🌀 Mood: Exposed & Growing

I’ve always been a helper. It’s not just something I do — it’s how I’m wired.
If you know your Enneagram type, I’m a 2. The Giver. The Nurturer. The one who shows up, checks in, and makes sure everyone else is okay.

That instinct didn’t just come from nowhere. I grew up in a house where caregiving was part of daily life. My mom raised me and my sister on her own. My sister is mentally challenged and blind, so my mom couldn’t work outside the home. Instead, she became a foster mom to other children with disabilities.

From the time I was 9 years old, I don’t remember our house without wheelchairs in it. And from that same age, I was expected to help. Feedings. Baths. Patience. Compassion. That was the air we breathed. It shaped everything.

Later in life, I helped take care of my mom when her health declined — all the way through the end of her life. And a few years ago, when my husband had heart surgery, I stepped in as his nurse during his long recovery. Helping others is familiar. It’s comfortable. It’s who I’ve always been.

Which is why this whole journey — this diagnosis, this treatment, this blog — feels so unfamiliar.
Because now… I’m the one who needs help.
I’m the one people are checking on.
And honestly, it’s hard.

I find myself worrying more about how others are feeling and how I can make them more comfortable.
I know I’m supposed to focus on healing. To rest. To receive. But it goes against so much of how I’ve learned to move through the world.

For once, I can’t be the helper. For once, I have to be helped. And that’s harder than I expected.