Strong Hands Deserve a Hand to Hold: Honoring Women in the Trades This October

October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and for me, it is deeply personal.

When my wife was undergoing chemotherapy, walking into the infusion center brought a sadness that is difficult to put into words. Chair after chair. Dozens and dozens of women receiving treatment, each carrying a story, a family, a fear, and a hope that you could not see simply by looking at them.

I remember thinking how cruel it felt: medicine powerful enough to fight cancer could also cause so much suffering. Watching those drugs flow into their veins felt like watching poison enter the bodies of people you desperately wanted to protect.

There was nausea. Bone pain. Weakness. And the emotional weight of having to face it all again.

Yet there they were, getting through the next moment. Then the next. Sometimes that was what fighting looked like: sitting in a chair and enduring another infusion when every part of you wished you could be somewhere else.

There is a helplessness that comes with watching someone you love go through chemotherapy. You want to fix what hurts. You want to take away the nausea, absorb the bone pain, and give them back the energy that treatment has taken. Love makes you willing to do anything, but it cannot make you capable of doing everything.

That is a hard truth to sit with. It is also why the things we can do matter so much. Being present does not require the perfect words. Sometimes it means letting silence be silence. Sometimes it means listening to the same fear again without rushing to dismiss it. Sometimes it means staying close when there is nothing reassuring enough to say.

Each woman in those chairs had a life beyond that room. Responsibilities did not disappear when treatment began. There were bills, children, jobs, relationships, and ordinary worries alongside an extraordinary burden. Seeing those rows of women reminded me that cancer reaches into entire lives, even when the rest of the world keeps moving at its usual pace.

The Empty Chair Beside Them

What stayed with me just as much as the treatment was how many women sat alone.

No one beside them to hold their hand. No familiar shoulder to lean against. No loved one close enough to hear the quiet words, “I’m scared,” or “I don’t know how much more I can take.”

I did not know their circumstances. An empty chair did not necessarily mean they were unloved. Someone might have been working, caring for children, or unable to make the trip. But in those hours, they were facing something incredibly difficult without a loved one beside them.

Seeing that made me understand how much presence matters.

We want to tell the people we love that everything will be okay. We want to promise that the pain will be worth it. But we cannot promise an outcome, no matter how badly we want to.

What we can promise is this: “You do not have to go through this alone. I am here. You can tell me how hard it is. And when you feel like you cannot keep going, you can lean on me.”

We cannot take the treatment for them. We can help carry the day.

Honoring the Women Who Keep Our Industry Moving

That experience shapes how I think about the women in the trades.

Women install and repair equipment, diagnose problems, lead crews, own businesses, dispatch technicians, support customers, and train the next generation. Their skill and judgment help keep homes comfortable, businesses operating, and communities moving.

They deserve recognition for that work throughout the year.

This October, they also deserve an industry willing to see the person behind the job title. A woman answering a customer’s call may be waiting for test results. A business owner may be managing appointments alongside payroll. A technician may be returning to work while still carrying the physical and emotional effects of treatment. Another may be supporting someone she loves.

We will not always know. Their stories belong to them, and sharing those stories should always be their choice.

But we can build workplaces where asking for help feels safe, where medical appointments are met with understanding, and where nobody has to prove their dedication by hiding their pain.

Let Awareness Become Action

Wearing pink can express support. What we do afterward gives that support meaning.

Offer practical help. Cover a shift. Bring a meal. Provide a ride. If someone welcomes company during treatment, sit beside them. Check in after the first wave of concern has faded, when appointments continue and everyday responsibilities still need attention.

Instead of leaving every request to someone already exhausted, offer something specific: “Can I bring dinner Thursday?” or “Would you like company at your next appointment?” Then respect their answer.

And listen without requiring optimism. Someone can be courageous and exhausted. Hopeful and afraid. They should not have to put on a brave face to make the rest of us comfortable.

For employers and industry leaders, compassion also belongs in decisions. Ask privately what support would help. Discuss scheduling needs without making someone disclose more than they want to share. Make room for conversations about workload, and follow through on whatever arrangements you agree to together.

A supportive culture is built before a crisis. It grows when people know their contributions are valued, their privacy is respected, and asking for assistance will not erase the reputation they have worked hard to earn. That matters in an industry where reliability and toughness are often celebrated.

We should celebrate women for their expertise without expecting them to be endlessly strong. A capable professional can need rest. A respected leader can need someone else to take the lead for an afternoon. Accepting help does not diminish everything she brings to her work or her community.

Support should continue beyond October, too. The calendar turning to November does not end someone’s treatment, grief, uncertainty, or need for connection. Remember the person after the ribbons come down. Keep asking how she is doing, make space for an honest answer, and keep showing up in ways that are useful to her rather than convenient for everyone else.

A Hand to Hold

This month, I honor my wife and every woman who has faced breast cancer. I honor those receiving treatment, those living with ongoing illness, those navigating life afterward, and those we have lost. Their worth and courage are not measured by the outcome of their disease.

I also honor the women whose talent and hard work strengthen the trades every day.

My hope is that our industry becomes a place where support is something people can feel: in a covered shift, a patient conversation, a meal at the door, or a hand held through a difficult afternoon.

I still think about those rows of infusion chairs—and the empty chairs beside them.

We cannot remove every fear or ease every pain. But we can show up. We can remind someone, through our actions, that they are loved and that they do not have to carry everything alone.

Strong hands deserve a hand to hold, too.