Jason Tharp

Lately I have been thinking about the difference between surviving and becoming a symbol of survival.

When I was first diagnosed, I went looking for people who had made it farther than expected. People who were still here. Still living. Still navigating the uncertainty. I did not need them to explain everything or make the fear disappear. I think I just needed to know that the dark was not the only thing out there.

Now I understand those people are often called outliers. But that word can feel strange when you are the one living inside it. Because being an outlier is not just a statistic. It is a real life. A real body. A real mind trying to make peace with the pressure of being seen as proof of something.

What I am learning is that maybe the role of a lighthouse was never to rescue anyone. Maybe it was simply to remain visible. To stand in the uncertainty without pretending it is not hard. To keep a light on, not because you have mastered the storm, but because you are still in it and have not disappeared.
There is something deeply human about that. We look for each other in the dark. We search for signs that someone else has stood where we are standing and found a way to stay. Maybe hope begins there. Not in certainty. Not in answers. But in the quiet relief of realizing that someone else is still shining from their side of the shore.

Becoming the Lighthouse

I used to look for lighthouses.

Not the kind on postcards.

Not the ones people visit

to say they have seen something beautiful.
I looked for the kind
that had been battered a little.
The kind that knew the sound of waves
hitting hard in the dark.
The kind that stayed anyway.
When I was first diagnosed,
I needed proof.
Not of miracles.
Just of presence.
I needed to know
someone had stood where I was standing,
with the same night around them,
and found a way
to keep their light on.
Now I’ve lived long enough
to understand something strange.
Sometimes, without meaning to,
you become the thing
you once went searching for.
And that is its own kind of weight.
Its own kind of quiet pressure.
Not to be extraordinary.
Not to be fearless.
Not even to be certain.
Just to keep showing up.
To keep telling the truth.
To keep letting your small, steady light
reach farther than you know.
Because someone else
may be out there now,
scanning the horizon
with tired eyes,
hoping for one reason
not to give up.
So I write.
So I post.
So I stand here
on my little piece of shore,
not above the storm,
not beyond it,
just in it,
lit.
And maybe that is all a lighthouse is.
A body that did not disappear.
A soul that kept its window open.
A quiet refusal
to let the dark
have the last word.

Since coming home from that first bucket list trip, I have found myself thinking less about the big moments and more about the small ones. The quiet ones. The ones that do not ask for attention while they are happening, but somehow stay with you longer than anything else.

One of those moments was watching my son absorb what we were sharing with him. Not just the experience itself, but something deeper. Something harder to name.

It made me realize that one of the most sacred and heartbreaking parts of being a parent is this. We spend so much of our lives trying to prepare our children for life, while quietly knowing that part of that preparation is teaching them how to one day live without us.

That truth lands differently when life has already taught you how fragile it can be.

I am not saying this from a place of fear. And I am not saying it because I believe I am going anywhere soon. I say it because some experiences strip away the illusion that we have endless time, and when that illusion falls, what remains is often the truth we were too busy to say out loud.

Maybe that is why these moments matter so much.

Not because they are dramatic. Not because they announce themselves as life-changing. But because they remind us that love is not only found in what we provide, protect, or plan. Sometimes love is found in what we leave behind in the people we have spent our lives shaping. In the courage we helped build. In the tenderness we made familiar. In the quiet reminders that they were deeply loved while we were here.

I know I have made mistakes. I know I have carried thoughts over these past years that many people never have to carry quite so closely. But I also know this.

If the people I love know they are loved, truly and without question, then something eternal has already been built.

Maybe that is what a meaningful life really is.

Not avoiding the truth of our impermanence, but living in such a way that love outlives our presence.

This past week reminded me how quickly “normal” can become a milestone.

I just wrapped up a bucket list trip, spent meaningful time with my family, and pushed my body in ways I have not been able to in a long time. I made it through the week with no issues, and for the first time in a while, I felt normal.

The new infusions appear to be helping. But even more than that, they have reintroduced something I refuse to take lightly: hope. Not as a passive wish, but as a strategy.

