Why Julie Crawshay Writes Through the Hard Days

I did not set out to become someone who writes. When Nic was diagnosed with Glioblastoma, words felt useless against something so large. Yet one sleepless night I opened a notebook, and the pages have been holding me together ever since.

I am Julie Crawshay, and writing has become one of the quietest and most powerful tools I have as a caregiver here in Sydney. It is where I put the feelings that have nowhere else to go.

The Page Never Interrupts

When I talk about our life with GBM, people often rush to comfort me or fix my worry. That kindness is welcome, but sometimes I do not want a solution. I want to be heard, even if the listener is only a blank page.

Writing lets me finish a thought. It does not flinch when I admit I am exhausted, or frightened, or quietly angry at a disease that changed everything. On paper I can be completely honest, and that honesty is a relief I cannot find anywhere else.

What Writing Gives Back

Over time I have noticed that writing does more than release pressure. It shows me things I did not know I was carrying.

• It untangles the days that felt like a blur.
• It helps me spot small joys I might have missed.
• It turns swirling fear into sentences I can actually look at.
• It reminds me how far Nic and I have come together.

When a feeling is trapped inside, it grows heavy and shapeless. Once I write it down, it becomes something I can hold, examine, and sometimes set aside. That is the strange gift of it. The hardest emotions lose a little of their grip once they are named.

Writing is also why I began sharing our story more openly. So many caregivers across Sydney told me they felt alone, and I realised my private pages might be a comfort to someone else. What started as survival became a bridge to other families walking the Glioblastoma road.

You do not need to be a writer to try this. There are no rules and no audience unless you choose one. Some days I fill several pages, and some days I write a single line before bed. Both count.

I have kept many of those early entries, and reading them back now is its own kind of medicine. I can see how frightened I was, and I can also see how much I grew. The words became a record of our love and our stubborn hope, proof that we kept going even when I was not sure we could. For a caregiver, that record is quietly precious.

If your heart feels crowded, I gently suggest picking up a pen. You might be surprised by what rises to the surface, and by how much lighter you feel once it is finally out. Writing did not fix our situation, but it gave me a way to keep breathing through it, one honest page at a time.

By Julie Crawshay, Sydney