I don’t even know where to begin.
Actually, no — I do.
It starts with sitting in a hospital room, or standing at the kitchen sink, or just staring at your phone in the middle of the night, Googling things you wish you never had to Google. It starts when someone you love hears the words “You have cancer”, and suddenly, you’re not just a daughter or a sister or a partner — you’re a caregiver. And everything shifts.
I’ve been here before. First with my sister. Then my mom. And now, my partner.
Back then, I wasn’t their full-time caregiver, but I was present — staying up to date on their treatments, being someone they could vent to about side effects, checking in after appointments, sitting with them during recovery, reminding them of their strength, telling them how proud I was, and even urging them to keep going when they wanted to give up. I did everything I could to help, even when I didn’t really know what helping meant or what I was doing. I tried to be steady, to show up, to soften the edges of something impossibly sharp.
Now, it’s different. Now, I’m in it full-time. Caregiving isn’t something you just step in and out of— it’s constant. It’s now the air I breathe. My partner needs me, and I’m all in. And even though I’ve walked alongside cancer before, this time feels heavier. Not just because the day-to-day is more intense, but because the weight of everything I’ve carried from the past is still with me — and it came flooding back the moment we got the diagnosis.
Even with the most amazing support system — and I do have one, from my workplace (shoutout to SurvivorRx, honestly), my friends, my family — being a caregiver can still feel deeply isolating. Like you’re the invisible character in a very real, very high-stakes drama. Everyone’s asking how your loved one is doing, which they absolutely should, but no one ever really asks, “How are you holding up?” And even when they do, it’s hard to answer. Because most days, I’m just putting on a brave face and trying to not let fear take over.
Caregiving, especially for someone with cancer, is a full-body, full-heart job. You're making grocery runs. You're prepping bland meals that hopefully won’t make them nauseous. You're silently checking temperatures and side effects. You're being a cheerleader and a nurse and a therapist and a personal assistant and a housekeeper and oh — also a human with your own needs.
But the truth is, we’re not superheroes. We’re not saints. We’re just people doing the best we can for the people we love. And watching someone you love suffer is its own kind of trauma. I didn’t expect the PTSD to creep back in when my partner got diagnosed. But it did. I started waking up with that same tight chest feeling I had when my sister was in treatment. The same anxiety loops. The same feeling that no matter how hard I try, I can’t fix it.
And that’s the hardest part, isn’t it? That we can support, but we can’t save. And some days, that reality just hurts. It really, really hurts.
The Weight We Carry
There’s a term for it — secondary PTSD in caregivers. It's real. It’s the mental and emotional toll of witnessing someone else’s trauma over and over again. And I think more of us need to talk about it. Because this idea that caregivers should just be tireless, smiling, selfless pillars of strength is not only unrealistic — it’s harmful.
We forget to eat. We miss our own doctor’s appointments. We cancel plans. We stop sleeping well. We lose touch with ourselves. And before we know it, we’re not showing up as our best selves — for them or for us.
I’m still learning this, but here’s what I’m coming to understand: it’s okay to say “I’m not okay.”
It’s okay to need help.
It’s okay to cry in the car. (I know I do.)
It’s okay to feel resentment and guilt and fear and love and exhaustion all at the same time.
Caregiving is not a job for one. Even if you’re the “strong one.” Especially if you’re the strong one.
Making Space for Yourself (Without Guilt)
So what does support for caregivers really look like? It looks like:
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Letting a friend drop off dinner and not apologizing for not making it yourself.
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Taking 10 minutes to walk around the block alone and breathe deeply, even if your to-do list is screaming at you.
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Journaling your rage or your grief or your gratitude, unfiltered. (This really helps me.)
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Calling a therapist and saying, “I just need to talk about what it’s like to be the one watching.”
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Saying yes when someone offers to help — even if it’s just with running an errand or help folding the laundry.
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Asking your job for flexibility, and not feeling bad about it.
There are also incredible caregiver resources for cancer support out there — support groups, hotlines, therapy referrals, blogs like this one (hi), and communities that get it.
Organizations like CancerCare, the American Cancer Society, and Triage Cancer offer various programs to support caregivers through the emotional, practical, and financial challenges of cancer caregiving.
SurvivorRx, where I work, is building a space for that too. You don’t have to go through this alone, even if it feels like you are.
If There’s a Point to All This…
I think it’s this: Caregivers deserve care too.
You can love someone with your whole heart and still feel overwhelmed. You can show up fully and still need space. You can be the one holding it all together, and still fall apart sometimes. There is strength in asking for support. There is resilience in rest.
And there is power in knowing that what you’re doing matters — not because it’s perfect, but because it’s yours.
So to every caregiver reading this — whether you’re deep in it, recovering from it, or gearing up for another round — I see you. I am you. And I hope you’ll remember that you’re not alone, even on the days that feel the most lonely.
Because caregiving isn’t just about survival. It’s about showing up, with love, again and again — and remembering that you matter too.