When you are deep in a setback, your brain wants certainty before it will let you move. But life does not work that way. What I am learning is to take the next most hopeful step anyway, then stay open. Zoom out. Picture yourself healed, steady, and exactly the way you want to be, and let that version of you inform the plan you make today.

Opportunities often arrive in forms you would never predict. Staying open is not naive. It is courageous. And sometimes, it is exactly what invites the magic in.

I’ve been struggling lately. Not physically. Not mentally. Just struggling to find gratitude.

And I need you to hear this part. That feels honest. Because sometimes life drops you into a story you did not write. You feel like a passenger on a ride you did not buy a ticket for. And you’re just trying to act normal while your inner world is quietly screaming.
Lately I’ve caught myself staring at my flaws. Flaws I’m usually the only one who notices. Then I let them turn into reasons. Reasons I’m stuck. Reasons I’m behind. Reasons I’m not enough.

For me, it’s been the weight gain from being on steroids for so long. I thought I had made peace with my body. I thought I had handled it. Then it swung back around like it always does, covering my eyes and whispering, “Guess who.”

This weekend is a big milestone for my family. We’re taking the first trip of what we used to call a bucket list adventure. My kids don’t love that phrase, so we renamed it. A memory list. And that small change did something to me.
Because names matter. Words matter. “Bucket list” can pull you toward fear. “Memory list” leaves the door open. It makes room for the present moment. It makes room for joy without guilt. It makes room for new memories, not just the pressure of time.
This week I had a reminder of that too. I did a speaking engagement connected to Pelotonia, and the new tower at The James at Ohio State just opened. When I started radiation, that was the day they broke ground. For a long time, that building was my lighthouse. A quiet question I carried every day. Will I live long enough to see it open?

And then it did.

So here’s what I’m learning again, in real time. We can grieve the hard stuff we did not sign up for and still let the good stuff come through. We can admit we’re struggling and still keep moving. We can notice the cloud without building a home inside the storm.
Fear will try to keep you frozen. Love will take your hand and remind you, you’ve done hard things before.
What’s the next most hopeful move?

Last night, I stood in a room full of generosity. Pelotonia. High Roller. A stage. A mic.
And a version of me I did not recognize at first.

I walked in carrying a quiet fear.
Not about the words.
About the body holding them.

Steroids do what they do.
They keep you alive.
They also leave receipts.

A belt.
A new hole.
The same size I wore when I was 400 pounds.

It is a strange thing, how a strip of leather can become a verdict.
How quickly we turn measurement into meaning.
How fast we decide the number is the truth.

So I did something I do not usually do before a speaking event.
I asked for help.
I leaned on the people who love me.
I borrowed steadiness when mine was missing.

A good friend said something that cut through the noise in my head.
Not like motivation.
Like a fact.

They are not coming to hear the weight behind your belt.
They are coming to hear the weight behind your words.

And I cried the moment I stepped into the light.
Not because I was weak.
Because I was tired of pretending I was not human.

We spend so much of our lives waiting for permission.
Permission to be seen.
Permission to take up space.
Permission to be unfinished and still worthy.

But permission is a myth we invent when we are afraid of being judged.
And survival has a way of making you believe you have to earn your right to live.

I have survived a lot.
And I have learned something that feels almost offensive in its simplicity.

Surviving is not the same as living.
And living is not something you get rewarded with.
It is something you choose.

Even with the extra weight.
Even with the tears.
Even with the belt that tries to tell an old story.

Maybe the most hopeful move is not fixing yourself first.
Maybe it is showing up as you are.
And letting your words weigh more than your shame.

Because magic does not live in perfection.
It lives in choice.
And I would choose magic over misery every time.

I’m learning something uncomfortable about myself. I don’t really do “a little.”

When I go in, I go in 100 percent. And that can be beautiful when it’s love, effort, presence, and showing up. But when it’s self-criticism, it turns into a full-time job. It becomes a loop. A cycle. A kind of devotion to everything I think I should be, instead of who I actually am.

Here’s the part that’s messing with me lately. Self-criticism feels productive. It feels like control. Like if I’m hard enough on myself, I can steer the outcome. Like I can shame my way into peace.
But that’s not how it works. Not for me.

