For the past couple weeks, my entire family has been sick with the flu.
My son brought it home first, and then my husband got it.
In the past, when I’ve been in the role of caregiver, there has been a very familiar pattern that takes over. Of course there is worry, but there’s also something else present. There’s a kind of self-erasing that happens almost automatically.
I become highly attuned to my patients’ every need, request, and small discomfort. I tend to over-offer, anticipate what might be needed next, and stretch myself in every direction to try to make things a little easier for the people who are sick.
Somewhere in that process, I disappear.
My own needs move to the bottom (or completely off) of the list. Sleep becomes negotiable. Rest becomes secondary. My body becomes something to override rather than something to listen to and honor.
And there is a highly conditioned, unspoken belief operating in the background that this is what love looks like, that this is what it means to care. I must use myself up in order to save them.
But this time, something was different..
My son was very sick, and my husband was very sick. It was not mild. It was the kind of illness that lingers and drains and asks a lot of everyone involved.
In the middle of that, there was a very clear and steady knowing that the best thing I could do for everyone was to actually take care of myself first.
This was not new information. I have heard this many times before.
But this time, it was no longer just an idea. It felt undeniably true.
So I did things I have never done before.
In the middle of the night, when my husband started coughing in my direction, I quietly got up, gathered what I needed, and moved into the guest room. I did not explain or justify. I simply went.
When my son wanted me to sleep in his room, I said no thank you. This was not because I did not care, but because there was no way to do that without completely disregarding my body.
I still showed up. I still cared for them. I still brought what was needed.
But I did not abandon myself in the process.
There was a boundary present, but it didn’t feel hard or defensive. It felt clean and matter-of-fact. It felt loving, authentic, and honest.
Interestingly, I never got sick. I don’t actually know why that is, and I’m not particularly interested in speculation or projection.
Still, it’s hard not to notice.
It feels as though, for once, my system remained resourced. Instead of pushing past my limits and draining myself in the name of care, I remained supported from within. From that place, I was able to continue showing up, even when it got really hard.
There is a phrase we hear often about putting your own oxygen mask on first, and another about not being able to pour from an empty cup. These concepts are so cliched that they are eye-roll worthy at this point. I’ve heard them for years and agreed with sentiment, but I don’t think I ever bothered living them.
When the moment actually comes, when someone you love is struggling and needs something, these ideas can seem selfish. They can feel like something to override in order to be a “good caregiver.”
What I saw very clearly is that this way of caring, this self-abandoning kind of love, does not actually serve anyone. It depletes the very thing that is needed to keep showing up.
What surprised me most is that caring for myself did not make me less available. It made me steadier, more present, and more able to respond rather than react.
There was still care. There was still love.
There was simply no longer the same cost.
And that feels like something I am only just beginning to understand.