How my reflection has changed since becoming a caregiver

This morning, while I was making myself a cup of coffee, I saw my reflection in the curved, stainless steel surface of the kettle as I waited for the water to boil. The face staring back at me looked strange. It seemed distorted, blurred, tired, and worn out — a version of me with edges softened and stretched. Yet, I wondered why that reflection felt more genuine than what I typically see when I look in the mirror.

When I stand in front of my bathroom mirror, I often can’t recognize the person staring back at me. My eyes look older with the shadow of knowledge around them — about the rare cancer myeloma, knowledge I never asked for. There is also a new tightness in my jawline, a sign of readiness for the next alert, decision, or emergency.

I can trace the lines that weren’t there two years ago. I used to refer to them as worry lines, but I now understand that they don’t signify worry, but witness. Each one is a faint map of a long night at the hospital, a difficult conversation I had with doctors who disagreed with me, or a silent prayer I whispered desperately over my mum’s hospital bed. This face is not less than what it used to be. It is a record of all I’ve experienced since I became a caregiver to my mum after her myeloma diagnosis.

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This transformation hasn’t just affected my skin; it’s also visible in my posture. I’ve noticed the way my shoulders brace, even when I’m resting. It’s as if my body is ready to carry an invisible burden, lift an unbearable weight, or absorb a heavy blow.

I also notice the smile that I put on for my mum and anyone who comes close to us. It is a gentle smile, one I have practiced and perfected. My smile doesn’t always reach my eyes, but that doesn’t mean I love my mum or anyone around us any less. If you’re observant, you’ll notice that I wear a smile even when I’m busy with repetitive routines or angry about the things I’m facing that no one else can imagine. I have learned to meet strangers’ gazes with curiosity and less judgment.

This face staring back at me is the face of someone who has learned the soft language of comfort, the hard metrics of medication, and the unpredictable administrative work involved in caregiving. This is the face of someone who has decided, over and over again, to not only show up, but also to always be present.

The portrait of perseverance

I no longer see the fatigue as a flaw. Rather, I see it as proof of my dedication. And the gray hair is not a sign of old age, but of all the sunrises that I have witnessed from a reclining chair beside my mum’s hospital bed.

My reflection is not evidence of my decline; it is a testament to my endurance. It is the face of a person dedicated to his caregiving duties. And even though I may not always recognize it, I am learning, slowly, to honor it.

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