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Here is your guide to unlocking extraordinary personal strength when you need it most.
This book chronicles one woman’s journey through breast cancer, but it is much more than a personal story. This is also a powerful guide for anyone facing adversity, offering tools and inspiration to persevere through life’s toughest challenges.
At its heart, Pray for the Bear is a testament to the strength and resilience that can be found in even the most ordinary lives when confronted with extraordinary trials. The book is structured around a series of short lessons, each drawn from the author’s own experiences and designed to illustrate practical strategies for overcoming obstacles. These instructive stories offer
both encouragement and guidance, demonstrating that with the right mindset, anyone can conquer their fears and emerge stronger.
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Carly Fauth is a fitness instructor, movement mentor, and founder of FitFunCarly, a virtual fitness program that helps people get fit in just 15 minutes a day. A lifelong advocate for mental health through fitness, Carly’s passion for wellness deepened when she was diagnosed with triple-negative breast cancer in February 2024. During chemotherapy, Carly launched her podcast, Chemo Coffee Talk, straight from her infusion chair at her treatment center. She continues the podcast from her home studio, offering hope, resilience, and real conversations to cancer patients and caregivers. Carly lives in Milford, MA, with her husband, two sons, and their goldendoodle.
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Published by FitFunCarly in collaboration with Fearless Literary
Paperback ISBN 979-8-218-51109-8 • 104 pages • $14.95 • ebook $9.95
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E X C E R P T :
"If you see me in a fight with a bear,
pray for the bear.”
— Kobe Bryant
Prologue
When I was eleven my Mormor (Danish for mother’s mother) was dying of cancer. It was cancer of the duodenum. I remember our last Christmas Eve together, I had escaped the dining room table and snuck into the family room to hide under some blankets. Shortly after, my Mormor walked into the room and sat in a rocking chair by the crackling fire. She had no idea I was even there. I kept myself well hidden, but peeked out from under the blanket just to watch her rocking back and forth. As she stared into the flames, she had a very sad expression on her face. She kept closing her eyes as if she was completely exhausted, refusing to let herself fall asleep. She was wearing a brown wig that was meant to look like her own hair, but didn’t quite meet that mark. The wig appeared to be slipping off; and that, for some reason, made me the most sad of all. I somehow knew this memory was important and would stay with me forever, so I just kept watching.
I remember wondering what she was feeling and des perately trying to put myself in her shoes. I knew she had cancer, but I didn’t really understand what that word meant. All I knew was that she smoked, and that seemed to be the reason people got cancer. I’m not sure how long we were there, but I saw that when others came into the room, she adjusted her wig and sat up a little straighter. The tired woman I had seen staring into the flames was re placed by someone with a fierce determination to carry on.
At the end of the night I remember saying goodbye to my Mormor as she was pulling on her leather “driving gloves” she always wore to drive in the winter. Someone asked her if she was okay to drive, and I distinctly remember the look that flashed across her face as if she had been slapped. She didn’t appreciate the fact that someone was simply taking away her freedom to do what she loved, so she snapped back, “Of course I can drive.” In the awkward moment of silence that followed, the reality was that nobody in that room had ever experienced what she was going through. Although it felt impossible for us to understand, I remember really wanting to try.
My Mormor passed away later that year, and since then I have spent my life trying to hold on to her and feel the connection we once shared. I have been searching for her in other people, seeking signs from ladybugs, and trying to hear her whispering to me. Sadly, she has always felt so far away from me since then.
But not anymore. Now I see her, in my own eyes when I peer into the mirror. Thirty-seven years later, I feel the closeness I have been craving since she left me. Sitting where I am now, I completely understand what my Mormor was feeling. I know the feeling of being so completely exhausted that rocking in a chair, staring at a flame, is the only thing you can imagine having the strength to do. I also know the feeling of well-intentioned people taking things away from you because they think they are making your life easier. I know that rage of wanting things to be different than they are and being envious of others who are thriving. I understand her pain. I understand her distance at times. I can relate to how she sometimes took her sadness out on other people.
I believe that my cancer diagnosis has been a way for me to make peace with the special relationship my Mormor and I lost out on 35 years ago. I feel a sense of relief from her, knowing that someone truly understands what she was going through and that anything she said or did during that time was just her way of coping.
I feel like I am finally bringing her some peace.
Mormor, this book is for you.
