Caring for the Woman Who Once Carried Me

There is a strange and sacred symmetry in life that no one prepares you for — the moment when the roles between mother and child begin to reverse. When the woman who once fed me, soothed me, and lifted me into her arms now needs two people to help her stand. When her voice, once full of advice and stories and song, now struggles to emerge at all.

This is where I am. This is where we are.

My mother has lived with Stage 4 metastatic breast cancer for some time now — HER2-positive, spreading to her liver, and slowly, quietly, to the rest of her body. She chose not to undergo systemic treatments, and for a while, she seemed untouched by the weight of her diagnosis. She walked. She laughed. She ate well. She radiated strength, the same way she always has.

But now, something is shifting. Her weight is falling. Her legs have begun to swell. She sleeps more. She speaks less. She eats less. She tires easily. And I find myself holding my breath between the moments — trying to memorize her presence, trying to offer comfort when I feel anything but steady.

I have become her caregiver. Her daughter still, but also her gentle witness, her soft hands, her advocate. I spoon soup into her mouth. I tuck pillows beneath her back. I soothe her dry cough with warm water and herbs. I pray with her, and sometimes just sit silently by her side, letting love speak in the spaces where words fail.

This role isn’t something I could have imagined when I was younger, when I thought parents were indestructible. But strangely, it doesn’t feel like a burden — it feels like a homecoming. An invisible cord connects us, stretching from the moment she birthed me to the quiet hours I now sit beside her, brushing her hair back from her face. There is pain, yes. There is fear. But there is also incredible grace.

We often talk about strength as something loud, heroic, muscular. But the kind of strength my mother shows now — and the kind I am learning to embody — is something quieter. It’s in the stillness. The presence. The breath. The choice to sit in the discomfort of not being able to fix things, and love anyway.

She may not have much time left. None of us really know how long we have. But each hour we spend together now feels like a lifetime. A gift. A chance to say things we never said enough: Thank you. I see you. I love you.

One day, I will carry these moments as my mother carried me — close to my heart, full of her legacy, rooted in her love.

And when the time comes to let her go, I hope I do it with as much grace as she has shown in holding on.

A Note to Anyone Caring for a Loved One Now

If you are reading this while caring for someone you love — someone who is slowly fading — please know you’re not alone.

There will be moments when you feel helpless. Moments when you’re exhausted, or scared, or unsure if you’re doing enough. And yet, your love is enough. Your presence, your gentleness, your simple willingness to sit with them — it is everything.

This is sacred work. It is tender, invisible, life-giving work.

So breathe. Be kind to yourself. Rest when you can. And know that even in silence, even in pain, your heart is doing something beautiful.

And when it hurts too much, remember: love doesn’t disappear. It transforms.