Turning Pain Into Purpose: The Strength Beneath the Surface
- Jun 21
- 3 min read
By Adriana L. Cowdin
I didn’t expect to walk away from surgery with PTSD. But I also didn’t expect the surgery to nearly kill me. The Whipple procedure—one of the most complex and dangerous surgeries performed—is typically used for pancreatic cancer or related conditions. Only about 25% of people live more than five years after it. There are so few that live to ten years, they don’t even track it. Most people have no idea what it is. Fewer still live to tell the story. In December 2025, I’ll mark nine years post-op. I’m still here. And that survival has reshaped me more than any career title, resume bullet, or medical diagnosis ever could. Because surviving the Whipple was just the beginning. What came after—that’s what changed everything.
When You’re Physically Safe, but Still Not Okay
The trauma didn’t end when I left the hospital. My body went home, but my nervous system stayed on high alert. I struggled with fear in quiet moments, panic that made no sense, and mental loops I couldn’t interrupt. Eventually, my doctor said, “You have PTSD.” I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry. I just exhaled. For once, something made sense. Naming it gave me a starting point—not just for understanding, but for healing. And what I’ve learned since is this: PTSD doesn’t look like the movies. It doesn’t always come from combat or crime scenes. It can come from a surgery table. From waking up in pain. From not knowing if you’ll make it through the next hour. I had no idea it was even a diagnosis for anyone other than a veteran
.Strength Doesn’t Always Look Strong
Most people who meet me today don’t see the layers underneath. I’m an executive coach, an author, and a business owner. I run strategy calls. I keynote events. I write blogs and books. But under all of that, I still carry trauma. It’s quieter now. Less disruptive. But it’s part of me. I used to resent it. Now, I respect it because it’s taught me to lead differently.
It’s why I walk every day, my body allows.
It’s why I meditate—on the Calm app, YouTube, Peloton—whatever works.
It’s why I’m writing my book ‘Stubborn As Fuck’.
It’s not just a project. It’s a lifeline. Writing has helped me process the pain I never said out loud. It’s shown me what I’ve lived through—and reminded me that survival is its own kind of wisdom. If it helps only one person, then I’ll know it was all worth it.
Building What I Couldn’t Find
There’s power in telling your story. But there’s even more power in creating something that helps others tell theirs.
That’s why I’m building The Stubborn As Fuck Live Experience—a 2.5-day retreat for women who’ve held it all together for far too long. Women who are tired of pretending they’re “fine.” Women who need a reset that isn’t wrapped in spa music and surface-level advice. I’m also creating The SAF Collective—a community that offers group coaching, space to be real, and support without judgment. It’s where women can fall apart and rise again, without apology. These aren’t side projects. They’re extensions of what I’ve lived. And they’re fueled by one belief: You don’t have to be healed to be powerful. You just have to be honest.
If You’re Still in It—Keep Going
If you’re reading this and you’re still in the thick of it—whatever “it” is—here’s what I want you to know:
You’re not alone.
You’re not weak.
You’re not broken.
You’re in process. And that process is valid.
Some days, you’ll write a chapter or make a move. Other days, you’ll just take a walk or breathe on purpose. That’s still progress. Healing doesn’t always look like big breakthroughs. Sometimes it looks like making it to the end of the day with your sense of self still intact. So here’s what I’ll leave you with: The pain you’ve lived through? It’s not the end of your story. It might just be the beginning of your purpose.
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