Before Nic's diagnosis, anniversaries and birthdays were simple happy dates on the calendar. Now they carry a different weight. Every milestone since his Glioblastoma diagnosis arrives layered with gratitude and grief, hope and fear, all tangled together. Learning to move through these days with grace has been one of the more unexpected lessons of my caregiving journey, and one I, Julie Crawshay, am still learning.

Letting Milestones Hold Two Feelings at Once

Julie Crawshay with her husband and children on a family day out in Sydney, Australia
Julie Crawshay with her husband and children on a family day out in Sydney, Australia

The first birthday after diagnosis undid me. I spent days beforehand bracing, unsure whether to celebrate loudly or let the day pass quietly. What I discovered is that a milestone can hold two truths at the same time. I can be deeply thankful we reached this day together and also ache for the ordinary future we assumed we would have. Both feelings are allowed to sit at the table.

Once I stopped forcing myself to feel only one way, these days became gentler. I no longer treat a wave of sadness as a failure to be positive. I let it come, let it pass, and return to the gratitude underneath. Brain cancer has taught our family that joy and sorrow are not opposites; they are companions.

Making New Meaning Out of Old Dates

Some anniversaries I have chosen to reshape entirely. The date of Nic's diagnosis could easily become a day of dread each year. Instead, we have slowly turned it into a day of reflection and quiet celebration, a marker of how far we have come and how fiercely we have loved along the way.

We might take a walk somewhere beautiful in Sydney, share a favourite meal, or simply sit together and remember the people who have carried us. Reclaiming that date, refusing to let it belong only to fear, has been surprisingly powerful. The day still happened; but we get to decide what it means now.

I have also learned to keep milestones small when small is what we can manage. On the harder seasons, an elaborate celebration is beyond us, and that is alright. A candle, a shared cup of tea, a few honest words, these can hold as much meaning as any grand gathering. What matters is that we mark the moment and let it count.

For fellow caregivers approaching a difficult date, I offer this gentle encouragement: there is no correct way to do it. You are allowed to celebrate, to grieve, to withdraw, or to do all three within the same hour. Give yourself permission to feel the full weight of the day, and to find whatever pockets of tenderness are available to you.

These milestones have become, for me, a practice in presence. They remind me not to sleepwalk through our time together, not to save joy for some steadier future that may never come. We have this day. We are here, still choosing love, still marking the moments. And that, I have come to believe, is its own quiet victory.

— Julie Crawshay, Sydney