Because the road ahead is still the road ahead. Unknown. Unmapped. Unpromised. And no amount of pressure changes that. It just makes the walk heavier.

So I’m practicing a different kind of strength. The kind that doesn’t grip life with white knuckles. The kind that loosens its hands and says, I don’t know what’s next, but I’m willing to be here for it.
Not passive. Not checked out. Just open.

I’m learning to let life unfold without demanding it prove itself to me first. And at the same time, I’m choosing trust. Not because I have guarantees. Because I’ve seen what happens when I keep going. Because I’ve watched the way show up before.
Maybe that’s the real shift.

Not forcing the future.

Just refusing to abandon myself while I wait for it.

I don’t do halfway.

I never have.

When I love, I love all the way.

When I work, I work all the way.

When I doubt myself,

I do that all the way too.

Self-criticism is loud.

It wears the costume of discipline.

It calls itself “help.”

It promises control.
But it doesn’t build a life.
It builds a cage
and hands me the key
like I should be grateful.
The road ahead stays hidden
no matter how hard I stare at it.
So I’m learning a new kind of brave.
Not the brave that conquers.
The brave that softens.
The brave that says,
I don’t know what’s next,
but I will not punish myself
for being human on the way there.
I will let life unfold.
Not because I’m certain.
Because I’m willing.
And I will trust the direction
the way you trust morning
before the sun shows its face.

We never really know how a setback will cross our path. We don’t get to control the timing, the shape, or the weight of it. The best we can do is remember this: some of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen in my life came out of moments that felt, in real time, completely defeating.

That doesn’t make the hard thing “good.”

It just means the hard thing isn’t the whole story.

So I’m showing up. For me. For my family.

And I keep noticing how easy it is to confuse surviving with living. Surviving is a kind of math. Minutes. Tasks. Getting through. It is the body dragging the day across the finish line.

Living is different. Living is presence. Living is the heart remembering that life is not a problem to solve. It’s a gift to receive.

I don’t want to tear through my days like I’m ripping open a package in the dark, just to get to the end and call it handled. I want to unwrap life slowly. On purpose. So none of the magic disappears in the rush.

No matter what’s coming, I want to experience it.

I want to live it.

I’m showing up for me.

I’m showing up for my family.

We will squeeze the life out of these days

not like desperation,

like devotion.

Surviving is the day’s narrow hallway.

A list.

A clock.

A finish line.

Living is something else.

A hand on the heart.

A quiet remembering

that this is a gift.

So I’m unwrapping it slowly.

Not because I’m afraid of what’s inside,

but because I refuse

to lose the magic

to speed.

No matter what’s coming,

I want to experience it.

I want to live it.

This thought popped into my head on my walk today.
I’m still here. And I’m allowed to feel good without earning it first.
Somewhere along the way, a lot of us learned to treat relief like a reward. Like peace has to be purchased with productivity. Like joy is something you unlock after you finally get your act together.
But what if that is backwards.
What if “feeling good” is not the finish line.
What if it is a form of oxygen.
Not a trophy.
A necessity.

I used to think I had to clear my mind before I could be okay. Free up space. Fix the clutter. Solve the noise. Earn the right to exhale.
Today I remembered something simpler.
The space is already there.

Not because everything is handled.

Not because I am perfectly healed.
Not because life is suddenly easy.
Because I am alive.
Because I am human.
Because worth is not something you prove. It is something you return to.
If you have been waiting to feel good until you feel “deserving,” consider this your permission slip.
You are allowed.
Even now.
Especially now.

————————————————————————————————-

I thought I had to make room
like my mind was a house
I did not deserve to live in
until I cleaned it.
I thought peace was a prize
for the ones who finished the list
for the ones who did not need help
for the ones who never broke.
But today, walking,
the air did not ask for proof.
The sun did not check my record.
The sidewalk did not care
how many times I have started over.
It just held me.
And something in me remembered
there is space
that has always been mine.
Not empty space.
Living space.
Breathing space.
The kind you do not earn.
The kind you enter
when you stop negotiating
with your own worth.
I am still here.
And I am allowed.
And maybe that is the beginning
of loving myself
like I was never a project at all.