There was a time when my life had a clear shape.
I had a career I’d worked hard for. A rhythm to my days. A sense of forward motion that came from knowing who I was and what I did. I was busy, capable, and — in my own way — proud.
Then my wife became ill.
Not gradually. Not in a way that politely asked for adjustments. But in the kind of way that rearranges everything all at once.
Work stopped being something I could do. Caring stopped being something I helped with and became something I was. Days filled with appointments, routines, worry, and the quiet vigilance that never really switches off. Somewhere in all of that, the version of me that had once been a professional with a title and a trajectory slowly slipped out of view.
I didn’t just leave a job.
I lost my relationship with the career that had defined me.
And I didn’t realise how much grief there would be in that.
For a long time, I told myself it didn’t matter. That it was selfish to mourn a career when my wife was fighting something so much bigger. That my role was to be strong, reliable, present. And I was — but strength without space eventually collapses inward.
I fell into a depression I didn’t immediately recognise. It didn’t look dramatic. It looked like numbness. Like exhaustion. Like days blurring together while I kept moving because stopping didn’t feel like an option.
What surprised me most was this: even when the fog began to lift, I didn’t want to go back to who I’d been.
The passion was gone.
Not because I failed.
Not because I wasn’t capable.
But because life had changed me.
And I think that’s allowed.
Slowly — and I mean slowly — I started asking a different question. Not “How do I get back?” but “Who am I now, and what can still belong to me?”
I needed something that wasn’t just survival. Something that fit around caring, parenting, school runs, housework, and the unpredictable shape of our days. Something that didn’t demand I be available on cue or emotionally intact on command. Something that felt human.
I didn’t need a grand plan. I needed hope that wasn’t reckless.
What I’ve learned is that staying afloat isn’t about swimming harder. It’s about finding ways to keep your head above water without exhausting yourself. It’s about building small rafts — moments of purpose, creativity, and agency — and trusting that they count.
I carry a lot. I’m proud of that.
I’m proud that I showed up when it mattered.
I’m proud that I didn’t disappear when things got hard.
I’m proud that I kept my family steady when the ground shifted beneath us.
But I also carry the weight of it all. And both things can be true.
There is pride here — real, earned pride — and there is heaviness. Responsibility. Grief for the life we thought we’d have. Uncertainty about the future. Love that is fierce and exhausting and non-negotiable.
And still, there is hope.
Not the loud, glossy kind.
The quiet kind that says: we are still here, and we are still moving forward, even if the path looks different now.
I don’t know exactly where this leads. But I know this: choosing to keep going, choosing to create, choosing to believe in a future for myself and my family — that matters.
And I’m proud of myself for that.