I’m Joy, and I care for my mom.
She’s always been the strong one. For the past eight years, she was the one caring for me while I managed a chronic illness. But in October, things shifted. She didn’t feel well. At first, it was hard to see—she looked fine. But she kept asking us, “How do I look?” and we knew something was off. Then came the blood tests, more appointments, and finally, the diagnosis: breast cancer.
That’s when my caregiving journey began. I was already used to managing my own health, but this was different. Now, I was in charge of supporting the woman who had always supported me.
The Diagnosis That Changed Everything
When you hear the word “cancer,” everything tilts. It’s not just a physical condition—it’s a mental and emotional earthquake. My mom, who’s 66, had always been so active and independent. Suddenly, she was tired all the time. Her body felt off, and when the diagnosis came, it was like her spirit was hit with it too.
We moved fast. Appointments stacked up: ultrasounds, consultations, bloodwork. Surgery was scheduled in January. It was a long, four-hour procedure, and when she came home, we had to care for a drainage bulb, monitor sutures, and prevent infection. My dad and I had to learn everything quickly—how to help her without hurting her, what signs to watch for, how to manage her post-op care.
Even when she came home, she couldn’t shower or lift her arm for a while. We had to help with everything: bathing, dressing, feeding. It was an intense level of caregiving, every single day.
Holding It Together (and Falling Apart Quietly)
Through it all, I tried not to cry in front of her. I became her strength, even when I was falling apart inside.
“I didn’t want those fears to jump off on her. I had to shut them down. I had to shut them up.”
I’d already been through my own medical trauma—sepsis, ports, chemo pills, nearly losing my life. So when they started talking about possible chemo for her, my mind raced. I had to fight the urge to project my past onto her future. I told myself, “You cannot pour from an empty cup.”
Faith helped. I’d start the day with meditation, prayer, maybe a few jumping jacks or a DIY project. I’d dance to commercials just to feel joy and release stress.
And my husband—he was my rock. He’d speak in Spanish, try to make me laugh, do little romantic things that lifted my spirit. We were a team, all of us, trying to carry one another.
My mom told me, “You’re the only one I can depend on.”
Hearing that was both an honor and a burden. There were moments I was angry, wondering where everyone else was. But I realized that maybe I was chosen because there’s a light in me—a strength that not everyone carries.
It took me a while to embrace that. To realize that this role, while exhausting and often invisible, is a gift. It’s a powerful thing to be trusted with someone’s life and healing.
I wish I had known how lonely it can feel. And I wish someone had told me that it’s okay to ask for help. That you’re not weak for needing rest. That sometimes, the most healing thing you can offer isn’t words—it’s presence.
Caregiving isn’t just physical. It’s emotional, spiritual, and psychological. Sometimes Mom doesn’t need me to talk—she needs me to hear her, to understand what she’s not saying through her body language or facial expressions.
I’d say to anyone stepping into this role: Heal thyself first. Know yourself. Pour into yourself so you’re not caregiving from depletion.
This journey is still ongoing. My mom recently finished radiation—five days a week for a month. She rang the bell. She’s tired but strong. And every morning, I’m still here, making sure she has what she needs.
Through it all, I’ve discovered that caregiving is a profound honor—a challenging but beautiful opportunity to show love in action. There might not be any payment, vacation, or bonus, but the reward of changing someone’s life surpasses any monetary value.
As I tell others now, “Receive the gift of caregiving, because at the end of your life, you will pray and hope someone will have the same for you.”
