It's very hard to wake up every morning knowing that a part of

The words of Sarah Harding, “It’s very hard to wake up every morning knowing that a part of me is missing; that part of my womanhood is gone,” are filled with the sorrow of loss and the courage of confession. They are the words of one who has suffered in the flesh and in the soul, who has faced illness and endured its cruel demands. In them we hear the pain not only of the body altered, but of the spirit wounded by what has been taken. To speak of womanhood as missing is to reveal the deep ties between identity and the body, between the inner self and the outward form that carries it.

The origin of this saying lies in Harding’s own battle with cancer, a battle that forced her to give up parts of her body in order to fight for her life. For her, the surgery was not only a medical act but a symbolic one, stripping her of something she felt essential to her identity as a woman. Each morning, upon waking, she was confronted not only with her survival but with her loss. Her words show us the truth that survival is not always pure victory; sometimes it comes bound with grief.

History knows this struggle well. Think of the soldiers who returned from war missing limbs, forever changed by their sacrifice. Many of them spoke of feeling less than whole, though they lived, and though they endured. In their missing parts they carried not only scars, but questions of identity: Who am I now, when what I once had is gone? Harding’s lament joins this ancient chorus of voices who remind us that healing is never simple, and that survival often bears a heavy cost.

Yet even in her pain there is a kind of heroism. To name one’s grief openly is itself an act of courage. In a world that often demands silence, Harding gave voice to the truth: that survival and loss can dwell together in the same heart. Just as the Greek hero Achilles bore both strength and vulnerability—invincible in battle yet tender in his heel—so too does the survivor carry both triumph and wound. By sharing her pain, Harding transformed her personal struggle into a testimony for all who walk the same path.

The lesson for us is one of compassion and dignity. We must never assume that because someone has survived, they no longer suffer. The body may be healed, yet the soul may still ache. To lose part of oneself—whether it be health, beauty, strength, or identity—is a grief that requires patience, gentleness, and understanding. In listening to such voices without judgment, we honor their courage and affirm that they are not less, but whole in a deeper, truer way.

Practically, this means that in our own lives, we must treat both ourselves and others with tenderness in the face of loss. If you have suffered change in your body, do not despise yourself for what is gone; instead, honor the courage it took to endure. If others you love carry scars, be present with them, not demanding false cheer, but offering space for their sorrow and their healing. And in all things, remember that true womanhood, manhood, personhood is not defined by the parts we lose, but by the strength and love we carry forward.

So, beloved listener, take Sarah Harding’s words to heart: every morning may bring with it the reminder of what is missing, yet it also brings the chance to rise again. Loss may change the body, but it cannot take the worth of the soul. Let us live with compassion for ourselves and others, remembering that the truest measure of humanity is not in what has been kept, but in how we endure, how we love, and how we continue to rise in the face of what is gone.