Before Glioblastoma entered our lives, a good day meant plans coming together, boxes ticked, and everyone running to schedule. I measured my days by how much I achieved. That definition did not survive Nic's diagnosis, and honestly, I am glad it did not.

I am Julie Crawshay, and in Sydney I have slowly rebuilt what the words good day mean to me. The new version is smaller and, somehow, much bigger at the same time.

The Old Measure Fell Away

Julie Crawshay celebrating with her extended family in Sydney, Australia
Julie Crawshay celebrating with her extended family in Sydney, Australia

In the early weeks, I kept trying to force our life back into its old shape. I wanted productive days, tidy days, days that looked like everyone else's. But GBM does not care for tidy plans. Some mornings begin with fatigue, and some appointments rearrange the whole week.

When I stopped grading my days against the past, something eased. I began to notice what was actually in front of me rather than what was missing.

What Counts as Good Now

These days a good day can be almost anything gentle. A slow coffee with Nic before the house wakes. A walk where he feels steady. A shared laugh at something small. A phone call that goes well. None of it would have made my old list, and all of it now feels like treasure.

I keep a little note on my phone where I write one good thing each night. On the hardest days, finding that one thing is an act of stubborn hope. Some nights the entry is just "we got through it," and that counts too.

Other caregivers tell me they feel guilty calling a day good when their loved one is unwell. I understand that ache. Redefining a good day is not pretending everything is fine. It is refusing to let the hard parts erase the tender parts. Both are true at once.

Glioblastoma has narrowed our horizon in some ways, yet it has widened my attention in others. I see Sydney differently now, the light on the harbour, the ordinary kindness of neighbours, the comfort of a familiar routine. These were always there. I simply have new eyes.

It helps that I no longer wait for the whole day to be good before I let myself feel grateful. A morning can be hard and an afternoon can be gentle, and I have stopped forcing every hour to match. I take the good moment when it comes and hold it, even if the rest of the day is heavy. That small shift changed how I move through this season as a caregiver.

If you are caring for someone you love, I hope you let a good day be a soft, forgiving thing. You do not need a perfect day. You need a moment worth keeping, and those still arrive, even here.

By Julie Crawshay, Sydney