Being a caregiver means sometimes pretending to be stronger than I feel

Some mornings, I slip into borrowed strength the way other people put on a coat.

Others might wonder why I do this. After all, I’m a caregiver, which means I’m supposed to be strong at all times of the day, right? Well, that’s simply not true. I’m also a human being, and the truth is that caregivers often become worn out.

Thinking that I should be a superhero with infinite strength because I care for my mum is one of the false stories about caregiving.

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Still, my mum needs to see stability, which is why I make sure my voice is steady and confident when I explain her latest blood test results. I also straighten my shoulders when the doctor speaks of possible medication side effects, especially since my mum received a secondary diagnosis of immune thrombocytopenia. I smile with an assurance I didn’t know I possessed when she asks if everything will be all right.

My performance is gentle; it is never loud. It is simply the quiet acting I know I need to perform to keep fear from flooding the room.

This borrowed strength has significance. It sits inside my chest like an additional heartbeat I must handle.

Even though I might come across as calm on the surface, deep inside I am calculating risks, visualizing worst-case tomorrows, and swallowing the lump that rises every time my mum’s hand feels more feeble than yesterday.

The effort I put up always leaves behind tiny cracks. Those tiny cracks reveal themselves in various moments when my real fragility slips through: a sigh that’s too heavy, eyes that linger too long on her face as she is sleeping, the way my own hands tremble immediately when I step out of her sickroom.

I’ve learned that this pretense is not dishonesty; it’s another form of caregiving. It’s the willingness to carry both my uncertainty and her need for reassurance at the same time.

However, the cost is real. When evening comes, the borrowed strength feels tattered, and I sit alone wondering how much longer I can continue to patch it.

There is a strange tenderness in these moments. When I allow the mask to slip just enough for my mum to see a flicker of my real self — tired, unsure, but present — she sometimes reaches for my hand with a look that says she understands. In that shared glance, the pretending softens into something more authentic: two people leaning on each other, both frail, both enduring.

Perhaps the deepest strength is not the perfect performance but rather the bravery to borrow just enough to keep going, and to return it gently when the day is done.

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