There are seasons in life that slow us down, whether we ask for it or not.
Here in the Midwest, a heavy snowstorm has wrapped the world in stillness. Roads quiet. Calendars loosen. Time stretches. And in that quiet, reflection finds its way in.
My mother is engaged in the fight of her life.
My mother is engaged in the fight of her life. And it dawned on me that this is not new for her. Born in rural Louisiana in the 1940s, she has been fighting her entire life. Fighting systems that were never designed to protect her. Fighting sexism. Fighting poverty. Fighting abuse. Fighting to be seen, to be safe, to be heard. Fighting for her children. Fighting for her partners. Fighting to survive in a world that required her strength long before it ever offered her softness. Since 1947, fighting has been her language, her posture, her way through. And now she is fighting again.
This realization has shifted something in me. It does not excuse moments when she says something sharp or cruel. In those moments, it becomes clear that she is fighting for control, for dignity, for herself, and whether she realizes it or not, she no longer has the capacity to cushion the impact. Seeing this helps me hold both truth and compassion at the same time.
Cancer is not just a diagnosis. It is a reckoning. It forces conversations we avoid, emotions we tuck away, and truths we would rather not name. It stirs thoughts about mortality, meaning, relationships, and the legacy we leave behind, both spoken and unspoken.
As I watch my mother navigate this battle, I find myself thinking about her children, all five of us, a small tribe shaped by the same woman, the same household, the same love, and the same wounds.
What strikes me most is this: we all inherited something from her.
Not everything, but something dominant.
One of us carries worry and crippling anxiety. That one is me.
Another carries what I gently call the collection gene, a deep need to hold onto things, not from excess, but from an old fear of not having enough. I see echoes of an era where scarcity shaped survival. I do not diagnose. I simply observe with compassion.
One sibling has mastered avoidance, the art of not seeing what hurts, as if closing one’s eyes could make reality soften.
Another sibling does what I call ‘loving distance,’ which is to remove themselves from anything that even hints at discomfort or emotional harm.
And then there is the youngest, the peacemaker, the one who just wants everyone to get along, who longs for harmony even when the cost is personal truth.
None of these traits is inherently bad. They were adaptive. They were protective. They made sense once.
But here is the harder truth: none of us uses them in ways that truly serve ourselves or one another anymore.
Illness has a way of pulling back the curtain.
When someone we love is sick, especially when the outcome is one we all quietly understand, patterns intensify. Fear sharpens. Tempers flare. Old coping mechanisms come roaring back. Even the person who is ill may show sides of themselves shaped by pain, grief, and loss of control.
This does not make anyone bad.
It makes us human.
But being human does not mean becoming an emotional landfill.
There is a difference between holding space and being used as a dumping ground. There is a difference between compassion and self-abandonment. Caregiving, whether direct or emotional, is exhausting. The logistics alone are overwhelming. Appointments. Decisions. Rearranging life. Holding everyone else’s emotions while managing your own.
We must make room for irritability. We must soften toward grief. We must allow people grace in moments when they are not at their best.
And still, boundaries matter.
Illness does not give anyone the right to unload unchecked anger, resentment, or fear onto a single person again and again. Love does not require martyrdom. Support does not mean silence. Compassion does not mean collapse.
What this season has taught me is clarity.
I know what I choose.
I know what I see.
I know what I can offer.
I am holding space for my siblings. I hold it with intention and care. Whether they step into it or not is their choice. My responsibility is not to convince, fix, or carry what is not mine.
If you are part of a family walking through illness, especially something as consuming as cancer, please hear this clearly.
You are not the only one going through this, but neither are you required to carry everyone.
And if you are the one living with the illness, please hear this too. You are not walking through this alone, even when it feels that way. Your entire family is navigating this with you, each in their own imperfect, human way. You still have a choice in how you spend your energy, your words, and your time. None of this asks you to perform strength or pretend gratitude. It simply invites awareness. The way you move through this season shapes the moments you share, and those moments matter, for you and for those who love you.
If it is possible to talk with one another, to get on the same page as siblings, it can be deeply grounding. Sometimes grief isolates us without our realizing it, each person assuming they are alone in their fear. Opening that door may surprise you. I know my sisters have been my rock, and standing together has brought tremendous comfort. And still, you know your terrain. If those conversations are not possible or not safe, do not beat yourself up. Discernment is not failure.
Talk to someone. Do not do this alone. There are support groups, caregiver circles, and foundations that offer free, compassionate spaces for those supporting someone through serious illness. Just as families affected by substance abuse use have their own support systems, caregivers and loved ones of cancer patients deserve the same care.
Your feelings matter.
Your exhaustion is real.
Your boundaries are valid.
Illness reveals what needs tending, in families, in relationships, and in ourselves. If you notice patterns tightening rather than loosening, reach out for help. Reflection is powerful, but healing happens in connection.
This season has made me more determined, not to control what I cannot, but to reclaim the small, vital agency that remains.
To love deeply.
To stay honest.
To hold space without disappearing.
And to remember, caregiving includes caring for yourself.
If this resonates, you are not alone. And if today all you can do is name what you see, that is already a beginning.
Quackenbush Coaching LLC 