This is going to be a different kind of blog.
Not one filled with catchy tips or clever analogies about burnout or boundaries or how to deal with your narcissistic boss without committing a felony.
This one is raw. It’s close to home. And it’s straight from my heart.
You may have noticed I didn’t post a blog last week. That wasn’t by accident. I physically, mentally, emotionally couldn’t. Because my world got flipped upside down last Monday morning.
My sister collapsed. No warning. She was rushed to hospital and placed on life support.
Just like that, life reminded me, again, that we are all walking a very thin line between ordinary and unthinkable.
From that moment on, the week split into two realities: hospital and home.
Home didn’t even feel like home. It became the holding space for heartbreak.
My mom came to stay with us. She’s 87 and was the one looking after my sister. My niece and her 3-month-old baby came too. So, there we were, four generations of women trying to keep each other upright, while everything we knew was collapsing around us.
It was beautiful in the most tragic way.
There was coffee. And crying. Baby giggles. And silent stares. Soup. Hugs. And the unbearable waiting.
And then, Saturday evening, the story ended.
My sister passed away.
She never woke up.
We never got to see her beautiful blue eyes one last time.
Why am I sharing this with you?
Because you’ve probably been here. Or you’ll be here one day. Maybe you’ve already had the 2am call. That call that rips the oxygen right out of your lungs. Pun intended.
You freeze. You panic. You think, This can’t be real.
I live 75km away from my family. I couldn’t just teleport to the hospital. That helplessness? It’s a special kind of torture.
Then the second call comes at 5am. “You need to come now.”
You drive through freezing rain, yes, rain in the middle of a dry season. Like even the sky didn’t know what to do with itself.
And then you get there. And they say the words:
“She’s on a ventilator.”
And that was her biggest fear.
That thing keeping her alive was her worst nightmare.
It was like watching a horror movie where the plot is your life and you can’t press pause or escape.
You look at your mother, your rock, who has already lived through too many goodbyes, and you see the years of caregiving, of strength, of quiet prayers written in the lines of her face. And your heart just breaks. Over and over again.
How do you process it all?
You don’t.
Not all at once.
You learn to breathe through it. Minute by minute.
My sister was more than my sibling. She was part of my DNA. And now a piece of me feels like it’s missing.
But I also know she would hate for me to stay broken. She’d want me to laugh again. To show up for life. To write this blog.
So here it is. My heart on a page.
If you’ve lost someone, I see you.
If you’re grieving, I’m standing with you in the rain.
If you’re feeling like the world just spun off its axis, you’re not alone.
Take your time. Love your people loudly.
And remember—it’s okay to fall apart. That’s how the light gets in.
With love,
Anna/Sandra 💔