There are moments when love doesn’t look like pretty flowers or kind words. It looks like not saying the one thing you really want to say. Like keeping a straight face when you’re crumbling inside. Like shielding someone you love from news they simply couldn’t bear to hear.
When my mum asked the doctor, “How long have I got?” He replied, “You won’t make the year,” and I watched something shift in her. Not just from hearing those words, but from what she chose to do next.
She didn't fall apart. She didn’t cry or scream or argue. She just nodded. 
And then she hid it all from Dad. 
Because she knew he couldn’t handle it.

​​The Chameleon in the Room

​My mum had spent her life being the strong one. The chameleon. The peacemaker. The one who could blend in and hold it all together when others couldn’t. It wasn’t something she ever complained about. It was just how she’d learned to be.
And even when she was dying, even after the shock of being told she wouldn’t live out the year, she still played that role for him.
He came into the room a few minutes later, full of hope that she’d eat more soon, that maybe the nausea could be fixed. That things might turn around. And she didn’t dissuade him.
She didn’t want to. She didn’t want him to suffer. She was still caring for him, even while her own life was slipping away.
That’s love, isn’t it? And it’s also something else.

It’s Easier to Be Yourself. But What If You Can’t Be?

I remember saying later, “It takes so much energy to be the chameleon.”
And it does. Because it’s not easeful. It’s not real. It’s not you.
I could see how much it drained her, pretending everything was okay so Dad wouldn’t fall apart. How exhausting it was to smile when she wanted to cry. To reassure him when her own world was collapsing.
She had been doing that her whole life. And in some way, so many of us do the same. We downplay our struggles. We put on the strong face. We protect others from the truth because we think they can’t handle it.
And maybe they can’t.
But what does it cost us?

When Love Looks Like Silence

When I was caring for Mum at home, I was also caring for Dad, just in a different way. I coordinated, managed, protected, and emotionally buffered both of them.
Mum knew that Dad needed to get away. That being around her decline was breaking his heart. So she asked him to go bush with my brother. Not because she didn’t want him there, but because she loved him enough to let him go.
That was her version of love: protecting him, shielding him from the things he couldn’t bear.
Sometimes, love is silence. Sometimes, it’s not telling the whole story. Sometimes, it’s saying “I’m fine” when you’re not, because someone else isn’t strong enough to hold both truths.
But who holds you then?

Who Carries the Grief When It’s Too Much for Them?

This is something we rarely talk about in caregiving: emotional labour. It’s not just the physical care—cleaning, driving, monitoring medications. It’s the invisible work of being the strong one, the communicator, the therapist, the anchor.
When someone can’t process the truth, someone else has to carry it.
And often, that someone is you.
In families, it’s usually the daughter, the wife, the sister, the one who’s “better at handling things.” And maybe that’s true. Maybe you are better at it. But just because you can carry it doesn’t mean it’s light. Just because you’re good at it doesn’t mean it’s easy.
If you’ve been carrying grief that wasn’t even fully yours, if you’ve been the one who held the truth so others wouldn’t have to, I want you to know this: I see you.

Love, Choice, and the Invisible Care We Give

There’s a quiet strength in choosing not to fall apart so someone else doesn’t have to. It’s a different kind of love. One that doesn't always get recognition. But it matters.
At the same time, it’s okay to choose something different.
To say what’s true. To rest. To stop managing everyone’s emotional reactions. To stop being the chameleon.
It’s much easier to be yourself.
And the more you allow yourself to show up that way, the more permission others have to do the same. Even if they don’t take it right away. Even if they never do. That’s not your job to manage.
Your job is to keep choosing what works for you.

A Soft Invitation

If reading this reminded you of your own mum, or your partner, or someone you cared for, maybe even someone you lost, I invite you to take a breath right here.
Let yourself feel the weight of what you carried. And then, as gently as you can, let it go.
We are never just caregivers. We are daughters, sons, partners, friends. We are whole people. And being strong doesn’t mean you have to disappear.
If you’d like to explore more about being real in your care, for yourself as much as for others.
I welcome you to join me for one of my upcoming talks or courses.
Sometimes the first step is just having someone see you.
 
