When my 8-year-old daughter was diagnosed with leukemia, my sense of self collapsed. The identities I’d long held dear– writer, friend, woman with aspirations– were abruptly overshadowed by the singular, consuming role of caregiver. In the three years of treatment that followed, I became a person defined by vigilance, exhaustion, and a relentless drive to keep my child alive.
Caregiving for a child with cancer feels like walking a tightrope over a void. There’s no break from the unyielding demands and no safety net below to catch you if you tumble. Every day brought another round of medication schedules and treatment decisions, and I felt overwhelmed by the impossible task of offering comfort to my frightened child who was asking existential questions I couldn’t bear to answer.
Initially, I didn’t notice how my new existence was unraveling me. Survival-mode autopilot took over. Adrenaline kept me going through sleepless nights on the hospital’s miserable pull-out chair and daily outpatient visits, but as our crisis stretched into routine, my body and mind began to protest.
Anxiety quietly embedded itself into every corner of my life. Even at home, far from the beeping monitors, my thoughts raced with “what-ifs.” A fever became a medical emergency. A rash could mean relapse. Fear rewired my brain, and each moment felt precariously balanced between control and catastrophe.
During one of my drives to the hospital, I realized I was entirely depleted. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to keep going, and I was ashamed of my weakness. The guilt of admitting I needed care, too, was suffocating. My daughter was fighting for her life. It felt selfish and demanding to feel anything but gratitude that she was still alive, but caregiving can be merciless, and no amount of guilt could shield me from its toll.
The Hidden Cost of Caregiving
When a child has cancer, the natural and common response is an immediate rallying around them. Everyone I interacted with wanted to know how my daughter was doing, which made sense, but far fewer asked after my mental and physical state. I was sinking into a deep depression, made worse by the fact that my struggle felt invisible. People meant well when they told me I was “so strong,” but their words only made me feel more isolated and ashamed. Strength had become a mask I wore to reassure others even as my mental health crumbled beneath it.
My eventual crash and burn didn’t hit like a tidal wave. It crept in quietly, piece by piece: my sleep shortened to a handful of hours a night and my days were blanketed by panic. Irritability gave way to despair. By the time I acknowledged the depths of my exhaustion, I felt that I was beyond saving. My body made the consequences clear. Panic attacks seized me without warning; my heart raced uncontrollably; insomnia rendered rest impossible. It wasn’t a metaphorical breakdown—it was physiological.
The Stigma of Asking for Help
Admitting that I couldn’t handle my daughter’s cancer on my own was challenging. I’ve been a single mother for most of my kids’ lives, and there has never been a question of whether I’m able to push through the more difficult parts of our lives. The myth of the selfless caregiver— endlessly giving, without complaint or need— runs deep. I felt like I was betraying the person I am to my kids by seeking support for myself, but I couldn’t keep running on empty.
I started opening up to friends about how I was feeling. I let my facade down and began to unpack the fear and resentment I’d been trying not to feel. I mourned out loud the life I’d paused indefinitely, and I admitted to being lost in the shadow of the profound loneliness that comes with being a full-time caregiver. I realised that everything I was feeling didn’t make me selfish or weak– it just made me human.
The more I opened up to people about how I was struggling, the more I realised that self-care isn’t indulgent. It’s a lifeline, and I learned to lean into it. I found ways to squeeze moments of self-care into even the most demanding days. I’d journal for ten minutes, step outside and take three deep breaths of fresh air, or ask a friend to drop off a hot meal when I was too depleted to cook. These small solaces became anchors for me. They didn’t resolve my pain, but they made the weight I was carrying a little more bearable.
Beyond Survival
Even now, years after my daughter’s remission, we live in the shadow of her illness. For me, the vigilance never fully fades. Her routine clinic visits for bloodwork stir up memories of nights spent in the fluorescent-lit hospital room. The phrase “lumbar puncture” still raises my heart rate. Caregiving rewires you, and the scars remain long after the crisis has passed.
Still, healing is possible, though it is often slow and uneven. I try to find joy in the mundane. There is a casual comfort in listening to my kids bicker about whose turn it is to feed the cats. There is joy in a mug of tea before bed at night, safe and comfortable in our home. While I’ll always carry the emotional residue of those difficult years, I’m learning to allow myself to rest.