Centred Content
My connection to Reena began during one of the hardest times in my life.
Growing up as the youngest of four, one question followed me for years: “What will happen to my brothers when you’re gone?” My brothers, Michael and Steven, had always been together, and deep down I knew that one day helping to care for them would become my responsibility.
After my father was gone and my mother began her journey with dementia, that question became very real. With no plan in place, I spent months searching for answers while my own life was also changing dramatically.
Then I found Reena, and the next part of our journey began.
Two bedrooms became available in the same home, allowing my brothers to remain together. It was a blessing at exactly the moment we needed one.
More than 15 years later, Reena remains an important part of our family’s story. My life has been deeply shaped by being Michael and Steven’s sister, caregiver and advocate. This poem comes from that journey, from a sister’s love, and from the gratitude of knowing my brothers have a place where they are known, valued and supported.
Thank you Reena, for giving me peace of mind.
Centred Content
Why I Was Born
For a long time, I carried a quiet question inside me.
Not one born from sadness.
But from awareness.
From curiosity.
Why was I born?
Long before I ever stood on a stage,
before I became an advocate,
a speaker,
or someone others turn to for guidance—
I was a little girl trying to understand
the world I had been born into.
I am the youngest of four children.
Two of my brothers were born with special needs.
My parents had two sons with Fragile X Syndrome—
a genetic disorder with many characteristics of autism.
Our home was filled with love.
But it was also filled with responsibility.
There were routines, programs, appointments, and medications.
My parents ran a business while managing the complex needs of our family.
Life was structured long before I understood why structure mattered.
As a child, I asked the kinds of questions many siblings quietly hold:
Why do my brothers act differently?
Why do people stare?
And the question I rarely spoke out loud—
Why was I born into this family
when my brothers had so many needs?
It wasn’t until adulthood that I learned a term for children like me:
Glass Children.
Not because we are fragile,
but because we are often looked through—
unintentionally overlooked
amid the intensity of caring for others.
Even as a child, another question lived quietly inside me:
What will happen to my brothers
when my parents are gone?
And somehow, even then,
I already sensed the answer.
It would one day be me.
My sister and I learned responsibility early.
We cooked. We cleaned. We watched over our brothers.
We learned compassion through duty
and responsibility through love.
When my parents passed,
I stepped fully into the role
I had unknowingly been preparing for my entire life.
For more than 35 years,
I have been my brothers’ caregiver,
their advocate,
their protector,
and their voice.
Through that journey, I learned a truth that shaped me:
Love is not passive.
Love is action.
Love is sleeping in hospital chairs through the night.
It is navigating endless paperwork no one sees.
It is appointments, systems, and advocacy—
even when you are exhausted.
Love is showing up again and again,
even when no one is watching.
There were seasons when everything collided at once.
Caring for my brothers.
Supporting my mother as dementia slowly changed
the woman I knew into someone who no longer recognized me.
Raising my own children.
And walking through divorce—twice.
The first time, I searched for my voice.
The second time, I stood firmly in my strength
and walked away knowing my worth.
Some days, I felt strong.
Other days, I cried alone,
wondering how much more I could carry.
It was in those moments I learned something many of us forget:
We give grace to everyone—except ourselves.
For years, I gave without pausing.
I showed up for everyone.
I put myself last.
Until my body made the decision for me.
Bell’s palsy became my wake-up call.
It forced me to slow down.
To listen.
To rest.
And to understand that I mattered too.
You cannot pour from an empty cup—
and I had been empty for far too long.
Later, when my second relationship ended due to infidelity,
I looked in the mirror
and didn’t recognize the woman staring back at me.
Somewhere along the way,
I had lost pieces of myself.
That moment became a turning point.
I chose to recognize where I was.
To gently reinvent who I needed to become.
And to rise into the woman I was always meant to be.
Through this journey, my purpose became clear.
To remind women, siblings, and caregivers
that while caring for others is noble,
losing yourself in the process is not inevitable.
Because it is never too late
to come home to yourself again.
Not at 40.
Not at 60.
Not at 75.
Reinvention isn’t about becoming someone new.
It is about returning
to the woman you were
before responsibility, expectation,
and exhaustion layered over her.
Today, when I ask myself—
Why was I born?
I finally know the answer.
I was born to love deeply.
To care fiercely.
To serve compassionately.
But more than that,
I was born to remind others—
especially caregivers and siblings—
of something we too often forget:
You matter too.
If my story stirred something in you,
please don’t ignore it.
That quiet nudge is not weakness.
It is awareness.
Pause.
Breathe.
And ask yourself—
What do I want?
Give yourself permission
to dream again.
And if there is one thing I have learned,
it is the importance of knowing your worth.
Knowing how hard it truly is
to give to yourself
when you have spent a lifetime
giving to everyone else.
I know this first-hand.
That’s why I believe in small, loving moments—
not grand gestures,
but quiet acts of self-care
that gently remind you
that you matter too.
A simple moment at the end of the day.
A warm cup of tea or a special drink.
A foot rub.
A bath.
A pause.
Nothing extravagant.
Just something intentional.
Something you deserve.
Because caring for yourself
is not selfish—
it is necessary.
And sometimes,
the most powerful way
to honor your worth
is to offer yourself
the same compassion
you so freely give to others.
Thank you for allowing me
to share my story.