Image by PublicDomainPictures from Pixabay

​There’s this moment, quiet but heavy, when someone you love starts needing help. Maybe it’s a sudden diagnosis. Maybe it’s years of slow decline. But at some point, the question lands in your lap:
Are you going to be the one who steps in?
For most people, there’s not even a pause. You jump into doing, fixing, managing. You fill in the blanks. And before you know it, life isn’t really about you anymore. It’s about hospital runs, managing medication, cleaning up messes (emotional and literal), trying not to cry at the chemist, and pretending you’re holding it all together. I’ve been there. Many times.
And if you’re reading this, you probably have too.
But here’s something we’re rarely told, something that saved me more than once: You have a choice.

 That Moment You Forget You Have a Choice

When I was caring for my mum as she died, I chose to have her at home. It was what she wanted. And, truthfully, it was what I wanted too. I had the awareness, the space, and the tools to do it in a way that worked—for her and for me. 
But when my dad’s time came, it was different. What worked for him was palliative care in a facility. And that was okay too.
Here’s the thing: every situation is unique. And the trap so many of us fall into is believing that because it’s our parent, or our partner, or our sibling, we’re supposed to. There’s guilt baked into the culture of caregiving. And it comes with an invisible checklist:

• Stay strong.
• Show up.
• Don’t complain.
• Keep going.
• Don’t get it wrong.

It’s a recipe for burnout. And worse, it leaves no room for you.

The One Question That Changed Everything for Me

Before I took on the full role of caregiver for my mum, I asked myself one very simple question:
“What’s going to work here, for me?”
Not in a selfish way. Not in a cold, calculated way. But from the space of true honouring. If I choose this, will it create more for me? And more for her?
And if not, what else is possible?
Asking this kind of question isn’t just permission. It’s power. It’s the difference between obligation and conscious care. And it will change how you show up, not only for your loved one, but for yourself.

When 'Looking After' Means Looking at What Works

It might seem radical, but sometimes what truly works is not being the one doing everything. Maybe what works is coordinating care, or handling communication, or making sure someone else is there to provide physical support.
Maybe what works is asking for help. Maybe it’s letting go of the idea that you’re the only one who can do it right.
You don’t have to prove anything by doing it all. In fact, doing it all often means losing the chance to be with the person, really be with them, in the way that matters most.

There’s No One-Size-Fits-All (and That’s a Good Thing)

My mum was a fiercely private woman. When nurses came to assess her home for safety rails and supports, she’d listen for ten minutes, then politely excuse herself. She wanted me, not a stranger, to care for her. That was her choice. And because I had asked myself the right questions, it became my choice too.
My dad, on the other hand, didn’t want that. What worked for him looked entirely different.
So many people I meet are looking for the right way to care for someone. But there isn’t one.
There’s only what works. For you. For them. For right now.

Honouring Them Doesn’t Mean Losing You

One of the biggest lies we’re told is that “good caregivers” give everything.
But what if being a contribution doesn’t mean compromising yourself?
If you lose yourself in the role, what’s left of you to give? If you’re burnt out, resentful, or running on fumes, are you really able to be the presence that nurtures them through the end of life?
Honouring the other person also means honouring your limits. It means having that quiet courage to pause and say, “Hang on… what works here?”

What If Choice Creates More, Not Less?

There’s a quote I love: Every choice is good for ten seconds. Then you can choose again.
The power of that is enormous, especially when it feels like you’re stuck with a role you never signed up for.
If today’s choice doesn’t work tomorrow, change it. If you need more help, ask. If you want a moment to cry alone in your car or laugh at the absurdity of it all, do that.
And most of all, if you’re carrying guilt or shame for not doing it “right,” please know this:
There is no right. Only real. Only choice.

A Quiet Invitation

If any part of this stirred something in you, I invite you to stay curious. Ask yourself:

• What is going to work for me here?
• What does caring actually look like for me?
• And who do I want to be in this process?

And if you’d like to explore these questions more deeply, I host talks and sessions for people navigating care, loss, and everything in between. Sometimes the most generous thing you can do—for everyone—is to start with the choice to ask yourself.

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