The Silence of Waiting: A Caregiver’s Story

Cancer doesn’t knock gently—it barges in, uninvited and unrelenting. And with it comes fear. Fear of treatment. Fear of pain. Fear of the unknown. Fear of dying. But there’s one kind of fear that rarely gets talked about: the fear of waiting.

My connection to metastatic breast cancer (mBC) runs deep. I was my sister’s caregiver from the moment I learned of her advanced diagnosis until the end of her life. When I moved her to my home from one county to another, I had to navigate changes in insurance and her care team during the holidays. My fear of waiting became excruciating—I knew the clock was ticking, and every extra day felt heavier than the last. That constant awareness of time slipping away made the waiting feel unbearable—because we weren’t just in a holding pattern; we were racing against something terrifying and beyond our control.

And here’s the truth: the waiting comes in many forms.

Waiting for appointments.

Waiting for the scan.

Waiting for a call that could change everything.

Waiting in silence, while your mind plays out every worst-case scenario.

It’s in the waiting that fear can feel the strongest.

And yet—it was also in the waiting where my hope had to grow its deepest roots.

For me, hope was never the absence of fear. It was the presence of something greater. A quiet assurance that we were not alone. A kind of peace that held us through the unknown. A whisper that said: You’re still here. Keep going. I’ve got you.

What’s often missing in the conversation of caregiving is how emotionally excruciating that waiting can be. Waiting isn’t passive—it’s a battlefield where joy starts to slip through your fingers and your heart and mind are in turmoil.

And the hardest part? You still have to function.

You still have to go to work.

Still have to pick up the kids.

Still need to fold laundry and buy groceries.

Still have to pay bills, answer emails, and smile at neighbors.

All while carrying the weight of what if?

Being a caregiver for someone navigating mBC means there is no pause button. No space carved out by the world that says, “Take a moment. You’re carrying something heavy.”

So, we keep moving. Keep showing up.

But inside? Inside there’s a storm.

I remember sitting in my car with my sister in a strip mall parking lot, hands gripping the steering wheel, talking about an upcoming appointment that we were waiting for that would likely bring bad news due to growing signs of metastasis. We talked, we cried, and then we walked into a store, bought a few things and said hello with a smile to the cashier as if it was just another Tuesday. That’s what waiting with fear looks like. And that’s why we need something stronger to carry us through.

That’s why hope became more than an idea—it became my anchor.

Some days, hope looked like a sticky note scribbled with an affirmation or a favorite quote. Other days, it was a quiet prayer in the shower, whispering, “Please, just get me through this.” And still, other times it was the calm that came when I remembered we weren’t fighting alone.

To be clear—hope didn’t erase the fear. But it gave me something bigger to hold onto as a care provider.

Something stronger than a diagnosis.

Something more enduring than statistics.

Something deeper than the fear that threatens to swallow our peace.

Hope isn’t pretending everything is fine. It’s not a filter we slap over fear or pain. Hope is honest. It walks beside fear. It makes room for the mess. And yet, it says, “You can keep going.”

If you’ve ever felt like no one sees the storm you’re carrying, you’re not alone. So many of us are walking through this with quiet courage. Holding down jobs, raising families, showing up for others—even while carrying uncertainty that threatens to unravel us. There is strength in placing our hope in something greater—something that holds us steady when everything else feels uncertain.

Here’s what I believe to my core: when fear shows up, we need something greater to meet it.

I encourage you to find strength in what gives you hope—whether it’s prayer, meditation, nature, music, journaling, a walk with a friend, or simply sitting in silence with someone who understands. Let that source of strength ground you, comfort you, and remind you that you're not walking this alone.

For me, that hope is not just for today—it’s an eternal hope. It anchors me in something beyond circumstances. It reminds me that even in the face of uncertainty, there’s still meaning, still purpose, still something greater at work.

So, if you’re in that place right now—waiting, wondering, worrying—take heart. You are not alone. Whether your hope roars or barely whispers today, it still matters. It still anchors. It still holds.

And you, my friend, are still standing.