05/06/2026
Recently, I met someone I had known through Facebook for some time. Although we had been connected online, it was our first time meeting in person.
At one point, she asked me what I had been doing since I was no longer formally employed.
To my surprise, I felt stumped.
In my mind, I thought:
"What have I been doing?"
The funny thing is, I haven't been doing nothing.
I have been caring for my family. Managing the household. Teaching. Studying. Building future possibilities. Supporting the breast cancer community. Maintaining my health. Thinking, planning, organising, responding, remembering.
Yet none of these came to mind immediately.
Perhaps because after doing them for so many years, they no longer register as "work".
And then I realised this has probably been a theme in my life for at least the past 13 years.
𝙎𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙝𝙤𝙬, 𝙬𝙚 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙖𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙛𝙪𝙡𝙛𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙥𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙞𝙗𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠.
Yet these responsibilities consume an enormous amount of our time, attention, energy, and emotional resources.
I often explain my experience using the spoon theory.
Another analogy I use is that of a coal-fuelled train.
Before cancer, whenever the train was running low on fuel, I could almost always find something else to burn. More determination. More willpower. More sacrifice. More sleep deferred. More of myself.
As a mother, I could keep the train moving for quite a long time.
𝘾𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙧 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩.
During treatment, and even now as a survivor, I became aware that sometimes there is simply no benefit in trying to burn more fuel.
I remember occasions when I went out to meet people and discuss potential collaborations. On the way home, before returning to my responsibilities as a mother, I would stop at a rest area and close my eyes for 15 or 20 minutes.
Not because I was lazy.
Not because I lacked ambition.
But because I needed enough energy to drive safely.
And perhaps more importantly, I wanted enough presence left to truly meet my daughter when I got home.
For a while, I wondered whether this was simply burnout.
Then I remembered my experience at a Vipassana retreat.
Interestingly, despite sleeping less than I normally would at home, I often felt deeply rested and recharged.
Over time, I realised it wasn't necessarily because I needed less sleep.
It was because so much of my mental load had temporarily disappeared.
There were no meals to plan, no household logistics to manage, no driving, no school schedules, and very few decisions waiting to be made.
My basic needs were simply taken care of, provided I was not too particular about how they were met.
That experience taught me something important.
𝙎𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙚𝙭𝙝𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙩𝙨 𝙪𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙬𝙚 𝙙𝙤.
It is what we are constantly holding.
The remembering.
The planning.
The anticipating.
The caring.
The carrying of responsibilities that have become so normal that we no longer notice their weight.
One of the things I wish we talked about more is the relationship between ambition and capacity.
I still have dreams.
I still have ideas.
𝙄 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙗𝙪𝙩𝙚.
The ambition is there.
What has changed is that I have become more aware of the many visible and invisible responsibilities that fill a life.
Motherhood did not diminish my ambition.
Cancer survivorship did not take it away.
What these experiences gave me was a deeper awareness of capacity.
Today, I pay closer attention to where my time, attention, and energy are invested.
Not because I want to contribute less.
𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙄 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙢𝙮 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙗𝙪𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙚𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙛𝙪𝙡, 𝙨𝙪𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙢𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙢𝙤𝙨𝙩.
Perhaps this is something you, the reader, are struggling with too.
If so, I hope this reminds you that you are not alone.
The responsibilities you carry may be invisible to others.
Sometimes they are even invisible to yourself.
But they are no less real.
And perhaps recognising our capacity is not a sign of limitation.
𝙋𝙚𝙧𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙨 𝙞𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙬𝙚 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙣 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙫𝙚𝙨 𝙬𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙚𝙣𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙩𝙤 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙪𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙗𝙪𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙟𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙚𝙮 𝙖𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙙.
— Mei Theng
Supporting connection, confidence, and wellbeing through life's transitions.
