clubs. Daily, I left my comfort zone, which allowed me to fully enjoy the college experience.

While I still don’t love walking alone at night, my anxiety doesn’t reach the level it once did. And because I didn’t let my fear stop me then, I certainly won’t let my fear stop me now.

Dear Anxiety,

You have been in my life for a very long time. I first met you when I was five or six years old. Even at that age, I thought I needed to be the best athlete, dancer, and student to stand out in the world and reach my larger-than-life dreams. My parents never pushed me, so I am unsure why you entered my life or why I felt so much pressure. But because of you, I had sleepless nights and daily body aches. You had way too much power for a very long time.

Through the years, we have had our ups and downs. Sometimes, you consume me, and other times I have been able to keep you in check. The worst of you appeared in my late teens when a sexual assault led to paralyzing fear and endless stomachaches. I lost 30 pounds all because of you. Terrified about my health, I started to fight back against you. That’s when it hit me. I cause you.

I discovered that you, Anxiety, are the result of my thought process, habits, and attitude. Once I realized I was in control, I started to pay attention to the activities and behaviors that made you less present. Exercise, writing, and conversations with family and friends all helped to stop you from overwhelming my life. The more I engaged in behaviors that helped me, the less you hurt me.

In my 30s now, I recognize that you will probably never entirely disappear from my life. You are probably a part of life. But whether it’s stress from building my company or disappointment from a relationship, I now know how to take power from you. And that’s important because the less power you possess, the more happiness I can feel.

Anxiety, you’re tough, but I am way tougher.

Dear Sean,

Our friendship began the night we met. It was August 12, 2018 in downtown Cleveland. My friends and I ended up at a table at FWD nightclub with you and your friends. Thanks to your charm, and that handsome face, we immediately clicked.

In a short time, I realized there was so much more to you than your good looks and your sweet personality.

Over the next year, I got to know you pretty well. I opened up to you about my past. You were supportive and understanding. I shared with you the challenges I faced at the time, and you gave me strength, encouragement, and confidence. You also took me for sushi, became my pen pal (exchanging a billion texts a day), and helped me set the foundation for my business. Sometimes, I’d even get you to stop by my apartment just to give me a hug.

As our friendship evolved, you’d often share your wisdom and perspective with me.

Vividly, I remember you once telling me a lesson you learned while serving in the military. You told me you were pushed so much physically in the military that you realized that the moment you feel like giving up – the moment you feel like you have nothing left in the tank – you always have a bit more fight left. You can always go more.

I left Cleveland in June of 2019. You came over and said goodbye to me. You told me we’d see each other again in Miami or when I returned to Cleveland. Little did I know that would be the last time I’d ever see you.

About two months later, you texted me, “I have a miracle.”

You proceeded to tell me, in text, about how a week earlier you had a seizure while home with your daughters. Your daughters called for help and got you to the hospital, where they found a tumor in your brain. You sent me videos and an actual picture of the tumor inside your brain. It was too much for me to absorb over text, and I asked you to call me, which you did.

At that point, you still didn’t know if it was cancer, but you told me, “Don’t worry. Whatever it is, I will be OK.”

When you officially told me it was cancer, I don’t think my mind could fully process the reality of the situation. In fact, I still don’t think I have fully processed it. As time passed, I checked in on you here and there, and we chatted about life and other things.

When I first launched The Unsealed, you read nearly every letter, and signed up as one of my very first members.

After I thanked you for signing up, you said, “Your stories are helping people, Lauren. Your strength/story is touching.”

You made me believe that this lofty dream I was pursuing was not only possible but worthwhile.

While we didn’t talk much about your cancer diagnosis, and you certainly never told me your prognosis, you did tell me your circumstance taught you that no matter what, you always have to look at life from a positive perspective. When I told you I felt like I hit a wall with my business, you told me to be thankful I am here to hit that wall, reminding me that each day is both a blessing and an opportunity.

I used to tease you that you were a feminist, but you truly were, believing that women, including me, could be or do anything they so choose. I remember you even spent time on a weekend, helping teach young girls how to code.

Your daughters were your world, and you never wanted to miss a volleyball game or dinner time. If I called you while you were watching a movie with one of your daughters, you wouldn’t answer. Your time with your children was precious to you – and that was true from the moment I met you.

During your battle with cancer, you began to ride your bike – a lot. You decided to join the Great Cycle Challenge, aiming to ride your bike 200 miles in a month to raise money, not for yourself but for children battling cancer. You were among the top fundraisers in the country.

In the most challenging moment in your life, you devoted your time and energy to helping others that were suffering.

Sean, that is who you were. That is who all your friends and family know, love, and cherish.

A little less than a year ago, I asked you how you were, and you told me you were OK and that you were going to try some experimental treatments. Without going into detail, I knew what that meant. I didn’t hear from you much after that, and I feel sad that I didn’t reach out as I should have. I think, subconsciously, a part of me didn’t want to face the reality of losing yet another young person close to me. I am sorry I wasn’t there for you as much as I should have been these last few months. I promise, it wasn’t because I didn’t care.

A few weeks ago, I had a funny story I wanted to tell you – a mystery that I finally solved. When I texted you on your phone and Instagram and didn’t get a response, I knew it wasn’t good. Ultimately, your best friend and your mom filled me in. I am thankful I texted when I did, as I was able to send you cards and tell you how much you meant to me. Your mom even said that when you saw the card was from me, you had a huge smile across your face.

I am absolutely heartbroken right now. You were one of the good guys and didn’t deserve a battle with brain cancer. With that said, I want you to know that the man beyond the charm and the handsome face has left an indelible mark on my heart.

Because of you, I will keep fighting when I feel there is nothing left in the tank. I will keep pushing to build The Unsealed, motivated by the fact that I know it meant something to you and can and will help many other people. And I will always wake up every day with gratitude and a positive attitude.

While I am mourning the loss of your life, I will continue to celebrate you through how I live mine.

I miss you already. Thank you for genuinely caring about me. You will forever inspire me.

With love and lots of hugs,
Lauren

P.S. I heart you.

support brain cancer research disease by donating to:
https://virtualtrials.org/strother.cfm or http://www.childrenscancer.org/seanstrother

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