This was taken last Thursday morning. Light streaming in, baby giggling, my wife somehow glowing even though she barely slept the night before. You’d never guess from this photo that she’d collapsed in the hallway just two hours earlier.
She has an autoimmune disease. One of those unpredictable, invisible ones that flares up without warning. Some days she’s herself—sharp, funny, full of energy. Other days she can’t lift her arms to brush her hair. The in-between is what breaks me.
She never complains. Not in front of our daughter. She’ll wince and grab the counter for support, then scoop up the baby with a shaky smile like nothing’s wrong. She keeps saying, “I’ll rest when she naps.” But half the time, she spends those nap windows doing laundry or cleaning bottles.
I tried to get her to slow down, to take care of herself. But every time, she’d smile, kiss me on the cheek, and say, “I’m fine. You know I hate resting.” It was like she had a fear of stopping, like the world might come crashing down if she did. But it wasn’t just about her being strong—it was about her wanting to be everything, all the time. For me, for our daughter, for everyone.
And it’s breaking me.
I never thought I’d be in this position. I always believed we’d face things together, side by side. But now I find myself watching her struggle and trying to pretend I don’t see it, pretending everything is okay. But I know it’s not.
I’d never tell her, but I’m terrified. Terrified that one day, when I look up, she won’t be able to get out of bed. Terrified that the smile she forces through the pain will be the last one I see before things get too far.
I keep hoping that one day, the doctors will finally have the answers, that they’ll find the right treatment to ease her suffering. But that hope is wearing thin. It’s hard to stay optimistic when you watch someone you love so much fight a battle that isn’t even visible to the world around them.
And then there’s our daughter, Sophie. She’s three, full of life, so innocent to everything. But there are signs. Little things. She’ll notice when Mommy is too tired to play or when she takes too long to get off the couch. She’ll ask, “Why is Mommy so tired, Daddy?” and I have to come up with something. I tell her it’s because Mommy’s been working hard, but how long can I keep saying that? How long until she starts to notice the change? How long before she understands that her mother’s illness is stealing pieces of her, bit by bit?
I can’t keep hiding it. But I also can’t bear the thought of breaking her heart. How do you explain chronic illness to a child? How do I tell Sophie that her mother, the person she looks up to more than anyone else in the world, might not always be okay?
It’s been harder than I ever imagined. I’ve tried to help in every way I can—taking on more responsibilities around the house, making sure Sophie gets everything she needs, trying to support my wife as best as I can—but sometimes, it doesn’t feel like enough. And the guilt… it eats at me. I feel guilty when I go to work and leave her behind. I feel guilty when I see her struggle and I don’t know what to do. I feel guilty when I watch her hide her pain behind a smile, and I wonder if I should do more.
I’ve talked to her about getting help. Not just medical help, but emotional support too. I’ve asked her to talk to a therapist, to let someone in. But she shuts it down every time. “I don’t want to burden anyone else with this,” she says, always with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “We’ll figure it out, we always do.”
But I don’t think she’s figured it out. And I’m starting to think that neither of us has.
The hardest part is not knowing what the future holds. The doctors have told us that there’s no cure for her illness, only management. But management doesn’t always work. Some days, her symptoms are worse than others. Some days, it feels like nothing is enough to keep her going.
And still, she keeps going.
Last week, I found her sitting in the kitchen, staring at the empty coffee cup in her hands. I could see the exhaustion in her face, the way her shoulders slumped even though she tried to sit up straight. She didn’t notice me at first, but when she finally turned her head, her eyes softened.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I can’t do it all.”
I walked over and took her hand, trying to keep my voice steady. “You don’t have to do it all, you know that, right?”
She nodded, but I could tell she didn’t believe me. She was too used to doing everything on her own, too used to carrying the weight of our family without asking for help.
“I’m so tired,” she said quietly, and for the first time in a long time, I saw the vulnerability she kept hidden so well.
I hugged her tightly. “You don’t have to be strong all the time,” I said, my voice thick with emotion. “You don’t have to do everything. We’ll get through this together.”
But even as I said those words, a part of me wondered if it was too late. Wondered if I had already failed her. If I’d waited too long to help.
A few days later, I came home to find her lying in bed, her face pale and her breathing shallow. I panicked, rushing to her side. “What happened?” I asked, my voice frantic.
“I… I just need a little rest,” she said weakly. “I’ll be okay, just need to rest.”
But I knew it wasn’t just rest. Something was wrong. And for the first time, I felt a real sense of dread.
I called her doctor immediately. We went in for tests the next morning. And that’s when we got the news. Her condition had worsened—faster than anyone had expected. The flare-ups were more frequent, and the damage to her body was starting to show.
The doctors recommended a new treatment plan. It was more intensive and required a commitment that would take her away from home for longer periods. I saw the fear in her eyes when they talked about it. She didn’t want to leave me or Sophie. She didn’t want to be away from her family. But deep down, we both knew it was the only choice.
I didn’t know how to tell Sophie. She didn’t understand why Mommy would have to go to the hospital for so long. Why Mommy couldn’t always be there to tuck her into bed at night. I tried to explain, but the words never seemed right.
And then something unexpected happened. One afternoon, when Sophie was playing with her toys, she turned to me and said, “Daddy, I think Mommy’s sick, isn’t she? But that’s okay. Because we love her, and she loves us.”
I froze, my heart aching. She knew. In her own way, she understood. She didn’t have all the answers, but she knew her mother was sick. And it was okay. Because we loved her. And that’s what mattered.
That was the moment I realized something important—sometimes, it’s not about having all the answers or fixing everything. It’s about love. Love is what holds us together when everything else feels uncertain. Love is what gives us the strength to keep going, even when we’re at our lowest.
We’re still in the process of navigating this new chapter in our lives, but one thing has become clear: we’re not alone. As a family, we’ll get through it together.
And I’ve learned something valuable in all of this: sometimes the greatest strength comes not from carrying the weight of everything, but from letting go and trusting that you don’t have to do it all alone.
If you’ve ever faced something difficult—whether it’s illness, loss, or any challenge—remember this: love is the strongest thing you can offer. To yourself and to others.
Share this with someone who might need to hear it today, and let them know they’re not alone.
