“How are you coping?”

Such a simple question, isn’t it?

And yet, when it was asked, I found that I didn’t know how to answer it, because the words rose and then stopped somewhere in my throat, thick and unformed, while my eyes burned with something I had not expected.

And I am not someone who is usually at a loss for words.

I am quick with a laugh, quicker with a sarcastic reply, and almost always able to find something to say, something to deflect, something to smooth over the rough edges of a moment.

But not this time.

This morning had already been dreadful, the kind of morning where everything that can go wrong does so in small, relentless ways that wear you down far more than any single crisis ever could—running late for a medical consult, a messy kitchen waiting accusingly, a hungry family clamouring for food, a dependable maid deciding to take the day off without warning, and a back that had chosen precisely this day to flare up in protest.

And as though that were not enough, there were relatives visiting, bringing with them not just their presence, but an entire assortment of judgement, casual observations, well-meaning advice, and comparisons that land harder than they intend to.

I am a woman who gave up her career to be a caregiver at home.

Caring for a neurodiverse child.

And now, caring for a parent battling neurodegeneration.

These are not small roles.

They are not simple roles.

And while I have never truly regretted this decision, there are moments—many moments—when I feel the weight of what I have chosen, and along with it, a thousand small regrets that do not negate my choice, but exist alongside it.

Those thousand regrets rarely come as thoughts of my own.

They arrive dressed as questions.

As comments.

As comparisons.

“Why do you isolate your son? Let him play with other children.”

“Why do you leave caring for your parent to an attender? You must do it yourself.”

“Why are you late preparing this meal? People are hungry.”

“Did you research this properly? Ask someone. You are after all sitting at home.”

“How do you know this is the correct way? There is this lady who is an expert. Her son is six, neurodiverse, and she knows all the methods.” (What methods? And my son is almost eleven.)

“Why are the lights in your house so dim? If your parent is sensitive to light, ask them to wear dark glasses.”

“I want to hear what’s on TV. Turn up the volume. The others can adjust.”

“So and so juggles family and work so well. Why can’t you? You aren’t even working.”

“Don’t be an ayah to your son. Be a mother.”

None of these come from malice.

None of them are intended to wound.

They come from relatives and friends who believe they are helping, guiding, suggesting.

And yet, each one lands.

Each one leaves a mark.

Not always immediately, not always consciously, but somewhere beneath the surface, where it gathers, layer upon layer, until one day you realise you are carrying something heavy that you did not even notice picking up.

The way to hell, they say, is paved with good intentions.

And sometimes, it truly is.

So when my son’s doctor looked at me and asked, quietly, “How are you coping?” something shifted.

Because this was not a question asked to advise.

Or to compare.

Or to correct.

It was a question asked to understand.

A relative stranger paused long enough to see me—not just as a caregiver, not just as a mother managing situations, but as a person—and to ask a question that invited an honest answer.

And that was enough.

Enough for the tears to rise, fast and unrestrained.

Enough for the tightness in my chest to loosen, just a little.

Enough for me to step outside, to stand under the filtered sunlight, watching it trickle through the leaves, feeling the wind move across my face, drying the tears I had not planned to shed.

Sometimes, that is all we need.

Not solutions.

Not advice.

Not comparisons.

Just space.

A moment of quiet acknowledgement that says—you are seen.

You are heard.

You are carrying a lot.

Will you do this too?

The next time you notice someone whose smile is just a little too bright, whose laughter feels just a shade too brittle, pause for a moment before you speak.

Hold a little space.

Ask gently.

And be willing to listen.

How are you coping?